This bombshell was a beast

MY Raquel Welch memory. Tough lady. Boobs and butt stuck out in good amounts — but Raquel was very — like very — not nice. Not right to be ungracious about one who’s just left us. But allow one exception.

Late ’80s. Rupert Murdoch’s foray into TV. Maury Povich, MC. Me, star interviewer. “A Current Affair” began what’s on every station today — the talk show sit-down interview.

So I’m dining with a movie star who says Raquel is “the worst person I ever worked with.” Next day in the studio I’m told I’m interviewing Raquel Welch!

Although living near the studio she demanded a uniformed chauffeured limousine driver — no taxi, schloomp in a T-shirt or studio underling — to fetch her.

Understand, this was a three-minute — maybe five — interview to promote her own recording.

She wanted hair and makeup. Our pros weren’t movie specialists. She demanded our lighting man redo lights framing her face. He didn’t know from Hollywood close-ups. Like what? Like Vaseline on the lens? Told to make lights — he made lights. She had our set designer change her chair to one like a throne.

She hadn’t even sat down, seen a dressing room or peed. Our upset techies couldn’t go on to plan the rest of the show. All were trying to please Raquel.

I arrive, sit, pin on my mike, start the interview. This was olden days. Nothing pre-taped. We were live.

She didn’t like me. After two questions I asked her — right on camera: “Raquel, are you considered difficult?”

“No!” she shouted. “But you are a barracuda.” She stood up, unpinned her mike, flung it down, stormed out the door — and left me alone facing an audience with an empty chair.

And that, my friends, is my memory of Raquel Welch.

HAVING chopped Prince Empty and me-me Meghan, England’s now saying prince of a guy Andrew’s a fast worker. Can ring a doorbell, run to the backdoor, hide in a bedroom and open the house’s front door in time to let himself in.

Saying that only in New York, kids, only in New York.