Should one feel a collective sense of shame and embarrassment when a person from one's country of origin appears in the public eye?

I think you probably shouldn’t, but it’s hard to shirk the mild feeling of embarrassment when it happens. I was born on the rock known as Great Britain and hence, regularly get that mildly shameful feeling when one of ‘our own’ pops their head up to pronounce their ridiculousness once again.

It happened this morning when I read about the TV appearance of Princess Diana’s former butler, Paul Burrell – possibly my No.1 wince-inducing UK figure. What is he even doing in Australia, I wonder?

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Why would someone go and see a sycophantic, gushing ‘former butler’ who has no limit when it comes to getting his head on TV to announce the otherworldly goddessness of the late royal. He has been a constant source of shame, going on countless documentaries talking about his special bond with Diana and how he was her ‘rock’.

It’s partly fuelled by my utter bewilderment at the universal over-praising that occurred around Diana both during, and after, her lifetime. The coverage often lamented her noble and tireless charity work. It conveniently overlooked the fact that Princess Anne consistently dwarfed her workload year on year. The difference? Anne is not glamorous and attractive. That’s it.

To watch Burrell is like watching someone who once shared a packet of chips at school with someone who went on to be very famous. Drowning the one-off, banal transaction with additional mystical meaning and then going on about it non-stop for the rest of a lifetime. Every time his face appears, I have a yearning to be French.

Have a quick look:

The wincing at the antics of people born on the same piece of land as myself peaks when I stumble across coverage of Brits in places such as Magaluf and Ibiza.

Each time I’m left horrified about what the Spanish locals must make of the orgy of drunken, debauched mayhem. The moderate ones merely staggering around tattoo parlours to get some obscenity inked on their posterior. Some put it down to the exuberance of youth, but I never saw Germans, Italians, or Scandinavians doing the same. To see behaviour as crude as young Brits on vacation, you have to cross a lot of European nations and get into the heartland of Russia.

The odd thing was, when witnessing it first-hand in France as a younger man, I spoke to some of the locals about it and was consistently told they didn’t mind the Brits. It was the Germans they didn’t like – because of their arrogance! It was shocking to hear, but evidently laced with some long-lasting World War II hangover.  

Mr Burrell went to a lot of effort to become my No.1 embarrassment. He had to leapfrog Jordan, for starters. The English Kardashian inflating herself up and down and chirping inanities among a sea of skin-tight latex and fairy paraphernalia.

He also shot past Russell Brand and Piers Morgan - the UK’s David Koch - who traditionally comes across like an embarrassing dad trying to upstage his offspring’s 21st birthday.

Former Oasis front man Liam Gallagher is a Top 10 regular, long after his songs aren’t. A yob with a microphone, a charming combination usually reserved for far-right rallies.

Closing out the cringe squad would be the polarising Jeremy Clarkson. I can see why some may enjoy his brash delivery, but his ignorant, boorish manner left me anything but sad when he was finally fired for punching a member of his crew when no hot food was available at the end of a day’s filming. 

These people are not my relatives, but I can’t stop the slight, associative tinge of shame when they appear on Australian screens.

There is an antidote, though. Simply the appearance of other Brits who leave magic in their wake – Billy Connolly, Alain de Botton, Martin Amis, Dawn French, Peter O’Toole, Radiohead, Anthony Hopkins and Prince Phillip.

I jest, of course. Every time he makes a statement I leap up and hug my Australian citizenship certificate.

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