by David Stubbs
Dear Andrew
I trust you don’t mind my writing to you like this for although the hour is late, the inkwell is not yet dry and I thought – well, brother to brother – we might engage in the sort of one-to-one honest exchange that is so difficult around the Palace or at functions when Mother (and particularly, Father) are around.
I’ve often wondered how do you feel I ‘cut it’ as an older brother? Call me paranoid, but I imagine you getting off rather boisterous remarks at my expense when you’re in company with your old flying chums or the fellows down at International Trade & Investment, or the Worshipful Company of Shipwrights – sly, mocking quips involving plants and ears.
Is this so, or do you harbour a grudging respect for your ‘older bro’, perhaps even tinged with envy? Could all this swearing and fighter pilot stuff be evidence of some inferiority complex, do you feel? If so, this is an opportunity to spill it out, confidentially. Think of me as a sort of teddy bear, yourself as the very small boy I remember you all too well as.
Yours, fraternally
Charles
HRH The Prince Andrew
c/o Buckingham Palace
London
England
8 August 2008
Dear Andrew
This is a short letter to inform you that I decided not to send you the original letter I proposed to send you, which is why you have not received it. Instead, you are receiving this one.
I hope this letter finds you well and clarifies the situation.
Yours, etc.
Charles
HM The Queen
Buckingham Palace
London
England
13 June 2010
Dear Mummy
I tried to get through to you by phone but I dropped the thing. It sort of lay there and made a strange buzzing noise – you don’t have a bee loose at the Palace, do you? So, I thought, ‘Well, send for the inkpot instead!’ I didn’t just think it I said it, and someone did.
It’s – ooh, what time is it? It’s about three in the afternoon, I should think. Diary’s been empty the last couple of days, so we’ve rather been taking it easy down at Highgrove, kicking our heels with a few family and friends. We were twiddling our thumbs this morning, the old carriage clock ticking away, and as it struck eleven, we thought, ‘Hang it all! The sun’s taking its time clambering over the bally yard arm, let’s break open a bottle and really take advantage of the day!’
And so we did – we jolly well have, I mean to say. It’s a beautiful day. Is it a beautiful day in London? It’s a beautiful day here. Did I ask if it was a beautiful day in London? Oh yes, I believe I just did. Camilla is lying on the floor giggling at something she’s seen on the ceiling. She says, ‘Hullo, Your Majesty!’, by the way. That’s rather friendly of her, isn’t it? She’s ever such a friendly duchess. Oh dear, she’s staggering to her feet and attempting a curtsey. I think as you were, Camilla dearest. Yes, it’s a beautiful day. Is it a beautiful day in London?
I wanted to say something to you – ah, yes, it was this. Being in the Royal Family. Sometimes I know it can be the most frightful bind but all in all, you know, taken in the round, killing two birds with one stone and what have you, it’s pretty terrific really, isn’t it? I mean, it could be a lot worse. A lot, lot, lot, lot worse. I say, that’s a lot of ‘lots’, isn’t it? They look rather funny on the page, all in a row like that, like – like little soldiers.
And you know, Mummy, I want to thank you, thank you personally, thank you very much for – well, bringing me into this world, and not just into this world but into this lovely, lovely Royal Family. It’s ruddy great! Just think, there I was up in the spirit world when you and Father happened to – well, you know, you chose that moment to lie back and – I just happened to be next in the queue up there. Five minutes later, just five minutes later and I’d have been born into some other place. Or five minutes earlier, for that matter. Just think, I could be some Bedouin elder roasting camel dung, or some old fellow sitting on a rusty chair in a square in Algiers, in his only pair of trousers watching the world go by and wondering to himself, ‘What the devil is THIS all about?’.
But no, you were bang on time. It was your duty, of course. You always did your duty to your county. County? I meant country, always country first. I admire you for that – even when it took you off to Kenya and I had to stay home with my toys. Country first. And now I’m a little melancholy … because they don’t understand us, do they? Our enemies, I mean. The people who would have us toppled, even after all we’ve done. They know who they are. Oh, they know who they are! I wish I knew who they were, but there you go. They’re bastards, Mummy. Bastards! There, I said it. Bastards. Our backs are against the wall and they’re out to destroy us, but we won’t let them destroy us, will we, Mummy? Not even if the rest of them have all run over to the other side and we’re the last two standing. We won’t let them, won’t let them. Won’t. Let. Them.
And now, I feel rather sleepy. I think I may take a little doze out on the lawn. It’s a beautiful day down here. Is it a beautiful day in London?
Yours, on a beautiful day
‘Charlie’
PS: Who do you think would win in a fight between Andrew and me? You must have wondered – I know I have!
The British Homeopathic Association
(by email)
14 June 2010
Good morning
I find myself suffering something of a ‘headache’. I was wondering, I know homeopathic remedies work on the principle of dilution but is there something you could have your lab people work up that’s more in the nature of ‘super-strength’, just this once? Because I think that’s what I need.
