And still it keeps on coming. We had barely absorbed the first wave of revelations – jewellery mashed, dog bowls smashed, a brother trashed – before the new tsunami of tattle related to Prince Harry’s imminent book Spare broke over our fevered faces. Dissing duchesses getting aerated over hormones, teenage deflowerings in desolate fields, cocaine ingested by noble noses, accusations of ginger bastardy, attempted derailing of putative wicked stepmothers and maternal approval from beyond the grave for the 16-toilets lifestyle – the burbling stream of confession never stops. Sometimes it feels as though Prince Harry is using the world’s media as his therapy couch – and sometimes it’s like having a drunk crying on your shoulder and telling you his life story in a bar. Though serious-minded types may turn their backs with a moue of distaste, speaking as someone who has been a hack since she was too young to vote, I can’t get enough of this sort of rubbish.
If this was many other countries, the brothers might well have shot each other.
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