Chronicles of Harkle

State Dinners Are For Simpletons! – A Sussex Satire

State dinner
shall we; madam president, state dinner

Meghan’s scream could be heard from the far end of the property. Harry, who was in the garden trying to locate a particular piece of plumbing, poked his head up, his face covered in sewage. Digging around in the pocket of his jeans, he pulled out his phone and found a news alert about the recent state dinner back home in England.

Harry’s jaw dropped when he saw the images of Catherine dressed in a long-sleeved dress with silver beading on the shoulders. She also wears the Cambridge Lover’s Knot/Queen Mary’s Lover’s Knot tiara. It is a piece that his mother, the late Princess Diana, had been known for wearing in her lifetime.


Harry flinched at the sound of his wife’s screech as she stomped her way towards him. Her phone was in her hand. He didn’t have time to step back as she was shoving it in his face, the pictures from the state dinner front and centre.

“What’s wrong?” Harry allows himself to say as he did not want to upset her further.

“I want to do a state dinner where I get to sit front and centre as the crown jewel.”

Despite being a colossal dimwit, Harry knew this would not be possible. However, he has to voice his opinion anyway; consequences be damned. “We cannot have a state dinner, my love,” he said, trying to show he wasn’t a sack of potatoes. “We’re not important enough.”

Meghan starts screaming and jumping up and down like Meredith Blake from the Lindsay Lohan Parent Trap. Harry was used to it, but it still terrifies him. When Meghan got angry, she was like the Hyde from that new Netflix series, Wednesday.

Harry instantly tuned out when she started screaming. “I want it! I want it!” She sounded like Klarion, the Witch Boy from Young Justice, throwing a tantrum. He climbed out of the hole and walked off, dusting himself off the best he could. His wife continued to cry and scream in the background.

About a week after the state dinner, the Sussexes appeared at the Ripple of Hope Award, run by Kerry Kennedy. Meghan wants to steal the limelight from the diplomatic reception happening the same night in London. She saw Catherine’s Earthshot Prize look and, once again, wanted to upstage her. It’s too bad it does not work.

Meghan thinks she looks incredible in everything she wears. She does not bother having anything tailored. The white off-the-shoulder dress looked like a sack on her. She looked like she was wearing the skirt version of MC Hammer’s iconic hammer pants. There was a slit up the front rather than up the back or down the side.

In Meghan’s head, she sang, “I look better than that whore that upstages me constantly.” She enjoyed every second of the attention she got. Moreover, she didn’t give a flying fuck about where her husband’s reputation was now that they were accepting the Ripple of Hope award for standing up to “structural racism within the royal family.” Instead, she was getting awards and giving the middle finger to everyone who doubted her resolve.

She knew there was no racism in the royal family, but she wanted revenge for the family not giving her what she wanted. To be Queen. She wanted to be the face of the monarchy, and be front and centre at state dinners and hobnob with politicians where she could push her woke agenda.

When she got with Harry, she wanted her name in the headlights. She had struggled for almost 20 years to get there and finally got what she wanted. She never wanted privacy. It was never about that. Not for a second. In her twisted mind, she thought everyone loved her. Anyone who didn’t was a racist. It is just the way it is.

Despite being under his wife’s thumb, Harry had his own issues. In the final 17 months of his grandmother’s life, he literally hounded her because his dad refused to pick up his phone and give him more money.

“I am not a bank!” the Prince of Wales had said when his mother had questioned him about why he wasn’t answering his son’s calls. This still stung Harry. His father had a point. Harry was nearly forty and couldn’t keep going to him for money. He wanted to live independently and couldn’t do that if he still got money from his aging father.

Meghan had been told that she would never get an invitation to any state dinner if she moved back to America. So she threw a tantrum. She wanted to dance around in pretty jewels like Anne Hathaway in The Princess Diaries. She had ruined relationships to up her reputation with those with the same mindset as her.

There would be a massive price, but she wasn’t willing to see it. Harry did not want to see it either. His mind could no longer be classified as his own. Meghan had pushed him into being her puppet, one she could control. No one would want them around them if they were going to record them.

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About Author

C.J. Hawkings has written for the now-defunct Entertainment website, Movie Pilot and the still functioning WhatCulture and ScreenRant. She prides herself as a truth seeker and will do (almost) anything for coffee or Coke No Sugar. Oh! And food!