I AWOKE to see that Pippa Middleton has jetted off on holiday with her ex, just in time to distract everyone from the real news about her sister. It was like the wedding all over again and all the old tremors returned.

Without realising, I leapt into my car and drove all the way to the royal couple’s home town of Anglesey in Wales. I had to warn Kate or die trying. I lurched hopelessly through the streets of the barren townscape, trying every door but someone had locked them all. Kate was trapped.

Then, as if by magic, I happened upon the local Waitrose. I cried out in joy when I saw a fine head of long, brown hair gliding across the car park with the same royal flourish I’d seen recently on my TV. I approached from behind and reached out to touch that coveted royal mane, but recoiled at the last second when I noticed the split ends and weather-beaten toddler. This wasn’t Kate. In fact, it was obviously a local prostitute, probably lost on her way to Somerfield. Why was she lost? I suspect it was down to such street drugs as heroin and ‘whippets’.

Outside, my tears mingled with the rain, which dribbled from the clouds like urine from an indifferent deity’s underpants into a big, Welsh toilet. Who had done this to these people? Who could I turn to for help? Catherine Z? Dame Shirley B? Midge U?  

“Gone! They’re all gone!” I sobbed at the sky as God turned his back.

Then it happened: out of the clouds a big chopper roared overhead and into the distance. God was right: there was only one way to lure the prince.  If I couldn’t save Kate, I could at least know exactly how it feels to be her, so I scaled a fire escape and threw myself from the roof of Waitrose. I cannot describe the gynaecological pain as my fall was broken by an incomprehensibly placed Welsh bollard. I lay on the ground moaning, drifting in and out of consciousness waiting for the prince to fly to my rescue. But all I saw was a balding man with his troll companion. “It got her, mother!” he gasped, gesturing at the bollard. “It got her right in the hairy biker…”

“I don’t speak Welsh” I murmured before passing into oblivion. When I next woke, I was in a hospital bed.  A member of the local constabulary was standing over me, raping me with his eyes. “Why did you do this to yourself, love?” he asked, intrusively. “Pippa,” I told him. “She pushed me. She’s jealous.”

I am not in the business of telling lies and sure, maybe Pippa didn’t push me.  But as I leave this hellish place clutching my course of cranberry and anti-inflammatories, I’m telling the truth when I say “She did push me, though”. How many more fatalities will it take? The prince can’t be there every time to save us. A pain I know only too well.