A story just came up on my twitter timeline about one Meghan Markle. The name rang absolutely no bells at all. Was she, perhaps, a member of Angela Merkel’s cabinet? A singer in an all girl pop band? An Austrian tennis player? No, she’s Prince Harry’s girlfriend and because she is we need to know all about her, apparently.

I learn, courtesy of Mr Google, that Ms Markle is an American “actor, model and humanitarian”. She has appeared in numerous TV shows I have never heard of but of far more important to our voracious media is that she is a bit black. These things matter.

One newspaper, the Metro, said it will be a “game-changer” if Ms Markle’s rasta-haired mother walked down the aisle with Prince Charles. I am guessing that they mean this in a positive way, but who knows? Perhaps it is only the press that has not quite worked out just yet that not all of us are xenophobic bigots and couldn’t give a flying fuck about someone’s colour? In fact, it is a “game-changer” if you are living in the age of Love Thy Neighbour or the supporters of your local football team throw bananas at black players. But we’re not, are we? Or has Nigel Farage announced he is bringing it back?

I think it far more unusual that a woman would want to be seen in the same room as Prince Charles, the Queen’s oafish, dimwitted, adulteress son who, God help us, will one day become the head honcho in our dysfunctional royal family in which almost every member seems to go through a messy divorce at one time or another.

Accepting that Prince Harry has to play the royal game and live a completely bonkers life in palaces and castles, he comes across as a good lad. I don’t think his charitable work, through things like the Invictus games and mental health, is based upon anything other than a genuine desire to do good and many even of the most grizzled cynics agree with me.

Harry’s mad, mad, abnormal world precludes the kind of courting the rest of us take for granted. No “meet me outside the Hippodrome at 8.00 pm” or a pint in the local for him. Everything is instead planned with his detectives and bodyguards who are probably less than a heartbeat away from the boy when he makes a move for a quick snog. I feel sorry for him.

The royals know no better. What they endure is little short of brainwashing which enables them to survive when many of us would have melted down. And because of our obsession with tittle-tattle, if a royal leg over happens, we feel the need to know about it. I don’t want to know about it. It is, even though I help pay for the whole shebang, Harry’s business. I do not need to know, do not want to know, where he takes his girlfriend. I don’t want to know about her past any more than I want to know about the past of the woman who lives next door.

Mr Markle is slightly black and very divorced. This is not news. The royals are largely white, sometimes with a hint of ginger, and as we have observed hardly any ended up in happy wedlock. Whether Harry does is of no interest to me. Can’t we just let the boy have some fun? I can’t think there is a great deal of fun to be had in the royal household.