Unable to further contemplate the suicide of his land of birth, Pissed-off Toff looks for distraction, and finds it in a little-known film starring Meghan Markle …
If, in the pre-Covid world, I had been condemned to a few months of house arrest, I don’t think that I would have much minded. With a decent supply of books, a grand piano and access to the Internet, the time would have passed productively enough. What has made this ‘lockdown’ so bad has not, therefore, been the enforced solitude or the temporary loss of liberty, nor even the money worries. Worse by far has been the sight of my country embracing imprisonment, serfdom and ruination at the command of a panic-struck clown and his band of fools and knaves.
In the face of events so dark and fantastical that they might have been conjured up by the Brothers Grimm, my mood has veered between bewilderment, apathy, despair and sheer rage; and despite the empty stretches of time at my disposal, I have done almost no serious reading, very little proper piano practice, and have made only small inroads into the piles of paperwork that await my attention. I long ago stopped following the TV news, which I cannot watch without disturbing the neighbours.
I now search for distraction. Thus any development in the Epstein affair is of ghoulish interest; whereas at a couple of removes from it, the latest comic reincarnation of Fergie – a.k.a. Sarah, Duchess of York – provides entertainment; as does the tiff between Amber Heard and Johnny Depp. (I rather take to both of the latter, and am also interested in the legal aspects of their case; as I am with the Maxwell-Epstein one. At what stage, that is to say, does allegation constitute proof, most especially where any form of ‘abuse’ is involved? It seems to be a topical question, nowadays.)
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Then there’s Harry ’n’ Meghan. Comedy was never far off when, between one jet-setting holiday and another in the pre-lockdown era, the thick-as-two-planks Duke of Sussex lectured us about the evils of air travel. And we now see him in his new incarnation as anti-racism warrior. “I am sorry that we haven’t got the world to the place you deserve it to be,” he told the young audience at the Diana Awards a couple of months ago, in a barely literate statement rich with unintentional hilarity.
Behind all this we sense the hand of the Duchess of Sussex who, despite the gifts and honours which have been showered on her, has managed to persuade herself that she is the victim of what her husband has been taught to call ‘endemic institutional racism’ … an imaginary phenomenon which would explain, to her mind, why the nasty British press has her in its sights. Thus, in a widely-reported court case which again allows us to forget more pressing troubles, Meghan is now sueing Associated Newspapers for breach of privacy and breach of copyright.
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The background to this is as follows.
In early February of last year, when Meghan’s popularity was already in precipitous decline, an American glossy magazine called People published a long puff-piece about her, claiming to “put the record straight” over her relationship with her father, as well as over various criticisms of her in the British press. One can only imagine that this glowing account, with which five of Meghan’s closest friends collaborated anonymously, was written with the full knowledge and consent of ‘Duchess Difficult’. In it, we learn for the first time of a letter which she wrote to her estranged father Thomas Markle; this missive, it was implied, being a generous attempt to heal the rift that had developed between them … a loving gesture on the part of a heartbroken daughter eager to do the right thing.
From this entirely partisan piece Meghan emerged as the saint, and her father Thomas as the sinner. Unable to contact his daughter, and infuriated by the construction of another narrative did him no credit (he had already suffered the indiginty of being repeatedly portrayed as little better than trailer-trash), Markle père now contacts The Mail on Sunday, who run a huge exclusive which quotes the letter at length and makes it clear that far from overflowing with milk and honey, his daughter’s five hand-written pages are laden with bitter recriminations and read more like a goodbye note than an olive branch. “It was a dagger to the heart,” said her father.
If the intention of People magazine was to produce good PR for the PR-conscious Duchess of Sussex, it backfired, and Meghan now took the unprecedented step of initiating legal proceedings against Associated Newspapers – the parent company of The Mail on Sunday – on no fewer than four counts, two of which were thrown out by the High Court in May of this year … an initial defeat that cost her at least £100,000.
For our future entertainment, the two other counts of Meghan’s case remain outstanding; these being breach of privacy, and breach of copyright. As a layman, I’d guess that the breach of copyright is relatively straightforward. That is to say: Do the contents of a letter belong to the writer or to the recipient? How difficult is that? As for breach of privacy, it takes us straight to the next chapter in the comedy.
