They’re Not Reviewing the Jam, They’re Punishing the Woman

Jan Moir frames her visit to Meghan Markle’s “As Ever” pop-up as consumer protection—a public service warning against overpriced jam. What it actually reveals is a British tabloid still fixated on a woman who left royal life five years ago and is now doing precisely what critics claimed to want: working independently, earning her own money, living elsewhere. Apparently, even that requires ritualized mockery.

The structure is familiar. Surface-level observations about price and packaging wrap a much larger project of character assassination. Products aren’t merely expensive—they’re “twigs in a tin,” “damnable,” “gunk and tat.” The writer isn’t reviewing a retail space; she’s prosecuting a moral case. Each jar must carry every grievance certain commentators harbor about Meghan, Harry, their departure, and their continued existence outside palace control.

Basic market context disappears. Luxury food and lifestyle brands saturate every segment. High price points, gift packaging, seasonal branding, curated displays, collaborations in aspirational spaces—these are standard tactics. Goop, Highgrove, Fortnum & Mason, Martha Stewart, every upscale hotel gift shop operates identically. The suggestion that premium honey pricing is inherently outrageous ignores how boutique brands position themselves. The relevant question isn’t whether cheaper honey exists at Tesco—obviously it does—but whether consumers seeking a branded lifestyle product should be allowed that choice without tabloid moralizing.

The column leans heavily on Meghan’s use of her title in branding as uniquely offensive. This conveniently ignores the long tradition of royal commercial partnerships: royal warrants, foundation-branded goods, family members attaching titles to books, speeches, events, product lines. What’s treated as unforgivable from California has been celebrated as heritage or charity from Sandringham or Highgrove. The double standard isn’t subtle. It’s the entire point.

Another tactic: collapsing personal and political grievances into domestic imagery. A woman making jam becomes a target for derision. A hostess preparing for Christmas becomes “Cruella de Vil in charge of a puppy farm.” A product display becomes a failed attempt to recreate court life. Normal business language about curation gets recast as delusional self-worship. Yet the same press mocking her for hosting, decorating, or cooking would mock her as lazy or ungrateful if she did nothing.

There’s peculiar cruelty in dragging family estrangements into a discussion of jars on a table. Whatever one thinks about conflicts with her father or the royal family, none are resolved by pricing honey differently. Invoking deeply personal rifts in a lifestyle column isn’t journalism—it’s punishment. The message: you will not be allowed to move forward. Every venture, interview, or project will be yanked back to the same talking points, whether relevant or not.

The comments section clarifies the function. The piece signals permission to pile on. Instead of genuine discussion about taste, value, or branding, there’s a torrent of insults: her mental health, appearance, children, fictionalized details about her body, open celebration of anticipated failure. A few readers note the obvious: the paper is providing free advertising, the products are optional, people can simply not buy them. The price of honey has become pretext for another round of dehumanization.

Strip away the sarcasm and what remains is simple: a woman who once worked inside a rigid hereditary institution now lives in the United States building a food and lifestyle brand in partnership with Netflix and wealthy friends already embedded in that world. Some will like the products, others won’t. Some will find the prices reasonable within the luxury segment, others ridiculous. This is how markets function. No one is compelled to buy anything. No taxpayer money is involved. There’s no constitutional crisis in a jar of strawberry spread.

What’s revealing is why certain writers feel compelled to stalk every move. Flying across an ocean to stand in a bookstore, sneer at women in cashmere, and count jar inventory isn’t neutral observation—it’s evidence of profitable obsession. Meghan’s name guarantees traffic. The hostility is the product being sold.

It’s entirely reasonable to decide “As Ever” isn’t to your taste, or to be indifferent. What’s unreasonable is the insistence that a woman selling jam must be transformed into a public villain every time she appears in her own life. Eventually the question shifts from “who would pay that much for honey” to “why do you care so much that someone else might.”