SARAH VINE: Does Prince Harry know even more who he is?

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Sneakers off, a plain white T-shirt, cargo shorts, a baseball cap at the back: who is this athletic Hollywood A-lister chilling photogenically in the Santa Barbara surf?

Sneakers off, a plain white T-shirt, cargo shorts, a baseball cap at the back: who is this athletic Hollywood A-lister chilling photogenically in the Santa Barbara surf?

Sneakers off, a plain white T-shirt, cargo shorts, a baseball cap at the back: who is this athletic Hollywood A-lister chilling photogenically in the Santa Barbara surf?

Orlando Bloom, maybe, or Chris Martin? The next James Bond? The latest Instagram super influencer?

Were it not for the signature red hair and trusty Eton swagger (no amount of awake boot camp will ever eradicate that), it really could be any of the above.

It is, of course, our own Harry Windsor, the former prince of this parish, now, it seems, a fully paid member of the Cool Crowd.

Wow. He’s really come a long way from the days of pheasant shoots and mosquito-infested twenties picnics. No doubt his new best friend and chief sychophant James Corden will rename him “the hot prince of Bel Air.”

Maybe he’s working on his own rap track with Jay-Z, backing vocals by Beyoncé. Or could it be a collab with Justin Bieber? He certainly seems to have taken fashion tips from him.

Regardless, it looks like Harry got his wish. He is about as far removed from the world of the British monarchy as Cardi B from Mother Teresa of Calcutta. He finally did. He is finally a commoner.

Or at least he thinks he is.

It is of course our own Harry Windsor, former Prince of this parish, now, it seems, a fully paid member of the Cool Crowd

It is of course our own Harry Windsor, former Prince of this parish, now, it seems, a fully paid member of the Cool Crowd

It is of course our own Harry Windsor, former Prince of this parish, now, it seems, a fully paid member of the Cool Crowd

I have to admit, the more this whole Harry and Meghan saga unfolds, the more I start to think it’s all just a hugely delayed act of teenage rebellion. A trust safari tantrum of truly epic proportions.

You know the type. Public school, country houses, hunting, shooting, fishing, port cases laid at birth and everything else. Good customization and expensive teeth. Then they go to college and discover that absolutely no one likes them, except for a few fools in red pants.

Suddenly, the fact that Dad owns half of Goldman Sachs, less of a winning lottery ticket in life and more of a huge source of shame, especially when you find yourself handing over your American Express gold card to pay for a round at the Steve Biko student bar.

It’s all very difficult and stressful and not at all conducive to getting out with that rather intense yet incredibly hot girl in the post-colonial college class. How does a guy prove to the world that he’s not just a spoiled, over-indulged son of privilege – and show that he’s actually a very deep, caring type who, like, fully understands the struggles of the common people?

Simple: you pretend to be one. Throw off the shackles of tradition, break free from the straitjacket of expectation. Or, in Harry’s case, indulge in endless hand wringing and mea culpas, telling Grandma where to put her crown. By rejecting his home, his family, and his country, Harry believes he is embracing a more ‘authentic’ experience in America, one that will ultimately make him a better person.

Sarah Vine believes that Harry and Meghan have not left behind “the trappings of privilege.”

Except he didn’t really do that, did he? Because in reality he has left none of the attributes of privilege behind. And the ‘authenticity’ is just a veneer. The reality is that he has maximized every ounce of his status to get lucrative contracts with Netflix, Spotify and others. He lives in a house as lavish as whatever he grew up in, and he still rubs shoulders with royalty, albeit of the Hollywood kind. While we expected him to somehow ‘keep it real’.

Old Harry’s joy is that he was never that self-conscious wannabe pretending to be something he wasn’t. Yes, he was a honking Sloane and a bit of a talker at times – but at least he was unconsciously himself, which is why we loved him so much, despite all his mistakes.

This guy on the beach: I have no idea who he is. And the sad thing is he doesn’t, I guess.

Oh Alan, you’re such a hoot

Alan Duncan, the former Secretary of State, comes out against former colleagues in his memoirs, including the Prime Minister, Priti Patel and my husband.

I’ve only met Duncan once or twice, most memorable a few years ago at a mutual friend’s house.

My enduring image of that evening is of Duncan, greatly refreshed by our host’s lavish basement, flirtatiously chasing a fellow guest – a striking young man in his early twenties – around the dinner table in a rather one-sided game of tag. Always so full of mischief, Alan.

Glad to see he hasn’t changed.

Now we see the reason for the unions’ silence about the Batley Grammar teacher being bullied out of his home and livelihood by a mob: they were far too busy stirring up excitement at Pimlico Academy in London by trying to find another innocent husband – teacher, whose only crime is to dedicate his life to helping young people – also expelled from his job. Nice to know where their priorities lie.

● Much in Britain comes down to booze. Take vaccine passports. Essentially what we have here is a discussion between people who will do anything – including opting out of their right to privacy – for the chance of a pint and a pack of ready-to-eat salted Dog & Duck; and those who would rather drink homebrew forever than hand over all their data to the government. I’m with the latter, I’m afraid.

I’ve had one of those UK Gas HomeCare contracts for years. So when my washing machine packed everything, I went to book an engineer – and found the earliest lock was in late April.

That is a month without clean pants. Added to the four week wait to fix a small leak in our boiler and last year’s saga with the dryer, and I’m starting to feel a bit of a fool for paying them over £ 30 a month.

Meanwhile, they advertise their services on the back of the lockdown with the slogan ‘Keep your home working with British Gas’. Not in my experience.

● I have no problem with Dr. Priyamvada Gopal, professor of postcolonial studies at Cambridge, comparing Tony Sewell – chairman of the government’s Race Review – with Goebbels. First, I believe in freedom of expression; but second, it is vital that we know how much people appreciate Gopal’s distorted worldview. The more she – and others like MP Clive Lewis who tweeted a photo of the Ku Klux Klan in response to the report – exposes her true nature, the less will take her divisive agenda seriously.

A selfie of Jennifer Arcuri (pictured) in Boris's kitchen has surfaced

A selfie of Jennifer Arcuri (pictured) in Boris's kitchen has surfaced

A selfie of Jennifer Arcuri (pictured) in Boris’s kitchen has surfaced

There’s something super creepy about Jennifer Arcuri’s selfie in Boris’s kitchen. Almost as if it were all a carefully planned bid for fame and fortune. Honestly, what is it about smart Californians and gullible Old Etonians?

● A good thing about staycations: at least we don’t have to be ‘beach body ready’. Bring on the Easter eggs!

● Nish Kumar, presenter of the now-defunct Mash Report, said he would no longer host a “political comedy” show on the BBC. Um, I’m not sure he ever did.

The term ‘rape culture’ is the latest addition to the woke lexicon. Until recently, it was the kind of terminology only used by 1970s second-wave feminists in misogyny workshops; nowadays even Huw Edwards talks about it on the TV news. Not only does it add to the nonsense of ‘all men are rapists’, it also works on the assumption that all women are de facto victims. Above all, though, it is of no use to real rape victims, who are now finding that their horrific experiences have become a trendy affair for social justice fighters.