Urgently, yours
HRH The Prince of Wales
HM The Queen
(via email)
Hello Mummy
14 June 2010
As this is a matter of urgency, I am using the emergency channel of ‘email’. A letter may have arrived for you this morning in a large envelope with the misspelled word ‘Buckingham’ crossed out several times and a Gloucestershire postmark. I have certain information on this from sources. I’d urge you not to open it as it may be a letter bomb, or some such. Simply have one of the footmen dispose of it.
Yours sincerely
Charles
HM The Queen
Buckingham Palace
London
England
8 November 2010
Dear Mummy
I see you have joined the twenty-first century and signed up to Facebook! Charles ‘likes’ this! I rushed to my laptop and looked on your page with great interest. However, I noted you have barred the ‘friends’ facility.
I can certainly understand this, as well as your desire not to be ‘poked’ – which would be a green light for all manner of ribaldry from the Footlights brigade. I was wondering, though: in the case of those nearest and dearest to you, could you possibly make exceptions? I am your son. Is there any chance that I could be your ‘friend’, or would that be a breach of protocol? Hang it all, Mother, who makes these rules? I shan’t press the matter, but if you were to ‘friend’ me, rest assured I’d confirm your request at the push of a button, not leave you hanging in the ether like a chump.
Your son, and soon-to-be ‘friend’
Charles
HRH The Prince William
c/o Buckingham Palace
London
England
17 November 2010
Dear William
So, you’re going to make an honest woman of this Kate girl, eh? (Or should I say ‘Catherine’? ‘Kate’, ‘Catherine’, somehow both feel awkward.) Splendid! Your past oats are sown, the game’s up and there we are then, marvellous. Of course, the whole enterprise has my most cordial blessing. Just to check, this girl – she’s the one, isn’t she? You haven’t some other filly in stow, looking on from afar with coltish, longing eyes or what-not, have you? No? Good! Because you know, well
– you know.
Anyway, my son, as you know these are straitened times and we must bear this in mind when planning the wedding. Some Pomp, yes, some Circumstance in moderation, but where can we show willing to economise?
How about biodegradable paper plates and instead of champagne, some of my home-brewed prune wine? As for the wedding dress, my wife Camilla – your stepmother – would be perfectly willing to ‘hand down’ one of her party frocks which, with some alteration, would fit Kate. Also, on the subject: would you object if I wore my Wellingtons to the wedding? My valet would have me wear tight black shoes, but they hurt like blazes after a long day.
Frugally yours
‘Dad’
MEMO TO ALL STAFF
Highgrove
England
3 December 2010
This has been prompted in part by a complaint from my son, Prince William. It concerns jokes made by Royal personages and the need for an honest response to them, in order to prevent later embarrassment.
Some of you may remember being gathered together when William came down and was kind enough to give a little informal talk. During the course of that talk, he made the following off-the-cuff quip concerning his upcoming involvement in the bid to host the World Cup in 2018:
‘I know that we can deliver extraordinary public occasions and celebrations. I certainly hope so, as I’m planning quite a big one myself next year!’
And of course, you all laughed heartily, giving every indication that you were very amused indeed. It was a dry reference to his impending marriage. What you may not have realised is that he was ‘running by you’ a line he proposed to use in his actual speech. You encouraged him to put it in, but when it came to the ‘Big Day’, I’m afraid to report that it went down like the proverbial lead balloon. To use a phrase of my youth, it laid an egg. I am not suggesting this caused us to lose the bid and I would certainly not put it past the rival Russian delegation to have fought down their belly laughs at the joke just to make the English bid look bad and humiliate the Prince. All the same, if it turns out that you really didn’t think the joke was ‘much cop’ and were simply trying to humour the Prince, I’m afraid you did him, and your country, a disservice.
In future, when I or any other member of the Royal Family makes a joke, we’d be obliged if you could respond to it on its merits. If it makes you laugh, yes, laugh out loud! But if it doesn’t, remain stony-faced. That way, we know where we stand. You know I’m open to criticism – you’ve always said I am when I’ve asked you. Well, then, hang it all, don’t be so bloody deferential! And that’s a Royal Command.
Yours, &c
HRH The Prince of Wales
Hoofers, Entertainers and Celebrity Folk
Uri Geller
c/o Parkinson
The British Broadcasting Corporation
London
England
6 April 1974
Dear Mr Geller
If I were King, and this were the twelfth century, I could command you to show me how to do that trick of yours with the spoon and you’d jolly well have to do it or you’d be hanging by your thumbs in the Tower until you did.
Of course, it’s not the twelfth century, you’re an Israelite and I’m not crowned yet, so I’m going to have to ask you instead. During grace the other day my mother caught me rubbing a soup spoon and shot me a glance that made me feel all of twelve years old and sent to my room to sit on the ‘Disgrace Stool’.
