So, the bags are finally packed. The boxes are taped up. Andrew, the man who used to be a big deal, is leaving the big house. It took them long enough. You hear about this? The guy is finally getting kicked out of his royal mansion. About time. But do not start clapping yet. This is not justice. This is just a rich family doing some spring cleaning because the neighbors started talking.

Let’s look at what is actually happening here. A man who lived in a palace—a literal palace—is being told to move. For most people, moving is a nightmare. You have to rent a truck, buy pizza for your friends, and hope you get your deposit back. for Andrew? Please. He is just moving from one giant pile of bricks to a slightly smaller pile of bricks. He isn't going to be sleeping on a park bench. He isn't going to be worried about making rent next month. He is just downgrading his luxury. It is a joke.

Think about why he is moving. We all know why. It’s the name no one wants to say at the dinner table. Epstein. That is the cloud hanging over his head. It has been there for years. The photos. The stories. The absolute creepiness of it all. And for the longest time, nothing happened. He just sat in his grand lodge, safe and sound, while the rest of the world looked on in disgust. That is how the elite operate. They protect their own. They circle the wagons. They wait until the heat is so high that they have no choice but to throw someone out into the cold.

Remember that interview? The one where he said he didn't sweat? He sat there with a straight face and told the world he couldn't sweat because of some war injury or adrenaline thing. It was the most insane thing I have ever heard. He thought we were stupid. He really did. He thought he could just say some magic words, make up a medical condition, and we would all nod and say, "Oh, okay then, carry on." That is the arrogance of these people. They think the rules of reality do not apply to them.

But here is the thing that really burns me up. The Royal Family—the "Firm" as they call themselves—they stripped his titles last year. They took away the shiny badges. They told him he couldn't use the fancy "HRH" style anymore. Big deal. Does that change anything? Does that change who he is or what he did? No. It is all for show. It is branding. They are like a company trying to change their logo after a scandal. They want you to think they are taking action. They want you to think they care about right and wrong. They don't. They care about survival. They care about keeping the money flowing and the tourists coming to stare at their guards.

If you or I were mixed up in what he was mixed up in, we wouldn't be arguing about which mansion to live in. We would be in a cell. We would be done. But Andrew? He gets to negotiate. He gets to drag his feet. He gets to stay in the Royal Lodge way longer than he should have. It proves what I always say: there are two legal systems. One for us, the idiots who work for a living, and one for them, the grifters who live off our backs.

And let's be honest about the Royal Lodge. This place is huge. It has thirty rooms. Thirty. Who needs thirty rooms? What do you even do with them? It sits on acres of land that most of us could only dream of walking on, let alone owning. He lived there like a king—well, like a prince—while people in his own country are struggling to pay for heat. It is disgusting. It was always disgusting, but now it is just sad.

So he moves out. He goes to a smaller place. He hides away. He will probably spend his days playing golf or shouting at servants or whatever it is these useless people do. He hopes that if he stays quiet long enough, we will forget. He hopes the next big news story will come along and distract us. And the sad part is, he is probably right. We have short memories. The world is a mess, and we have our own problems.

But do not let them fool you. This isn't a victory for the good guys. This is just a business decision. Andrew became bad for business. He was a stain on the carpet that they couldn't scrub out, so they are finally throwing the carpet away. He is gone from the Lodge, but the rot is still there. The system that created him, the system that protected him, the system that let him think he was untouchable—that is still standing tall. They will just put a fresh coat of paint on it and pretend everything is fine.

It isn't fine. It never was. Andrew is just the symptom. The whole thing is the disease.