Picture this: a former royal who quit the job because it was “too hard” now skipping through a California Christmas tree farm to a Beach Boys track, picking out an 8-9ft designer tree while the rest of us are fighting over £29 wilting ones at the garden centre. She hangs $200 glass ornaments and a tribute to her dead beagle like any normal mum… except normal mums aren’t filming it for Netflix millions.
Then come the reusable Advent calendars stuffed with handwritten notes that scream therapy-speak: “I love you because you’re so brave.” Cute, sure – if you ignore the fact these kids have more staff than toys and live on a mansion compound most people couldn’t afford in ten lifetimes.
Meghan lectures us that “hosting doesn’t have to be perfect” and it’s “memories over meals” – minutes after bragging about “elevating what you eat” and dropping £60k Dior gowns in the same breath (remember Morocco?). The hypocrisy is thicker than her gumbo.
She drags out her rich celebrity mates – Naomi Osaka painting plates, a Michelin-star chef making salted cod – while pretending this is just a casual Montecito get-together. Harry wanders in for his contractually-obliged cameo, makes an awkward joke about her mum’s cooking, and everyone laughs like it’s 2012 and we still find him charming.
The lowest point? Meghan solemnly telling the camera to “take care of yourself so you can take care of everybody else” while icing cookies in a kitchen bigger than most British houses. Yes, Meghan, we’ll be sure to practise self-care right after we finish our 60-hour work week and food-bank shop.
This isn’t a holiday special. It’s a glossy, smug infomercial from a woman who wants to be seen as “just like us” while making damn sure we never forget she’s absolutely nothing like us.
Save yourself the hour. Put the kettle on, dig out the Poundland crackers, and enjoy a Christmas that doesn’t come with a side order of Markle delusion.
