He wails that he can’t get a bird. One he’d marry. And the world weeps. Prince Harry feels he’s an old man at 27. He can’t sleep nights worrying he could be left on the shelf.
You read so many conflicting tales about Harry, you don’t know what to believe. What exactly does the lad want? He enjoys scooping up in the maelstrom of Mayfair.
He’s been pictured after a late, late show being poured out of cabs long after his bodyguards are tucked up in kip.
Latest snap of him with a fag-smoking female friend on the backstairs of a club was the dingiest yet. Harry, son, all this will have to stop when, finally, you tie up with the princess of your dreams.
She’ll shine your medals and buttons on that heroic uniform but, if you’re lucky, she won’t be a dogsbody. She’ll want you home by ten. Forget the polo ponies.
Hate to be a killjoy but Mrs Right must be on the horizon. No more swigging the bubbly straight from the bottle.
Then, again, I suppose it’s all to do with the silver spoon.
Afterwords . .
. . . Woody Allen thinks she’s wonderful and who would argue? Here Goldie Hawn is talking about her mother: “My mother loved Jesus. She was just a complete Jesus freak. She didn’t believe he was the son of God But she believed that he was one of the great humans, superhumans, on the planet.”