Now comes the Sussexes’ sulfurous Netflix doc, followed by Spare, Harry’s revenge memoir with its ominous ginger mugshot on the cover. Part two of the Netflix grudgernaut will drop on the same day that the Princess of Wales demurely plays the piano in Westminster Abbey for her annual carol service. Will some fresh Molotov cocktail be hurled from the organ loft? It’s such a pile-on that the Palace can only hope that the Sussex stink bombs will cancel each other out. I suspect the next two months — to use a psychological term — are the Sussexes’ “extinction burst.”

That’s not just my prediction, it’s also my fervent wish. My book about the British royal family was published in April. After crashing the deadline to keep abreast of Megxit, the death of Prince Philip and the still reverberating Oprah wrecking ball, I thought I could surf the Platinum Jubilee in June and the orgy of lit fests and, with God’s grace, our beloved Queen would hang on until the book’s paperback publication in February. But no. I’d barely got my own life back when the death of Her Maj consumed most of September, and the endless Sussex news stories have generated a stampede of demands to join the latest outrage panel. I half expect to open the fridge door and have Piers Morgan’s booker jump out.

[Seems like a drawbridge wish from Brown, no? Now that she’s cashed out, she wants the story to crash out. That doesn’t make her wrong, but it’s still a little hypocritical to complain about the saturation to which she’s contributed. Other than that, though … let’s hope she’s right. — Ed]