Deary me, hot on the heels of the media furore caused by young Harry peeling off his kit at a private party in the States, we now have a similar event over in France, where our Duchess Kate elected to sunbathe topless for whatever reason it is that makes people do things like that.
Both events were barely (oh!) newsworthy but, of course, got the big headline treatment at a time when the Olympic publicity machine was at last beginning to wind down in a litany of predictable self-congratulation.
It is no coincidence the latest nasty publication comes from France; witness the fate of the late Diana who had a relationship with the media that was at times bordering on the bizarre.
One might well ponder on the thought that having despatched their own monarchy, the French have now turned their sights on ours.
What puzzles me greatly is that anyone would have the slightest interest in viewing the result of those secret snaps.
After all, on any sunny day in Selkirk it is possible to walk along the High Street and pass ladies exhibiting substantial cleavage of a kind that would have made Mae West green with envy.
In the times in which we live, exposed flesh, be it of the décolleté kind or more often the lower dorsal variety favoured by the building trade, is so normal as to be considered mundane.
I cannot help but wonder at the frequency of royal scandals, given that from the top to the bottom, the royal family do in fact require a steady amount of media exposure just to exist.
Without it they would become obscure and thus irrelevant, which in such circles can be dangerous.
Rather than their main function being to lead the nation, (we have good ol’ Dave and Cleggie for that these days), the royals have been largely reinvented as a form of public entertainment, if you like, a soap opera that has been running longer than The Archers and is at times much more interesting.
I realise a statement along those lines might offend the ardent royalists among you, but before you march on Pilgrim HQ armed with tar and feathers, consider this – the Diamond Jubilee Celebrations were prolonged and convoluted, morphing into a form of Disneyfication that was in constant danger of losing all dignity and descending into a tacky farce.
I have a lot of time for Her Maj and her grumpy bloke, having worked for them at various times, always in a very humble capacity. But at their age the extent of the relentless public exposure during the so-called celebrations must have been hard-going enough to suggest the whole deal was a subtle attempt at regime change cooked up by an impatient heir.
If you read back into English history you will not have to look far to find several plots along these lines.
Getting back to scuddie pics of the junior royals, I wonder at their apparent innocence of the simple fact they are prime targets for the paparazzi crew who make big bucks by taking sneaky pictures.
As time goes by, these pictures require to be progressively salacious to satisfy public curiosity, unless, of course, it also reveals a few interesting tattoos. Indeed, I can recall in my long-gone youth a public outcry at a sly photograph of Princess Margaret sitting in a nightclub puffing away on the royal Woodbine.
It even provoked words of rebuke from the Archbishop of Canterbury who only just stopped short of labelling Mags as being a tad decadent.
Like the rest, the whole thing was a one-day wonder and we soon moved on to bigger and better royal scandals. It did, however, serve well to expose a degree of hypocrisy among the great unwashed.
The supposed misdeeds of those royals who elect to bare all, or maybe quite a lot in circumstances whereby some geek with a mobile phone or camera can capture and flog the result is fairly minor excitement. After all, it isn’t as if any of them has yet to strip off to sun hat and rucksack, marching along what we still refer to as the Queen’s highway, where they would be liable to have their collar felt, even if they were not wearing one at the time.
On that note, I see the unfortunate Naked Rambler has collected another spell in the slammer for his alleged sins. But, topically in his case, the basic rules are still the same, although I have yet to find any degree of personal principles worth a spell in jail.
You will not find many citizens claiming to be shocked or affronted by the naked rambler rushing off to a solicitor to sue for some imagined damage to their sensibilities because that would be foolish.
Already we read Prince Wullie is to sue the publication that published pictures showing more of his wife than normal, but to do that is to kick off a long-lasting feud with the media that he cannot win. Why? Because if you take on the press of whatever flavour, you take on the lot of them. It would be like trying to kill a many-headed hydra – as fast as you lop off one head it grows another; good for the potted heid trade, but rather wearing.
Taking the wider view it is more likely Wullie will obtain top (and expensive) legal opinion as to the worth of such litigation, thereafter allowing the passage of time to settle everything down nicely. This is not the time to throw a regal strop, but to accept with dignity there are some right nasty maggots out there, best to be avoided.
Both Wullie and Kate must accept the fact that they are in the goldfish bowl of public life and to co-exist with the various forms of media around the world they must learn they cannot control publicity, but must learn to manage it for the sake of themselves and as many bairns as they produce.
I am surely not the only one to think this might be a handy time for the Duchess of Cambridge to listen for the patter of tiny feet. It might also be the case that any Pilgrim correspondence should be forwarded to The Dungeon Suite at the Tower of London for a while.