A regular reader (a Mrs Trellis of North Island) has expressed concern that my absence from the wedding may lead to no one being on hand to prevent disasters happening on the day. While I admit, with some modesty, that the current high esteem that the British royal family commands worldwide is due in no small part to me, I cannot be on call all of the time to all of them.
I will outline some of the steps upon which I insisted to prevent unfortunate results.
Originally, there were plans to have a full traditional ceremony at St Paul’s. I quietly persuaded Charles to move to the private ceremony in Windsor. The plans, including having Kylie Minogue as a bridesmaid, and the ridiculous involvement of Dale Winton were getting much too bizarre. Further, Camilla’s repeated threat to reply ‘Not chuffing likely’ instead of ‘I will’ could not be taken lightly. She constantly fails to see that what some view as a robust sense of humour is regarded by others as pure bad taste. Additionally, Edward, poor boy, has this strange fixation about the current Archbishop of Canterbury. He is convinced that Dr Williams is Celtic warlord, whose mission is to overthrow the foreign monarchy, and faints every time that he meets him.
Charles will not be having the stag night that his irresponsible brother, Andrew, had planned. I suggested that a quiet night in with a few trusted friends, a pizza, a limited amount of alcohol and a ‘Police Academy’ DVD would be an appropriate kind of evening. Fortunately, I did not have to be explicit about this and remind him of my rescuing him from being found naked in the zebra enclosure at Whipsnade during the early hours of the morning the last time he got married.
Security is a concern. That is another reason why Philip will not be attending. He seems to think he has some feudal right to assault anyone whose face he takes exception to. At his advanced age, the days when he could lift Jim Callaghan over his head and slam him down three places away are gone, but he can still do some damage with an unexpected kick to the shins, as dame Vera Lynn will attest.
So, what more can I do? I have carefully assessed all of the risks. At least we no longer have to contend with the dear old queen mother’s endearing habit of yelling out “Piss off, yo-yo knickers” every time she saw Camilla.