So Prince Harry has got engaged to some actress. It’s like Princess Grace all over again but this time with a brunette.

There’s even been a ‘stag do’ event put on to Facebook. Within a day more than 3,000 people said they would be attending and 11,000 were interested!

These Facebook fiends don’t even know the ginger royal and they’re going out to celebrate his impending nuptials?!

I’m sorry, I know there are still a few royalists knocking about but really? Why is this news?

I managed to squeeze a full duvet into one of the small wheelie bins the other day and I didn’t see any paparazzi or journalists knocking about.

Plus, if I had to tell you why I was shoving the duvet in the bin you would have expected live coverage from BBC news and a visit from Theresa May.

If I’m honest I’m kind of jealous that everyone around the country (and the world) is so excited for the H bomb and Miss Markle, and for good reason…

Many, many years ago when I was but a young pup (21 to be exact) I was anticipating the same amount of joy and excitement that H and M have enjoyed.

I arranged a party (complete with a bosom shaped birthday cake) at my house, followed by a trip into Workington to continue celebrating into the wee hours.

I invited about 30 people and was looking forward to a night of debauchery followed by lost handbags and snapped stiletto heels.

I changed into my cream gown and waited patiently for all my guests to arrive at 6pm, no doubt clutching bottles and brandishing cheeky cards that would force me to grin and do an Austin Powers style “oooohhhhhh behave”.

It got to half past six and I convinced myself that the minibus all my friends would have hired must be running late. I tried to ring a few of them. Answer machines. Must be no service.

I then spent the next half hour creating a village out of cream crackers from the buffet and little villagers by sticking olives on cocktail sticks.

Soon it was 7pm and I realised that the only people who were going to celebrate my special day were the inhabitants of Jacob’s town.

My brother then arrived back from rugby training and found me, dressed to the nines and re-enacting a scene from Jaws in Jacob’s town using a gherkin.

I didn’t even need to get any water, my tears had swamped the buffet.

I explained my predicament though it took me quite a while - I was doing that thing that kids do when they try to talk whilst simultaneously crying, struggling to breathe and trying to force single words out in between tears and taking a loud breath.

Even my bro took pity on me, the same fella that almost died of laughter after he ran me over when I was trying to help him reverse his car into the garage.

The story had a happy ending though. Quick-thinking super bro invited his friends round and, despite the fact I had to watch a lot of 19-year-olds punching phone books and going crazy on Frosty Jacks, I had a pretty good time.

So Harry can keep his ‘thousands’ of pals and his extravagant stag do. I doubt Wills would step up like my bro.