I hate England, I hate the fact I might never kill again, and I hate those poo-shites in the press, even though the only reason I got to play with the big gun was because they were filming me. That said, we are back in the Six Nations, which rocks.

But I'm still far from my beloved Helmand Province, where I've been fighting for my right to be normal. Sometimes I think I was the only soldier in Afghanistan to have a clue what he was fighting for, and I wish they'd left me there alone, taking out the Taliban one Terry at a time. A lone mercenary can definitely win an Afghan war. I saw it in Rambo 3.

I refuse to stop being normal. The minute I got through the door at Highgrove, the butler asked the footman to ask me what he should tell the chef I'd like for my lunch. Something normal, I said. Bangers and mash is normal. Tell him bangers and mash.

At night in the desert, I'd wake screaming and drenched in sweat. "What's the matter?" my men would ask. I'm sorry, I'd tell them, I dreamed I was back in South Kensington, staggering out of the same nightclub every night and wondering why the photographers were there.

The flashbacks never really leave you, you just learn to control them in the end. The docs told me I'm suffering from Post-Traumatic Noblesse Syndrome.

As seen by Marina Hyde