Andrew shamed his country so let's turf rotten squatter out

I WAS a squatter for a few months in an empty London flat back in the early 1980s and it felt liberating.

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No rent, no bills, no decorating, no need to worry about the neighbours’ scummy behaviour as I was evidently acting scummy myself.

So I sort of get how Prince Andrew now feels squatting in his gratis 30-room cross between Downton Abbey and a five-star golf hotel.

Although, unlike Andrew, I was conscious that bailiffs could one day hurl my gear out the window and change the locks. And, if they did, unlike Andrew, I couldn't hand them a peppercorn at the tradesman’s entrance and say “there you go, my annual rent in full. Oh and here's a grain of salt for your trouble.”

One day I just picked up my stuff, left and rejoined the paying society, which also felt liberating. Which is something I guess Andrew will never do of his own will even though the unanswered questions about his paedophile links and dodgy finances are piling up higher than the mountain of slurry he is mired in.