Oh Harry, did you really have to expose yourself like this?

BLURB HERE ETC

Dear Harry,

Only sentient beings blissfully hiding under rocks have missed the publicity that heralded the release of your memoir this week. 

In Spare you decided to pull down your pants and show it all to the world. 

One of the biggest shocks is how humdrum the life of the Duke of Sussex really can be. Hamsters spinning on their wheels have more compelling story arcs. 

Meghan-bashers will blame the missus for your compulsion to overshare. She’s American. You live in California and you haven’t lost your virginity until you’ve spent hours on an analyst’s couch in the Hollywood state. 

It’s all rubbish of course. Your need to let it all hang out is not because of the wife; it’s because it’s hereditary.

Let’s go back in time. 

Royalists around the world rejoiced when you were born in 1984. The House of Windsor had produced a royal flush: plenty of heirs and a bucketful of tadpoles as potential spares. 

But behind the façade a vicious battle was brewing between Mater and Pater. 

Remember that by the mid-1990s Ma and Pa were at each other’s throats in a titanic battle for dominance. Daddy, who would be king, conceded on national television that he had bonked another man’s wife. (In doing so he had merely followed a long tradition of royalty commandeering the wives of the help.)

To the public, Daddy had achieved the unthinkable: he’d turned into a bullfrog. Mummy, who would never be queen, admitted on national television she had played horsey horsey with her riding instructor.

The whole world watched the cringe-making soap opera. 

Perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised that equine species are a recurring theme in your scribblings. For the handful of readers who really want to know, you lost your virginity in a grassy field behind a busy pub.

“She liked horses, quite a lot, and treated me unlike a young stallion. Quick ride, after which she’d smacked my rump and sent me to graze.”

Talk show host Jimmy Kimmel was one of many who poked fun at your tendency to blab. 

Mommy. Cream. Lips. Penis. Not a good fit, Harry. Uncle Sigmund might recommend you spend more time on his couch

“His memoir sold almost twice as many copies as Barack Obama’s memoir on his first day and there’s a reason for that,” joked Kimmel. “Barack Obama didn’t write a chapter about frostbite on his penis.”

Ahhhh yes, the bit about the North Pole and the hairy lobster. Frostbite struck during a trek for charity. Back home, a friend advised you that Elizabeth Arden cream on your wobbly crustacean would make it feel better. 

The Elizabeth Arden smell reminded you of Mummy. She used to smear it on her lips. 

Mommy. Cream. Lips. Penis. Not a good fit, Harry. Uncle Sigmund might recommend you spend more time on his couch. 

Things were still a balls-up down there when you were best man at William’s wedding. 

The sacrifices you have been forced to make for the Crown! 

Francis Drake merely circumnavigated the globe in the service of his monarch. You heroically abstained from rubbing your aching crotch on prime television during the entire time it took the Archbishop of Canterbury to pronounce Kate and Wills man and wife.

On the subject of that older brother. 

Long gone are the days of boyhood camaraderie. Playing marbles with Mommy’s jewels. Cricket along the corridors of Buckingham Palace. Hide and seek behind Granny’s throne.

When you enrolled at that posh school famous for bollocks and buggery, it hurt when Wills told you to keep your distance. 

“Pretend you don’t know me,” he hissed. LOL.

But let’s turn to the actual scandal in your memoir. The time you spent in Afghanistan as an Apache helicopter pilot in Granny’s army. 

You claim you heroically killed 25 Taliban fighters during this blood safari, all from your $50m helicopter. You saw them not as fighters but as chess pieces.

Problematic, Harry, very problematic.

So if they were chess pieces and not humans, how do you know there were no women and children among your tally? 

Despite your whinging and whining you remain a true royal. You can hide away in California, but your blood is as blue as the sky on a bright sunny day.

Weren’t you listening to Granny’s history lessons? 

She told you many, many stories of how empires are built. 

It’s always the same: by travelling the world, meeting different people ... and killing them.

Checkmate.