I wanted to enjoy ‘With Love, Meghan’. I’m a secret Kardashian fan. I’m not averse to a pretty princess in creamy neutrals sprinkling dried petals on a cake in a borrowed kitchen. I’m broadly in favour of bees, candles and gigantic platters of artfully strewn crudites. Lord knows I’m no Meghan-hater. How much effort could it possibly take to think of something positive to say about her harmless new Netflix lifestyle show?
I’m afraid the answer is: “Too much effort!” Far too much. With Love, Meghan is almost unbearable. It’s clear the Duchess can’t cook, bake, bee-keep or make bath-salts. Her producers might think it’s endearingly authentic to watch her ham-fistedly stirring pasta or chopping veggies in a “ladybug” shape. It isn’t. It’s boring, insulting to any vestige of intelligence we might possess and a monumental waste of time.
The series kicks off with Meghan’s make-up artist as Chief Awe Provider. She opens a jar of raspberry preserve. He tastes it and says: “Awe!”
She clumsily slices the top off a pre-baked cake. He watches and says: “Awe”. Meghan’s a bantz-free zone. She doesn’t have a zingy one-liner, comical anecdote or soupcon of wit or wisdom to – her favourite word – “elevate” this slushy dross.
Episode Two is slightly less coma-inducing because her guest actress/comedienne Mindy Kaling at least attempts a joke. She tells Meghan when she received a jar of her fabled ‘limited edition’ jam she checked the number to see how highly she ranked in La Sussex’s friendship group.
Meghan can’t think of a thing to say. It’s not her kitchen. She can’t cook or present. She can tip peanut butter snacks from one plastic bag to another and tie it up with a bow. If that interests you, fill your boots.