Back to my point: I believe in this world there are spiritual forces at work denied by science and the machine age – powerful, invisible vibrations we have not yet learned to harness. With your help, I should like to harness them. Between you and me, I often have dreams of being a ‘Wizard King’, issuing decrees by directing the forces of nature with just a jab of my forefinger. It seems to me you have those powers. What puzzles me is all you ever seem to do is bend spoons. I mean, hang it all! Here we are with untapped, supernatural forces at our disposal and all we’re producing is wonky cutlery. You teach me the trick and I’ll supply the vision for Britain – we could do great things.
Yours, in faith
HRH The Prince of Wales
Mike Yarwood
c/o The British Broadcasting Corporation
Wood Lane
London
England
12 March 1975
Dear Mr Yarwood
‘And this is me’ – that’s your catch phrase, I believe? Well, this is me: Prince Charles. I say this because it has been known for my correspondence to be sent back to me on the assumption that it’s some sort of fabrication concocted by a malicious impersonator.
You, I do not consider a malicious impersonator. As a family, I should say we have raised a wry smile at your Frank Spencer, your Brian Clough, your Mr Wilson and various trade union leaders. And one is flattered to note that one has also joined the ranks of your hallowed repertoire. An honour indeed!
Might I advance a little constructive criticism, though? I sometimes look in the mirror as I practise my public speeches and I have to say, what I see doesn’t altogether tally with the version of one that one sees when one tunes into The Mike Yarwood Show. I don’t say this out of any wounded pique but when I see you doing me, rather than reminding me of me, it reminds me of Mike Yarwood. Indeed, I think the same could be said of your Frank Spencer, your Brian Clough, your Mr Wilson and your trade union leaders. All of them remind me of Mike Yarwood. When you say, ‘and this is me’, I need hardly reminding of it.
As I say, constructive criticism. I hope you will take this on board and that your confidence is not damaged in any long-term manner.
Affectionately, yours
HRH The Prince of Wales
Harry Secombe
c/o Broadcasting House
London
England
17 May 1977
Dear Mr Secombe
As you know, you’ve always been one of my favourite ‘funnymen’ – in times of old, you’d doubtless have capered about my court in a cap’n’bells and Harlequin’s outfit, shaking a bladder on a stick and making remarks for which I would have had my Lord Chancellor beheaded, had he dared make them. None of that in modern times, of course, though one does get the nagging feeling that in ridding ourselves of the old ways, we have perhaps lost something.
But back to the point: as an occasional mirth-maker myself (amateur, but with one or two flattering ‘notices’ under my belt!), I’m fascinated by the idea of the ‘formula’ of comedy. In your case, I’d say it’s as follows:
30% fat
25% ‘zany’ voice
40% Welsh
5% ‘x-factor’
Is that a fair summary, do you feel? I’m not, of course, saying there is anything inherently amusing about the Welsh – I’d get into fearful hot water, were I to say that – just that you make being Welsh feel very funny indeed. As for that ‘x-factor’, what is it, I wonder? Sweat? You do sweat a lot, I’ve noticed at close quarters. I hope this is not because you feel ill at ease among royalty.
Your old chum
HRH The Prince of Wales
Morecambe and Wise
c/o BBC Television Centre
London
England
6 January 1978
Dear Eric – or is it Ernie?
Anyway, it’s the funny one I wish to talk to, if that aids identification. I have a question that has been bugging me for some time – some years, in fact. It concerns your act. Now, I pride myself on having a tremendous sense of humour, within the bounds of reason, of course. And I must admit I laugh myself silly at your antics on the ‘Christmas Show’ – I am long accustomed to amusing my brother Edward with that thing you do with the paper bag.
However, there is one ‘bit’ that leaves me stone cold: when you shout the word ‘Arsenal’ for no reason. ‘Arsenal!’ you shout. But I simply don’t get it – what am I missing? They seem a creditable football team, not much better or worse than any other in the Firs
t Division on their day. I was in my rooms at the Palace the other day and tried it out on myself. ‘Arsenal!’ I barked three times at myself in the mirror. I wasn’t tickled in the least. Unfortunately, my sister Anne happened to be passing along the corridor and looked in, caught me at it and departed shaking her head, her low opinion of my mental condition apparently confirmed.
So, why ‘Arsenal’ – why not ‘Manchester United’?
Yours, in earnest curiosity
HRH The Prince of Wales
Eileen Derbyshire (aka Emily Bishop)
Coronation Street
Granada Studios
Manchester
England
15 January 1978
Dear Miss Derbyshire
I wish to pass on my condolences to Emily for the tragic and brutal death of her husband Ernest on the operating table, following a shooting on the factory floor.
I am, of course, no ‘crank’ and fully aware that all this is made up for television but even so, Emily must be very real to you and in order to play the role, you yourself must be feeling deeply for her – as we all do. It has certainly made me think deeply about crime in the streets: such senselessness, what a waste of human life. Something really must be done – and fast – so that no has to go through what you have gone through.
With deepest sympathy
HRH The Prince of Wales
