If I were the royal family, I'd be tempted to circumnavigate 'never complain, never explain' by inviting him and then saying what the hell I liked, knowing it would find its way into print.
Extract from Spare II:
I'd always been wary of Princess Alexandra since an episode where I'd watched 101 Dalmatians after consuming several weed-laced flapjacks and dreamt of her clad in the dripping carcasses of a thousand red squirrels. Nevertheless, it was still a shock when she said I looked like a 'ginger Rory McGrath' and said she didn't want to share a pew with someone 'when she was more familiar with his penis than with the back of her own hand.'
I felt like fleeing the Abbey and just finding a comforting Nando's, but I looked up at one of the gargoyles and it seemed to be beaming thoughts straight into my brain: You can do this, Harry. This is your destiny. If you run now, you will never become Prince of World Peace.
I was further buoyed by Freddie Windsor complimenting my TKMaxx socks, but I later heard him whispering to Tom Parker Bowles, 'God, who wears towelling to a formal.'