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
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
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?
I know Liz likes watching ordinary people make tits of themselves. But what tickles
Phil's funny bone? Something more cruel for the cabaret, I presume? Maybe some bollock
Saturday, April 18, 2009 11:44:00 AM
Dyna Girl said...
so secretive...tsk tsk.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:45:00 PM
I've been to a Garden Party at Buck House.
Snipers were still trying to bring down Brian May from the roof but Phil was using
Shotguns instead of sniper rifles.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 7:06:00 PM
Vicus Scurra said...
Geoff, even for you I am unable to divulge the entire script, but shall we say that
not many people knew that Claire Rayner was so supple.
Dyna, you would probably not recognise most of the names. Whitney Houston. Antelope.
There, I've probably said too much.
Rog. I bet you are not asked again. I remember the occasion well. I watched the video
of you afterwards (did you realise that you were being filmed?). Suffice it to say
that I have never seen a godetia bed transformed quite so quickly.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009 12:00:00 AM
A Welsh Guardsman With Tourettes...
isn't that the title of Jeffrey Archer's new book?
Ooh "the Germans" make me so bloody mad parading aboot in those bloody costumes as
if they owned the place!