* * * * *
I refer, of course, to Finding Freedom, the hilarious hagiography of Harry and Meghan that has enlivened the latter part of this otherwise gloomy summer. In the words of the excellent Harry Mount, “this extraordinarily sycophantic book” is “utterly gripping,” containing as it does “juicy details […] so precise and private [that] they can only have come straight from the horses’ mouths.”
For Mount, there can be no doubt that the Duke and Duchess collaborated with the creation of this tome. Plus, the two hagiographers admit as much in the Authors’ Note at the beginning of it. “We have spoken with close friends of Harry and Meghan,” it reads, “and, when appropriate, [with] the couple themselves.” (My italics.) Intrigueingly, however, a spokesman for the Sussexes has said that they were “not interviewed and did not contribute to Finding Freedom.” Only one of these statements can be true. In any case, it seems that it is not so much privacy that concerns the Sussexes, as PR. If they are flattered and indulged, all is well. Otherwise, they sue.
In the meantime, they continue to entertain us. For example, in early August, Channel 5 ran a documentary entitled Meghan & Harry: the New Revelations … notable if only for its title, in which the pushy starlet is given precedence over her royal consort. Among the talking heads on this show we have the ubiquitous ‘Lady’ Colin Campbell (I can’t take her courtesy title seriously, I’m afraid). “I was at a dinner party at a very very famous aristocrat’s house,” she says, putting us firmly in our place before offering the further assurance that her host had the most “impeccable court connections.”
Where might this have been? Althorp? Houghton, even? Anyhow, along comes Meghan (I suppose with Harry in tow), and she’s bored and would clearly rather be in Tinseltown, saving the planet with people who take her at her own valuation. “She’s all about go-getting and hustling and all that Hollywood regards as desirable,” says Georgie Ziadie, aka ‘Lady Colin’. Having not a little in common with Meghan, this ballsy Jamaican-born operator should know.
* * * * *
And so, finally, we come to the matter at hand, to which the title of this piece refers.
Since the couple married, we have heard about every aspect of their lives … the £2.4 million refurb of Frogmore Cottage; Meghan’s rapid disenchantment with the demands that royalty imposes alongside the extraordinary priviliges that it confers; the hullabuloo with The Mail on Sunday; the decampment to Canada; the rapid pre-Covid move to sunny California; the purchase there of a $15-million villa with no fewer than 17 bathrooms; the publication of a hilariously sychophantic account of their saintly doings … of all this and much more, we are well informed.
But there’s one thing which, despite being repeatedly placed right under our noses, has entirely escaped comment or notice. This is a film called A Random Encounter, which has been screened numerous times on London Live, and at least once on Channel 5. That’s just as far as I know, from casual observation.
So they really want us to see it, the people who plan these things. But they don’t quite dare say so, nor do they quite dare give it a prime slot. Why? Because in this little-known LA-based B-movie we see Meghan Markle preparing, at some length, to perform a blow-job.
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Here is what I believe to be the first ever full account of this film, based on notes that I made over two late-night viewings.
It was made in 2012 by an entity named Random Film … which, granted the title of the movie, would appear to be a dedicated production vehicle. Does Meghan have any share of it? I don’t know. Has she tried to suppress this film? I’d imagine she has.
My own rough synopsis thus:
In an LA coffee shop, Laura, an out-of-work actress, accidentally spills coffee on Kevin, a scriptwriter. For both of them it is love at first sight. But Kevin has to rush off. (Note that this is a lazy, self-referential film, the script being all about – um – a scriptwriter. No tedious research required.)
In another scene in the opening sequence, we see a female author promoting her new self-help book on the Dr Tim Show. “Get what’s yours,” she says. “Get off your butt, get out there, and get what’s already yours.”
Straight away, therefore, we are given a dose of American self-help philosophy, according to which if you want something, you can get it. You just need to want it badly enough. Whereas the Pissed-off Toff school of philosophy goes more like this: “You’re fat, spotty, ugly and boring, are you? Well then, you’d better get used to it.”
But no. We are in LA … and urged on by her go-getting flatmate Mindy (none other than Meghan Markle), Laura now embarks on a series of dates with various awful types she has met on-line. This gives rise to a series of amusing vignettes.
