Countdown to the Royal Divorce - part 22

I am grateful to my friends at the BBC for reporting that Phil has overtaken the record of Charlotte the Harlot and become the longest serving royal consort in these islands.

They inform us that: “The 87-year-old Duke, who is known not to like a fuss ….”

Well, he’s certainly chosen the right fucking career then, hasn’t he?

The suggestion is preposterous. The old git loves every minute of it, not just the whole ceremonial nonsense with uniforms, security guards, inspecting troops and meeting other unemployable heads of state and sharing banquets of undercooked offal with them, but the attention that he gets from the household staff and family.

Camilla and I have been planning a celebration of this day for some time, “I hope the old twat doesn’t pop his clogs the day before,” she confided, “I do so hate to waste my time.” We both cracked up at this. “When was the last time you did something worthwhile then, you daft trollop?” I enquired. “You’d be surprised, you cheeky boy,” she riposted “only last Thursday I took a pair of the old girl’s corgis for a walk in Hyde Park and exchanged them for a couple of shabbier versions belonging to a passing pedestrian. She won’t notice, will she? Well, not until one of them gives birth to a mongrel mixture of corgi, Scottish terrier, dachshund and Shetland pony in about seven weeks time!” She was so amused by this that her breakfast of vodka and pepsi cola was expelled through her nostrils. I find it expedient not to get too close.

If all goes according to plan, the auspicious day will unfold thus. Phil will be served breakfast in bed by a skimpily clad, well oiled out of work actor from Helsinki who was the star of the auditions we held. I made sure he was awake by calling at 5.30, purporting to be the Irish representative of a local double glazing firm, offering to pop round for an estimate. I didn’t hear all of the response. After six minutes I put the telephone down, made myself some breakfast and checked on the progress of Celine Dion on facebook, and when I came back he was still swearing, this time in German. It does him good to get the old ticker pumping first thing, which is not easy to do these days. When I say these days, I refer to the period since the unfortunate birth of Edward, since when Liz has had nocturnal and morning headaches every day, if you get my drift.

The morning will be spent allowing him to inspect troops. He loves this, as they are not, of course, allowed to answer back. Camilla has been trying to find a Welsh guardsman with Tourette’s for the occasion, but I have not had any reports on her success thus far.

There is nothing special planned for the afternoon – I expect it will be a typical Saturday, with him lurking in the background, breaking wind and blaming the dogs, while she goes all orgasmic watching the horse racing on Channel 4.

I am sorry to build all of this up and then let you down, but I cannot divulge much about the stellar evening that we have concocted, as many of the performers at the cabaret request zero publicity at these events. I can reveal, however, (and even I find this in bad taste) that Ray Winstone has agreed to do one of his infamous queen mother impersonations. The evening will conclude with the ceremonial burning of a portrait of queen Charlotte in the gardens. I am trying to get word to Fergie not to show up, just in case he sneaks up behind her and pushes her onto the bonfire.

What have you been doing this week?