The Australians have awarded Prince Philip, the Queen’s main bitch, a knighthood. Quite right too. He’s old, he doesn’t do too much harm, other than insulting foreigners, and is as loyal to his wife as any 93 year-old held together with drugs, stents, artificial joints and sellotape.

But Australia is not a particularly pro-royal place. As a nation they see themselves distanced from the commonwealth, and not just geographically. They see themselves as a young upstart nation and would like to sever links with their colonial past. All except their Prime Minister, who loves sucking up to royalty and unilaterally awarded the Prince an Aussie Knighthood. The Fosters Order of the Holy Order of Last Orders, gentlemen, per-lease.

Some say that the Duke (yep, he’s a Prince, but he’s the Duke of Edinburgh too) needs another title like I need another (fucking) tax bill. Tweeters commented that giving him this one is like giving Jay-Z a Beyonce CD, or giving your air miles to Mrs Branson. Like selling Spurs another useless midfielder for 20 mil. Because Philip has so many titles that it takes half a newspaper column to list them. And they all come with the requisite medal, as if he’d killed 1,000 aborigines in the battle for Ayers Rock, single handedly, armed with just a Swiss Army Knife and a toothbrush.

And there’s the problem. When the Duke’s on ‘official business’ he has to wear a chest-full of hardwear. Rambo has less medals. You couldn’t fit them on Dolly Parton, let alone a skinny shrunken old Prince.

I’m not anti-royalist, as such, but the whole business with titles is part of ‘the class system’ which is still rampant in Britain. We really don’t need to be importing them from other places. So until they make me Lord Andy of Gants Hill Roundabout, they can all just piss off with their badges of honour.

And even if I was a Lord, I wouldn’t want to face Chelsea tonight. Liverpool have to. Its the second leg of the Carling Cup semi-final, with all level at 1-1 after the Anfield match. Stamford Bridge is never exactly an easy place to go and win matches, but after Saturday’s somewhat humiliating defeat there against lowly Bradford City, the boys in blue will be out to prove a point. Several points, in fact. The main one being that hell hath no fury like a Portuguese manager who’s just had his face rubbed in shit. Something like that. And however noble and humble he is, not to mention somewhat patronising, whilst stating how well Bradford played, he’s not in a happy place right now.

Tomorrow night Spurs play their second leg up in arctic Sheffield. That’ll be interesting too. Where snow is forecast. But being a proper fan, I might just go. Into the lounge and turn on the tv.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx