The British Press. A pack of relentless ill-mannered mouth breathers notorious for their bumbling through the streets in pursuit of celebrity prey which they can torment with their foul and obnoxious questions endless insults and fruitless attempts to illicit photo-worthy reactions.

If they had two brain cells between them all they’d still be fighting for third place. This band of asinine clowns answer to their tabloid overlords like starved street mutts desperate for any sign of praise that might move them up the ladder of journalistic depravity.

If they were half as smart as they thought, they were they would be twice as smart as they actually are. The simple truth of it all is that for all their talk, their overt gesturing, their shouting, exclaiming yelling and boasting.

For all the trap and foul-smelling fodder that they spew the simple truth remains. You cannot sprinkle bullshit with sugar and make it a cupcake.

This includes the British Royal Family. While they try and try and try again their constant shifting and shuffling in the realm of the obscenely false narratives only moves them closer to the celebrity host position of children’s story hour at that local library.

For all the tabloid's executive production and direction skills the once great royal house still faces the biggest challenge of its existence. Survival.

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