New title for Harry

Though he puts a brave face on it, it appears increasingly likely that Harry will have his royal titles taken away. That must rankle, even when weighed against Netflix millions.

Harry did put his titles on hold when he served in the army. Then he was known as simply ‘Captain Wales’, but that was just a short hiatus. He knew and everybody else knew that he’d go back to being HRH once the shooting stopped.

Now he risks losing those initials for ever, and before long the sense of deprivation will begin to gnaw at the pit of his stomach, to use Carlyle’s phrase. And no amount in Netflix currency will alleviate that pain.

But not to worry: another title is just round the corner. Following his nostalgic recollection of having killed 25 Afghani militants during his time as Captain Wales, Harry should henceforth be known as Matamoros, Harry the Moor-Slayer.

The original title belonged to St James, who distinguished himself in the 9^th century Battle of Clavijo. The fight broke out following an unreasonable demand the Moors imposed on Ramiro I of Asturias.

The libidinous Arabs demanded a tribute of 100 virgins, 50 of them noble. It’s telling that even in those days Arabs dreaded comparison so much that they put a high premium on virginity.

Although finding so many virgins in a Western country presented less of a logistic problem then than it would today, Ramiro rejected the demand out of hand. Instead he rode into battle.

Initially, the hostilities didn’t go his way, but then St James, the patron saint of Spain, appeared on a white steed, sword in one hand, white banner in the other. He turned the battle by personally slaying 5,000 Muslims (or ‘muzzie-wuzzies’, as Harry probably calls them – he likes the odd racial putdown, though perhaps less so these days than in the past).

Hence the proposed title of Matamoros, a share of which Harry now merits even though he falls somewhat short of the original holder’s saintliness.

Harry explains that he got his shot at the Matamoros title as a result of the childhood trauma he simply couldn’t let go. His ‘mom’, as he calls her in the American fashion, died when Harry was 13.

To dull the pain of the loss he tried every controlled substance known to man, but the analgesic effect was negligible no matter how many years went by. Booze, al fresco sex behind the pub, dressing up as a Nazi stormtrooper – nothing worked.

But then Harry decided to “turn his pain into a purpose”, which was to go to war and kill Muslims. And sure enough, taking his anguish out on the infidels worked out much better than the magic mushrooms, peyote, cocaine and whatever else Harry had snorted, smoked or mainlined.

There is nothing wrong with serving in the military, and in fact doing so is noble – provided it’s done to a noble end.

Following an honourable family tradition qualifies as such, and our princes have always served in the armed forces, often with distinction. So does patriotism, a sense of duty to one’s country, especially when it’s at war.

Yet Harry cites neither of those as his motives. The way he explains his urge to fight, it amounts to a sort of therapeutic bloodlust, the desire to kill his own pain by inflicting it on others. Here we enter the domain of psychiatry, for people who feel that way are known as psychopaths.

By all accounts, whatever his motivation, Harry served bravely and well, specifically when flying Apache helicopters for four months in 2012-2013. “The only shots I thought twice about were the ones I hadn’t taken,” he says, and it’s good to see a man whose conscience is clear.

Now fairness demands mentioning that, during the period when Harry honed his sharpshooting skills, not a single Apache helicopter was lost to hostile fire, although a few crashed for other reasons. Still, while some of his detractors may question Harry’s sportsmanship, none should doubt his courage.

His mental health, however, is something else again, and this goes beyond the questionable inspiration for his valour. For Harry suffers from a prevalent modern disorder: an exaggerated propensity for delving deep into his own psyche. That’s the modern attempt to reach the superpersonal without rising to the supernatural.

Once such digging starts, it usually doesn’t stop until the spade (sorry, shovel) hits the hard surface of some childhood trauma. All of us, those who grew up in a palace like Harry or in a smelly communal flat like me, had a fair share of those.

Some traumas are like pinpricks, others more like dagger thrusts, and Harry’s was closer to the latter: he lost his ‘mom’ to a freak accident at a young age.

Yet men, especially Englishmen, used to know how to handle traumatic experiences with stoicism. It was almost an article of faith that grown men had no right to keep reliving their childhood pains onanistically.

Notice the use of the past tense here. For the age of psychobabble dawned on the world, and men were encouraged to become touchy-feely hermaphrodites, each wearing his wounded heart on his sleeve. As an inevitable result of such exhibitionism, that organ tends to be caked in grime.

Not blessed with the strength of either character or intellect, Harry never learned that there is more to being a man than the odd roll in the dirt behind a pub – more even than martial courage. No one taught him. On the contrary, the whole ethos of modernity demanded he get in touch with his feelings.

Hence his tendency to throw his toys out of the pram whenever he can’t get his way. Hence also his sadistic, petty vindictiveness, characteristic of someone who, unable to come to terms with his problems, lashes out at whomever is close enough to blame.

Hence also the tendency to be henpecked, by the first strong woman sufficiently versed in the dark arts of manipulation. And, since his henpecker happens to be American, she grew up believing in the curative effect of letting it all hang out in public.

It’s not for nothing that group therapy is more widespread in the US than anywhere else. Though grown in Europe, the tree of psychobabble reached its true height only when transplanted onto American soil.

However, most attendees of such tasteless spectacles have to pay for it. Harry, on the other hand, gets millions for sharing his self-inflicted, or at least self-cultivated, problems with all and sundry.

As a bonus to his paymasters he can also brag about killing 25 Muslims, whom he self-admittedly saw not as human beings but as chess pieces to be swept off his board. His comrades-in-arms are aghast: that sort of braggadocio breaks the code they live by.

But Harry is no longer Captain Wales, nor even HRH in anything but name. He now lives by different codes, and he merits different titles, ranks and honorifics. Such as my suggestion of Matamoros, which I hope is taken as seriously as it’s offered.