CALL that an Australia tour? Pathetic and desperate. Kate and I would do a far superior tour if we could be bothered to get off our arses.

First of all, we’d take the kids, because Oz is where the world’s press were delighted with me chasing a butterfly or picking a flower or some bollocks when I was two. Louis and a kangaroo? They’d lap that shit up, but we can’t this year because we’re busy.

Second, we’d do the cliches. Us by Uluru, the Harbour Bridge, and I believe there’s a Big Prawn outside West Ballina. Can’t beat a good photo, as mum proved at the Taj Mahal. I suppose Kate could photoshop us in from home? Actually maybe not.

Third, no way would Kate be on Masterchef. B-list. She’d be on Australia’s top show provided that’s not MAFS Australia because it’s full of volatile scum. Tremendous fun to watch. We might binge another season when we’re on the yacht this summer.

Yeah, we’d kick the shit out of their pathetic tour, which isn’t even an official tour so doesn’t count. They’re the Bootleg Beatles of Royalty, basically. I pity them.

But we can’t because, well, Kate and I like our privacy, we need to be here for Dad in case he’s suddenly lying in state, and it’s a long way away, Australia, isn’t it? Takes days to recover from the jet lag. And there’s nothing much there.

It’s not me. I suggested we go to Fiji just last year and Kate was well up for it until I suggested making a little Royal tour of it and her face changed like that. ‘It’s your bloody job not mine,’ she hissed and I’m not correcting her when she’s in that mood.

So sorry, Australia, that’s kind of where we’re at right now. Sort of a homebody phase of the marriage. Dad won’t mind doing the US, he’s only 77 and a cancer survivor. But just remember, if we did come, which we won’t, it’d be f**king great.