Rod Liddle says that young princes in their twenties will always prefer a peroxide blonde with a non-U name to a fragrant, well-spoken English rose
This has been a difficult week. I am still trying to come to terms with the fact that I was responsible for the traumatic break-up between Prince William and Kate Middleton. It is a terrible thing to have on one’s conscience, the dashing of young love and the hope and expectation of a nation. It’s not, of course, that I’ve been spotted dancing the night away and canoodling in Chinawhite with Kate, or Wills for that matter. I’ve never, ever, pawed a royal or a wannabe royal in a nightclub, not even Princess Michael of Kent. My involvement, though, was scarcely less destructive: I’m a journalist, and the royals think we’re to blame — we hacks with our relentless, panting pursuit of the couple.
Indeed, a lot has been written about the now-terminated romance. I wasn’t among the huge tranche of seedy journalists who popped out from behind a bush whenever Kate and Wills were seen going about their business and then wrote thousands upon thousands of articles saying ‘Sad Kate Buys a Silver Belt’ or ‘Kate Walks Down a Street By Herself’ or (just this week) ‘Shattered Kate Buys a Tennis Racket’. (Prepare yourself for the follow-ups: ‘Desolate Kate Buys Some Tennis Balls’ and ‘Tearful Kate Plays a Game of Tennis’ and ‘Useless Kate Loses in Straight Sets’.) Nor was I among that more pious group of colleagues who wrote a total of 921 articles entitled: ‘Why Kate and Wills Really Must Have Their Privacy’ (accompanied by a picture of the two of them, looking extremely harassed). I was part of that smaller rump of hacks who wrote a total of 722 articles entitled: ‘Why I Couldn’t Give a Monkey’s About Wills and Kate’.
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