SO 2025 was not a vintage year for high-profile families.
The Peatys, the Beckhams and our very own Royal Family had an absolute annus horribilis — warring, back-stabbing and toxic, behind-the-scenes briefings.
Fittingly, 2025 was also, the year of the snake; 2026, I am reliably informed by Google, is the Chinese year of the horse.
One, apparently, that means we shall all “rise with confidence. Doors will open, momentum returns, and you’re finally walking in the direction that feels right”.
Prince Harry, a man who revealed in his memoir that he had previously consulted a psychic medium, clearly believes in this stuff.
So it’s time to shed the snake and jump on that cavalry horse. The doors are open, after all!
Now we learn that he is on manoeuvres to heal his long-standing fatherly rift once and for all.
And I am here for it.
I have previously, repeatedly (as those of you who are not fans remind me) been quick to knock our Spare.
His faults, as we all have, are easy to find.
But in the spirit of new year, new me: Harry, if you’re reading this, your favourite publication, go for it.
In his Christmas Day address to the nation, King Charles warned of the perils of social media, pleading with us to put down our phones for five minutes and engage with the real world.
Less than three weeks earlier, Harry and his wife Meghan issued a rare joint statement praising the Australian government’s decision to ban TikTok et al for under 16s.
Both men have their finger on the pulse of modern times, and both are environmentalists.
Although Harry needs to rein in his penchant for a trip on a private plane, but baby steps.
In other words, there is more uniting them than dividing them. (Oceans aside.)
Harry and Meghan, who continue to canter through their staff (two more mysteriously dropped off over the festive period), are tightening up their inner circle.
And family doesn’t get any more inner.
Poor Charles has finally cut off the appendage that was the con artist formerly known as Prince Andrew.
Never has he needed someone young, clean-living and who actually has experience of the job, more.
Harry, for all his aforementioned faults, is a very happily married family man, who won’t (and never has) cavorted with a paedophile.
Nor has he been photographed lying across the laps of nubile young women, as another new revelation emerged over the festive period.
Harry’s Avios also pale into insignificance compared to Air Miles Andy.
None of us are getting any younger. Life is short, and Charles has bravely and stoically been battling cancer.
Recently he revealed that, thanks to the wonders of medical science — and a dedicated care team — there is light at the end of the tunnel.
A trip to California is not out of the question.
Harry, let’s not forget, has repeatedly blamed the media for being central to the “breakdown” of family relations.
Well here’s the media publicly backing a restoration of relations.
Harry, give the public something to celebrate in this horsey year — the reunion of all reunions.
Over to you.
CLEM’S A GOOD CALL
GROWING up as a “Clementine” in the Eighties was tough.
I was named after one of Princess Diana’s bridesmaids, but back then, when dinosaurs roamed, Clemmies were few and far between.
“Chloe”, “Tammy”, “Chlamydia” (a joyous nickname which really took hold in my late nineties teenage years) were all mis-heard names I was given.
So it was rather galling to discover that “Clementine” and “George” were the most popular baby names in 2025 for Daily Telegraph readers.
These lily-livered Gen Betas don’t know they’re born.
THE Swiss bar fire was a very modern tragedy of our times.
Seeing youngsters live filming as flames spread – desperate for that Instagrammable shot – should be a lesson for us all.
Alas, it won’t be.
Heartbreaking.
LOTS of debate, snide commentary and panic surrounding the US’s attack on Venezuela and removal of President Nicolas Maduro.
Sure, rules were most probably broken, and there will be some political chaos for the foreseeable. But on the flip side, what a result for the oldies! Donald Trump is 80 – 80! – in six months.
Officially, he is now the most powerful creature in the world. Hope for us all.
HANDY AI-DEA
EXCITINGLY, I have seen the future, and it is not AI.
So when my boiler exploded over Christmas, water cascading down into my spare bedroom and radiators hissing menacingly throughout the entire house, it was not AI who fixed it. (Sadly it wasn’t AI who paid for it, either.)
No. It was an emergency plumber, three interim buckets, and a mop.
In other words, if I was a teenager growing up in modern-day Britain, and I had a remotely handy bone in my body, I’d be taking up a tradesperson apprenticeship pronto.
AISLE TUNE IN TO THAT
THE one good thing about January is its telly.
Endless brilliant options on screen to distract us from the misery of the real world, not least, of course, The Traitors.
But should nothing grab you (Night Manager, Hijack season 2, Harlan Coben’s Run Away, and my personal fave, Industry) fear not: there’s an import fresh from Germany doing the rounds online – The German Shopping Cart Return Championships.
Yep, you, too, can now watch our Teutonic brethren diligently lobbing wobbly-wheeled trolleys back into their holders.
IF you watch anything this week – besides the German Shopping Trolley Champs – make it Titanic Sinks Tonight on BBC iPlayer.
It’s an absolutely fascinating real-time reconstruction of what happened on that awful early morning of April 15, 1912, using letters and diaries written by those onboard.
Grimly unmissable.
“WE were not involved in any way in the operation to capture Maduro,” proclaimed Sir Keir Starmer, needlessly.
Yes, Prime Minister, we gathered. Largely because the operation succeeded in its entirety.
A BAD OMEN
ELSEWHERE, what did we learn from Labour’s delusional victory lap – the PM’s interview on the BBC’s Sunday With Laura Kuenssberg?
Well, not only did he make claims about waiting lists being down, unemployment down, child poverty soon-to-be-down when evidence would point to the contrary – he also insisted he would be in power this time next year.
Which is the hugely depressing New Year’s resolution that absolutely no-one wanted to hear.
J-LO’S SNUB TO CRITICS WAS BOOTYFUL . . .
WHEN I grow up I want to be Jennifer Lopez.
The American superstar kicked off her money-spinning Vegas residency in an array of flesh-exposing outfits. Just as any self-respecting popstar should.
“Oh, but she’s 56!”, declared her critics, absolutely none of whom, presumably, look an iota like J-Lo.
The singer trains five days a week and has the body of a 20-something fitness influencer. If she can’t flaunt it now, then when?
Or, as the woman herself responded: “Why is she always dressed that way, why doesn’t she dress her age, I’m like huh, ‘if you had this body you would be naked too.’” Quite.
Also there is absolutely nothing more annoying than a celeb being faux-modest.
How refreshingly empowering to admit you work your arse off to, well, have an arse the size of J-Lo’s.
