If I thought the press killed my mum I probably wouldn’t invite them into every aspect of my life.

If I wanted to ‘get away’ from that same prying, hurtful, heartless, intrusive press, I would be even less inclined to share my every waking thought with the nearest reporter.

If I were an everyday bloke, former soldier, married to a mid-rate actress, I doubt Oprah would have me or my wife within a mile of her house unless I was there to empty the bins.

If I was a reporter, I wouldn’t be in the lightest bit interested in a c-list actress and her soldier hubby- unless they found something interesting in Oprah’s bins… or had royal titles.

If I were the kind of make-my-own-way, talented, independent go-getter who wouldn’t like living the royal life, with all the obligations and duties that come with it, which were explained in painfully clear detail about a million times by everybody around me until I fully and entirely understood what was involved. I wouldn’t agree wholeheartedly with all of it and then wait until AFTER the massive world-famous, star-studded wedding had only just finished and the gold-leaf confetti was still wafting behind my golden carriage, and my shiny new royal title was safely engraved on my passport for life, before then saying, “This isn’t what I expected! I’m outta here!”

If I were a mere soldier I doubt very much I’d be given the ranks of ‘Captain General of the Royal Marines, Honorary Air Commandant of RAF Honington and Commodore-in-Chief, Small Ships and Diving, Royal Naval Command’ before I’d finished basic training. And if I had them taken off me by the same royal family that gave them to me in the first place, purely because I was royal, I wouldn’t then ‘fight to get them back’ when I stopped being royal on the grounds that I was… “just a bloody good soldier guys! Come on! It’s no WAY fair! I did some proper soldiering and everything! What about Invictus!!! I’ve EARNED those bloody things!”

If I were the kind of red-blooded lad-of-lads military geezer that likes to shag posh birds on Vegas pool tables and dress as Hitler. I wouldn’t be crying into my post-photo-shoot Evian about some perceived slight on the recently-invented good character of my throat-cutting-for-fame wife and her plans for world domination to anybody willing to throw some money at me, while making sure to stoop low enough that my darling dictator wouldn’t have to lift her dear little arm at an ugly angle while holding my nose ring.

If I wanted to leave the Royal Family, I would leave the Royal family. I’d drop all titles and connections. I’d instantly cease to receive any money or benefit that my royal titles gained me. I’d give back anything that being royal had got me (which would be literally everything) and get a job emptying the bins at Oprah’s place. And I’d say no more about it. I’d step out of the limelight, get my head down and start my new anonymous life as an everyday bloke and ex-soldier. I’d look at my paltry income, rent a flat above a shop and explain to my wife that she would now have to earn her fame like anybody else.