IT’S been a few weeks since The Interview and I’ve finally figured out what it was all about. You know, the one where Haz (the prince formerly known as Harry) and Megs (late of smartly-dressed television show, Suits), managed to politely bad-mouth the royal family and have a grizzle about baby Archie not getting a title. It all defeated the purpose somewhat. Doing a runner from the UK amid shouts about the gutter press – muckrakers one and all – invading their privacy, only to land in the warm if heavily-weaponed embrace of the US and give an interview to the press, seemed a contradiction in terms.

Admittedly the press consisted of one formidably high-profile interviewer but the modus operandi didn’t deviate from the norm. Oprah, looking in fabulous fettle, posed the ticklish questions. The Sussexes trotted out the answers.

At one stage everyone adjourned to the chook-shed where hens obligingly clucked and pecked at poultry food. Oprah appeared very impressed with all this, eying the henhouse as if it were the Taj Mahal of coops.

Even so, there had to be more to the occasion than a baring of grievances and revelations dire enough to swing palace apparatchiks into action, possibly thankful Harry was taking the heat off his dodgy Uncle Andrew. As pro and anti-Sussex camps assembled, the demarcation line soon became apparent – over 50 and British on the anti-side, under 50 and American cheering on Harry and Meghan (or as they say in the States, rooting for the home team.)

It was then I got it. The home team. Ostensibly this interview may have been designed to brush away the cobwebbed strictures that had them velcroed to The Firm, to underscore the fact all had not been tickety-boo in London, to let Harry finally let off the steam about the press hounding his mother. But this was as much about America as it was about England. Meghan is American, Harry hankers that way, ahead lies the glittering pathway to endorsements, public appearances, business deals, movie contracts, on and on it goes. Off with the old fuddy-duddy crew in England, on with the new, hip bunch in California. Buckingham Palace was always on a hiding to nothing.

The scaffolding that will headquarter Brand Sussex is being carefully put together. First, the interview. Possible Oprah-enhanced follow-ups.

Further estrangement from the folks still trolling the corridors of duty and rigid adherence to a class system many consider outdated. The occasional rapprochement. Baby’s name.

None of this should matter of course. But beneath the silliness lies an older, more disturbing narrative.

In tandem with the Sussex interview, I’m reading Jenny Hocking’s forensically detailed account of how the palace connived to turf out an Australian prime minister. Hocking describes the attitude of the British establishment towards a government elected by we, the people, as one of condescension and disdain.

The book might not be as entertaining as the Oprah revelations, but when it comes to ooh-aah moments it beats royal flower girl tanties hands down.