Leave Prince Andrew Alone: Britain’s Favourite Scapegoat

When did we become such a sanctimonious little island, baying for the public dismemberment of a man who, whatever his sins, has never actually been convicted of a crime?

Prince Andrew: the Duke of York, Falklands veteran, trade envoy, and perennial royal understudy, has been turned into the nation’s favourite chew toy. The mob wants blood, but there’s precious little left to draw.

Let’s review the evidence of this supposed moral catastrophe. His “crime”, insofar as one can be discerned, seems to be that when he was young and single in 2001, he may or may not have had sex with a 17-year-old. Maybe that’s gross, maybe it’s unwise, but last I checked, it’s not illegal in UK law. Whatever the truth about what happened between Andrew and Virginia Giuffre, the more likely cause of his downfall is guilt by association, a social disease far more contagious than any real offence.

Yes, Jeffrey Epstein was a monster. But people befriend monsters all the time. Human beings are inconsistent creatures: one man’s charming dinner companion is another’s Mephistopheles. Epstein’s guest list read like a Davos roll-call: presidents, professors, princes, and plutocrats. They sipped his champagne, flew on his jets, and relished his company. Funny, isn’t it, how only one of them has been publicly flogged into exile?

Yes, Jeffrey Epstein was a monster. But people befriend monsters all the time.

Let’s be honest: much of the public hatred isn’t about Andrew’s deeds but about the irresistible thrill of righteous persecution. We love a good witch-hunt. And the media love it more. There’s an insatiable appetite for royal downfall; it’s the nation’s favourite reality show.

But forgive me, I was never entirely taken in by Ms Giuffre. In fact I know someone who knew her and I was just never convinced. Before all this came to light I heard tales of a “poor little victim” who always seemed to be photographed poolside in Saint Barth’s, the girl who took the all-expenses-paid trips and then cried wolf when the glamour faded.

It’s also worth asking the obvious: who willingly boards the same luxury plane, time and again, to visit an island supposedly synonymous with abuse? Human behaviour usually recoils from danger. The pattern of repeated travel raises questions that no one in the press seems eager to explore.

Look, before I’m torn to shreds by the women’s-lib brigade, let me be clear: I’m not suggesting Ms Giuffre fabricated everything, nor do I take lightly the pain of anyone who’s truly been abused. But in her case, too many pieces simply don’t fit. And for what it’s worth, I know Lady Victoria Hervey, a close friend of the Duke, and I believe her. She’s investigated this saga to the nth degree, armed with facts and receipts, yet the press, preferring sensation to substance, simply refuses to listen.

And now, in 2025, Ms Giuffre’s 2011 self-published novel, the one that once tiptoed behind fictitious names, has been reborn as a glossy, posthumous memoir. Marketed as a tale of “survival and justice,” it is, in truth, also a publishing bonanza. Reports suggest the book will net its handlers millions, a fittingly lucrative finale to a saga that made Ms Giuffre, who died earlier this year, as famous as the man she accused. What began as an obscure self-release has swelled into a global morality play… with certain shadowy figures now standing as its most obvious beneficiaries.

And now of course the mob is back again, scenting fresh scandal. Andrew, we are told, was also cosy with Beijing in his days as Britain’s Special Representative for Trade and Investment. Well yes, he was. That was his job for the country at that time. He was appointed to promote British trade by the Blair government, the same government that courted China like a love-struck teenager. Back then, the entire establishment, from Cameron to Osborne, was genuflecting before Xi Jinping. Remember the red carpet, the toasts, the banquets? And yet somehow it’s Andrew who’s been cast as the architect of Sino-sin. Oh how these people rewrite history!

Let us also consider the man himself. Andrew may have been the Queen’s favourite, but his childhood was hardly the fairytale of Windsor. Born not to reign but to serve, he was the monarchy’s insurance policy, not its future. And if lurid new biographies are to be believed, his adolescence was marked by disturbing experiences that might explain the emotional confusion of his adult life.

Yet we are happy to reduce him to a caricature: “Randy Andy,” the nation’s bogeyman. This is a man who served in the Falklands, who flew into enemy fire while others merely watched it on television. And yet when the royals appear in public, it’s Andrew and Harry (the two who’ve seen real action) who aren’t permitted to wear their medals. The irony would make a lesser man weep.

He’s lost his titles, his dignity, his public duties, many members of his own family and now, if the tabloids are to be believed, they want him to lose his home. Twenty-one years in Royal Lodge, and suddenly the knives are out for that too. They mutter darkly about “favouritism” and “privilege” while gleefully destroying a man for the crime of being unfashionable.

He’s lost his titles, his dignity, his public duties, many members of his own family and now, if the tabloids are to be believed, they want him to lose his home.

Labour MP, Rachael Maskell, is also crowing that removing the Duke’s title will “bring welcome in our city.” Really? I rather suspect the good people of York have more pressing concerns: potholes, the NHS, the price of milk, what this awful Labour government are doing to our country – than the ceremonial suffix of an ageing royal.

And through it all, what do we hear from his family? Silence. The King, for all his much-praised compassion, has allowed his own brother to be publicly pilloried, stripped, and humiliated. One might have hoped for a touch of fraternal loyalty, or at least a quiet “steady on, chaps.” But no. The Palace appears content to let the mob have its pound of flesh, while the man at the centre of it all has not been charged – let alone convicted – of anything under British law.

Bad taste is not illegal.
Poor judgment is not a hanging offence.
And friendship with the wrong man should not be a life sentence.

I get it, Prince Andrew may be no saint. But he is also not the devil. He is, in all likelihood, what he has always been: a flawed, entitled, lonely man who made some stupid choices and paid an extraordinary price for them. The question is not whether he deserves our sympathy, but whether we deserve our own self-righteousness.

So perhaps it’s time, for once, to stop the witch-hunt. Let the man be.

By Claire Bullivant