Countdown to the royal divorce - part 12

The more informed among you will be aware already of the greatest threat to the nation’s security since the wedding last year. I allude, of course, to the party in the gardens of Buck House in recognition of Liz’s birthday and children’s literature. For fuck’s sake.

The problem, naturally, is Philip. He can’t stand children and he can’t stand books. Ironically, the number of things that the man cannot stand would fill several libraries, but very high on the list are children, with books not far behind.

Ever since the event was announced I have been besieged with requests for assistance. I told Liz when she first telephoned that the matter was quite straightforward. “Just send the old duffer off to open a porridge factory in Harrogate for the day, honeybunch” I said, in my most patronising voice (do these people have no capacity to think for themselves?) “he might even enjoy a day out”. Unfortunately, she took me literally, and that scheme foundered when Phil took exception to something that Geoffrey Boycott said on the long wave cricket commentary, and refuses to go to Yorkshire under any circumstances. Philip actually looks forward to garden parties at the Palace. “Loads of common twats to be rude to”, he chuckles, “none of them with the gumption to say something back”. Although his habit of putting trifle in the Duchess of Kent’s handbag grows more than tiresome. “You should see their fucking faces when she’s just got something from her bag, then has to shake hands with some pleb from West Bromwich or Salford, and they think that her hand is covered in vomit.” Oh dear. I doubt whether the good spirits will last when he finds out that he has to spend the afternoon with hundreds of pre-pubescent subjects and nowhere to escape to. I think we will count ourselves lucky if the number of fatalities remains in single figures. If you are one of the unfortunate parents whose child has been selected to attend, make sure that they are wearing plenty of Kevlar, no matter how hot it is, unless your concern for their wellbeing matches that of Philip.

Camilla has been oddly quiet. On the surface this appears to be good news, but I suspect that she is plotting something. The longer she thinks about it, the more inappropriate it will be. We managed to keep news of her antics at the Italian Embassy out of the media, and the PR people seem to have convinced everyone that the Italian ambassador’s frequent bursting into tears at public events is due to hay fever.

William is off to see England play Paraguay. “I hope I remember which colours our boys are wearing”, he sobs. “Don’t worry Bill, you recognise David Beckham don’t you – he was in that shoelace tying course you went to in Newport last summer?”, “Oh yes, Beckhammy!”, he is very pleased with himself. “Well, Bill, you remember that he plays for Real Madrid now? That means that he now plays for Paraguay at international level.” I may live to regret teaching him to say “the referee’s a wanker” in both Spanish and German, but I care little any more. I have done my best to try to make these people behave with some degree of decorum, but there are limits. I work for months to help them regain the public trust and then some dull tart (in this case the ghastly princess Michael) goes and buggers it all up by telling people that the secret of a successful marriage is to have separate bathrooms and bedrooms. In her case having a bedroom in a separate country might do the trick. Let them eat cake indeed.