Prince Andrew, nickname - Randy Andy - finally got the order of the boot. The royal boot right up the khazi. About bloody time. As royals go, he's an embarrassment. Not quite as bad at his great-great-grandfather Bertie, King Edward, who, because he was fat and unwieldy, had a special chair constructed for himself to make it easier for les Madams de Paris to pleasure him. It's been going on a long time. Finally, Queen Elizabeth II, in this her Platinum Jubilee year, has had enough. No more gongs, no more titles, no more fancy uniforms, no more parades, no more charities or sharp salutes, all of which just about sum up the role of royalty. He may be destined to spend the rest of his life confined to a cottage on the grounds of Balmoral shooting grouse or deer and drinking himself to death with fine malt whisky. Noblesse oblige finally brought low. Andy's greatest achievement? Flying a helicopter near.... not too near, the Falklands. No more Epsteins, no more young fillies eager to meet royalty, no more rubbing shoulders with rich and powerful men who enjoy touching pussy. Andrew Windsor, the second son of Her Majesty, Queen of England just got the sack. My sympathies are with her.