Countdown to the Royal Divorce - Part 26

Some of you have been anxious (you haven’t had any communications for ages. Ed.) for updates about my friends down the road in Sandringham. It has been close to two years since I last reported. I felt that it was appropriate to give them a little privacy, after all it is not as if they deliberately choose to live their lives in the public eye, is it? (Yes, it is. Ed.)

However, there are rumblings, and we may well find ourselves in some sort of constitutional crisis come summer, and it could all have been avoided with a little foresight and planning.

Liz called on the electric telephone last week. I have seldom heard her so animated. “I blame that buffoon Johnson,” she began, without so much as a “have you come far?” I should state at this point that she tends to blame Boris for all sorts of things. Ever since he was on “Who do you think you are?” and found out that he was descended from one of the Georges, Liz has developed the idea that he has ideas above his station, and might make a claim on the throne once dear old Ken wins the mayoral election. I have repeatedly told her that Boris is anatomically incapable of having an idea, and that she only needs to look out of the bog window at Buckingham Palace to see how the city has gone to pot since he was elected. She will have none of it. I have never known anyone hold a grudge so vehemently. She refuses to watch “The Simpsons” because of “that American tart”. If she were head of state in anything but name, we would have seen Normandy invaded as revenge on King William, overlooking the fact that he is family.

Anyway, back at the telephone. “How could the floppy-haired tit have organised a sports day in the very summer when everyone should be concentrating on the Jubilee?” For those of you less than quick on the uptake she is alluding to the Olympic Games.

“Don’t fret, ducky” I reply, “it’s all taking place in the East End, and anyone daft enough to spend £75 to watch some dull wassock throwing a spear is hardly likely to have the mental capacity to appreciate the monumental nature of your achievement.” I do make myself laugh sometimes. Anyway, the silly old goat was slightly appeased. “I hope you are right” she exclaimed, “but this is important for us, and a vital part of our pension plans.” (I remained, you will be proud to note, silent) “I’ve already got Sophie Wessex crocheting some commemorative table cloths, and we are hoping to shift a thousand or two and 30 guineas each”.

“That’s all very well,” I proffered, “but what about the rest of the gang who don’t quite have the co-ordination or dexterity of dear Soph? I think that your best bet is to have some events that will provide an alternative to the Olympics – you might attract the sort of people who abominate standing for national anthems every time someone wins something”. See what I mean about making myself laugh?

I waited a while and called Camilla. She had been sent to her room, having blown up and banged a couple of hundred more paper bags than were called for following Philip’s heart scare. “You should hear the old bugger swear.” she chortled. “There are at least 23 distinctive stains on the dining table cloth from where he has spat out his soup. I am on commission from Sketchleys in King’s Lynn.” This is what passes for fun when they are all assembled together. The sodding Jubilee is going to be as dull as a Gove unless I interfere and give them some idea about what constitutes entertainment in the 21^st century.

“I think you should organise some events with an Olympic theme.” I venture “Nothing as low-brow as that ‘It’s a Knockout’ fiasco, but something where the family can connect to the man in the street. Make it a joyful time.”

“Brill!” she shrieks, “I’ll send you a list of ideas.”

Two hours later I get the following list via email:

• A ‘using both legs of the trouser’ competition featuring Wills and the Duke of Kent.
• Converting ‘Trooping the Colour’ into a cavalry charge, with a prize to the first horseman through the gates at the Palace.
• A pin-the-tail-on-Pippa’s-arse competition.
• A fancy dress competition where we all dress up as Boris and gatecrash the Olympic Stadium.
• Getting Philip to go down there and reclaim the Olympics on behalf of Greece.

There was more of this guff, but I couldn’t bring myself to read it, let alone inflict it on you. At least there was no mention of a fart lighting contest. We all remember what happened when they invited Ann to the last one.