Stop the press: Meghan Markle has re­port­edly deleted her Twit­ter, Face­book and In­sta­gram ac­counts. The fact that ev­ery tiny mo­ment of her life will con­tinue be doc­u­mented for pub­lic con­sump­tion is be­side the point.

OK, SO WHO NEEDS TO TAKE A SELIE when the world’s lenses are con­stantly in your grill and what’s the point in up­dat­ing your face book ac­count with “H and me done a walk­a­bout lol” when it’s the main item on the six o’clock news? Nev­er­the­less, I feel sorry for her be­cause al­though she will prob­a­bly GET AN OFI­CIAL “AP­PROVED” TWIT­TER ac­count, op­er­ated by staff who never drink and tweet, she is let­ting go of the only form of mass com­mu­ni­ca­tion that she her­self can con­trol.

Just think how frus­trated you’d be if you’d worked as hard as Meghan clearly has on that yoga bod and you couldn’t POST A BIKINI-CLAD “LY­ING TORTOISE” POSE on your In­sta­gram. I’d be livid – I’d prob­a­bly give up the yoga and be a shape­less sack within months.

Ob­vi­ously se­cu­rity must be a huge con­cern – but imag­ine if you “weren’t re­ally al­lowed” to upload a se­lec­tion of cute Corgi pics af­ter a visit to your IANCÉ’S NANA, NOR ABLE TO RE­PORT TO your umpteen thou­sand fol­low­ers that cer­tain vis­it­ing dig­ni­taries are “a bit of a knob”.

This is why I could never be a princess. Apart from the fact that my knees are phys­i­cally in­ca­pable of CURTSEYING WITH­OUT IR­ING OFF A VOL­LEY OF clicks that would have the en­tire palace div­ing for cover, I wouldn’t re­lin­quish my so­cial me­dia ac­counts for any­one, not even Hazza – and I love Hazza.

It won’t be him, of course, who has asked his beloved to do this. Harry strikes me as a pro-face­book livin’it-large kind of guy; I bet his phone is chocka with pic­tures of him and his pals DRINK­ING GOLDISH BOWLS AT MAHIKI (A Chelsea night­club where, ap­par­ently, his High­ness once licked the ta­ble clean af­ter spilling a £50 cock­tail on it – a FACT, IF TRUE, I IND EN­DEAR­ING, BE­ING A cheap­skate drunk my­self).

It must be Palace pro­to­col that has de­manded the dele­tion of the ac­counts be­cause, for some rea­son, as soon as a young woman is adopted into the royal house­hold, there are cer­tain rules she must in­stantly fol­low.

For starters, she must al­ways wear a pair of ugly shoes. These will be made from real leather and have a sen­si­ble low heel – they will be hor­ri­ble, but sup­port­ive of one’s arch and dis­cour­ag­ing of one’s vari­cose vein. There is a rea­son why the Queen hasn’t got great big bulgy blue lumps up the backs of her legs and that’s be­cause she has worn hideous shoes for her whole life (shoes which ap­par­ently get bro­ken in by a “sameSIZED MINION” IRST).

The new­bie royal must also start col­lect­ing hideous coats. Most of us only have to buy a new coat once EV­ERY IVE OR 10 YEARS; IN FACT, THE next coat I buy will prob­a­bly “see me out”. The princess in the pub­lic eye, on the other hand, can’t keep wear­ing the same skanky leop­ard skin from the char­ity shop or that or­ange Marks & Sparks num­ber she got in the sale. She has to buy an as­sort­ment of good qual­ity Bri­tish­made coats that will with­stand the scru­tiny of the fussi­est Daily Mail reader. These will in­clude some­thing in camel – a colour which only suits a camel – an itchy tweed num­ber that will give her a rash around the back of her neck, a blue one, a red one (so that the pa­pers can write the head­line “Lady in Red”) and a black one for posh fu­ner­als.

None of these coats will suit her and they will all make her look 20 years older than she is: see Kate for proof.

Which brings me to the hats: the INAL INDIGNITY OF MAR­RY­ING THE QUEEN’S grand­son is that it au­to­mat­i­cally sub­jects you to hat-wear­ing for the rest of your life. As soon as that ring is on YOUR INGER, YOU ARE AT THE MERCY OF THE “hat peo­ple”, all of whom are mad and have just the one in­ten­tion – to make you look as mad as they are.

One of the big­gest draw­backs of be­ing a fe­male royal must be putting on a hat and not laugh­ing un­til you wet your­self to the point of hav­ing to change your tights. For this alone I would de­mand to keep at least one of my so­cial me­dia ac­counts, just so that I could pub­licly say “Sorry about the hat”.

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