Back in the flat after another unsuccessful date, Laura observes that she is “chasing a guy who doesn’t exist.” To which Mindy/Meghan replies: “Oh honey, aren’t we all?!” A comment which is not without interest, in the light of subsequent developments in the real world.
With Laura still dreaming of the elusive Kevin, we are now in an LA nightclub. “How do we meet people?” asks Laura. “Look at us. How do we not meet people?” replies Mindy/Meghan, ever the go-getter.
As chance would have it, Kevin is in the same nightclub, together with his girlfriend Cyndy, whom we are meant to think is a silly airhead; though I rather like her. She asks Kevin to marry her. But with his mind still on Laura and the random coffee-shop encounter, he dumps her. This leads to what is perhaps the best line in the film. “I hate you, Kevin,” shouts Cyndy. “You’re worse than a jerk! You’re a stupid jerk!!”
After which, Cyndy retreats to the ‘powder-room’, where she collapses in tears on the shoulders of none other than Laura, who just happens to be there (with its plot based on the workings of coincidence, this movie has much in common with Sliding Doors). “Just remember,” says Laura, “that everything that happens is for the best.” And so we are given another dose of American self-help philosophy. As in: “You’ve just lost your wife, your kids and your right arm in a the mother of all car crashes. But hey! Everything’s gonna be great!!”
While Laura is attempting to comfort Cyndy in the loo, Mindy/Meghan meets Kevin, fancies him rotten, scribbles her mobile number on his hand … and later, back in the flat which she shares with Laura, sings his praises, without either of them realising that this is Laura’s mystery man from the coffee shop.
Laura: “You didn’t bring him home. That’s a first!”
Mindy/Meghan: “It wasn’t for lack of trying.”
And:
Laura: “Is [he] going to ring?”
Mindy/Meghan: “I hope so. I have plans for him.” Which again prompts one to reflect on matters in the real world, a few years later.
And so this Californian comedy of errors continues, until Kevin and Mindy/Meghan go out on a date and return, drunk, to her flat. Here, with Kevin lying back on Mindy’s bed, she unbottons his shirt, then his trousers, and then works her way down his stomach and leans over his underpants as though to perform a blow-job. It is all very explicit. However, Kevin is not interested.
“If you can’t [get it up],” says Mindy, “I’ve got something you can take to pick things right up.” But there’s nothing doing, and he spends the night chastely in her bed … before bumping into Laura the next morning, outside the loo, to mutual consternation.
After various mishaps and a few more doses of self-help philosophy, Kevin and Laura eventually meet up under the iconic HOLLYWOOD sign, and as the end credits roll, he proposes to her on the very same chat-show with which the film opened, and in which the viewers were urged to “get out there and get what’s already yours” … this being rather what happened when Meghan met Harry a few years later, in the real world.
* * * * *
Watching this film, I couldn’t help wondering, once again, to what extent actors really act. Do they impersonate someone else … or do they merely reveal their own selves?
Many years ago, in the late 1940s, my father’s best friend at school was Noël Harrison, and Noël’s father Rex, by then a household name, used to drive down in his Lagonda and take them out to lunch. My father told me that the famous actor was exactly the same in person as he was on screen. And once, when I was an undergraduate, I was at a dinner party with Hugh Grant before a debs’ dance. In that Gloucestershire dining room thirty-five years ago, he was exactly as we have seen him on the screen, ever since.
Thus with Meghan.
Here, on screen, we see a sassy Hollywood go-getter entirely in her element. Hands flapping in girly excitement, she brings us every self-conscious high-school mannerism, along with endless squeaky ‘Oh-my-God’s and the inevitable West Coast psycho-babble. We also have the silly retroussé nose, curiously similar to Harry’s (I wish I could ignore this, but I can’t), and the cute freckles (I wish they didn’t annoy me so much; but they do), and that infuriating ear-to-ear smile endlessly deployed in the style of Julia Roberts or Cameron Diaz.
It’s all pure California, all of a one-ness. And it doesn’t feel as though Meghan Markle is acting at all. That comes later, with less happy results.
* * * * *
If you want to watch a soap-opera style movie which through a quirk of fate is of interest in ways that its producers could never have imagined, A Random Encounter will no doubt be on the television before long. Otherwise, it can be viewed via Amazon Prime. Either way, we must be grateful to the ghastly Meghan Markle for providing a temporary distraction from the larger concerns that now engulf us.
