AS Prince William heads home from his trip to various sun-kissed and idyllic Caribbean islands, I’m left open-mouthed with admiration for the man.
When he was a small boy, dreaming of being an astronaut or a bare-knuckle cage fighter or a vet, someone will have had to sit him down and explain that actually, he was going to spend his entire life opening disabled lavatories in civic centres in places like Pontefract and Carlisle.
What’s more, he would have no private life at all and almost all the girls he’d want to marry would say: “What? And spend my entire life in the rain, smiling at mayors? No thank you very much.”
If I’d been in his shoes, I’d have hitched myself to an American hotty, taken up weed and buggered off to live in California.
He didn’t, though. He stuck at it.
And while his brother learned to fly the exotic and exciting Apache gunship, he joined the coastguard and moved to Anglesey where he flew Sea Kings. Which are basically airborne vans.
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Of course, you’re probably thinking that he gets to live in a palace, which is true.
He does.
But all the royal palaces are hideous and cold and it’s miles to the lavatory.
And you’re also no doubt thinking that he gets to go on an all-expenses-paid holiday to the Caribbean every so often.
True again, except it won’t have been a holiday because instead of spending all afternoon in a bar, getting wasted on cocktails, he had to go to a school and sit on a small chair while pretending to be interested in what the kids were doing with their colouring-in books.
And when he went scuba diving, he had a film crew following him around, and he couldn’t hire a funky Jeep and drive around in shorts and a T-shirt.
He had to wear a uniform and stand in the back of an old Land Rover while people waved placards in his face saying he was a thief and a bastard.
And then, on this “holiday”, he had to stand up in front of some republicans and say, “I’m from an awful family and an awful country,” before going home with some flustered ambassador who wasn’t good enough or bright enough to get the gig in Moscow or Washington DC.
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And all the while the poor man knows that long before he gets the chance to actually become king, an army of Twitter enthusiasts will have ended the monarchy, broken into the palaces, stolen all the pink and orange furniture and forced the poor man to get a job as a delivery driver.
What they won’t understand is that in this day and age, being a delivery driver is better in every way than being a prince.
