A weekly column reproduced from the Bristol Evening Post

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Am I alone in wondering why all the fuss about Sophie Rhys-Jones wanting to earn a few bob?

Let’s face it, she’s married to an inept Mummy’s boy who’s never managed to hold down a proper job in his life, so someone’s got to bring some cash in.

And look where they live. A 30-bedroom Victorian stately home set in 88 acres.

It’s not quite the two-bed Barratt starter home that most newlyweds aspire to, is it? Even if the taxpayers do cough up £141,000 a year to keep Edward in moisturiser and Shirley Bassey records.

No, if I were her, I’d be out there touting my Royal connections for all they were worth. Want Prince Charles to endorse your factory-farmed chicken-type nuggets? No probs, that’ll be £50,000 please. Princess Margaret to advertise Benson and Hedges? Oooh, let’s say £100,000 and a motorised scooter.

We could even see the Queen Mum challenging Thora Hird’s domination of the old people’s adverts in the back of Sunday colour supplements. Stannah stairlifts and walk-in baths, by Royal appointment.

The problem is that Sophie is just an averagely-dim PR girl who, if she hadn’t landed little Eddie, would be masterminding product launches of chocolate teapots and motorcycle ashtrays for 15 grand a year plus luncheon vouchers.

She’s never going to pull in enough dough to avoid those embarrassing telephone calls from credit card companies. (Leave me alone, you bastards. The kids need new shoes.)

Of course, there is one other option. What about a bit of topless modelling? I mention this because one of the best-selling editions of The Sun ever was the day they got their hands on some holiday snaps of the soon-to-be Countess of Wessex with her baps out. I was in Madrid that morning and they were even on sale there.

I’m sure the Western Daily Press or one of the other downmarket tabloids could make it worth her while.

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