Prince Philip and his carriage
Sit up, would you! Don’t gibber. Yes, I know you wanted Her Majesty for this but she’s with that bloody fool of a new Prime Minister – the one who looks like a bichon frise. Gah! I can’t abide the French. On a positive note, neither can he.
You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid. Besides, she’d only have chosen something perfectly dull like the Racing Post because, and I think this is obvious, she’s a dull woman. As her Consort of more than 70 years, I am perfectly qualified to make that remark and you’d be hard pressed to find anyone under these turrets who disagrees.
Not that I’m suggesting it’s a bad thing in a monarch. Frightfully stable, the dull ones. The first Lilibet was a crashing bore, by all accounts. Dreadfully pious, and a face like grouted tiling. Good God! Can you imagine waking up to that every morning? No wonder she was the Virgin Queen.
You’ll be grateful to know I’ve given this a deal of thought. Not a lot else to do when one is banned from driving on public roads. The collision was regrettable. That’s what I told my personal protection officer when he picked me out of the wreck, shortly before I sacked him. I still maintain that it wasn’t the fault of sunstrike, as my press office may have told you, but the eternal boredom of the English Fens.
Have you ever been to Norfolk? I can assure you that after two days in the ceaselessly featureless East Anglian countryside, you too would willingly drive a Range Rover into an oncoming car. It’s just field after boggy field here at Sandringham, with perhaps the occasional dyke. I don’t know why they reclaimed it; it would be a damn sight more interesting as marsh. Game birds, for one thing.
So, it rather makes sense that My Favourite Thing is built for speed and powered by horse. I can cut a dash without
incident and leave the blasted newsmen from the tabloid press eating my gravel. What toads they are. What I wouldn’t do to stand them in a ghastly row and gallop past, whacking each one with a polo mallet. But I’m not at Gordonstoun now.
She’s my pride and joy, this carriage. I call her The Pip. She’s an antique viceroy, can withstand anything. Excellent bounce. Lilibet has her corgis and I have my carriage racing. I’m a bit of a sod at the obstacles. Tend to run straight over them. But I can do the dressage all right; I know how to put on the show.
I prefer four-in-hand. Early on, I had some lively greys in harness. Never seen such fetlocks. Fanny and Jugs on the left, Crumpet and Tickle on the right. Lilibet didn’t mind; she knew the score.
Those were the days, before the blasted mimsy feminists and so on. There was some dust-up, I think Germaine Greer was the ringleader. A face like a weimaraner, and fangs to match. She led a row about it at the Royal Windsor Horse Show. Every time the race-caller announced: ‘‘Here comes Jugs, with Fanny behind! What a willing pair,’’ terrible booing. Utter tosh. The newsmen lapped it up.
So, I had to retire them, along with my back-up four, Minstrel, Jolson, Mosley, and Gollywog. I asked Lilibet at cocktails that evening, what’s all the bloody fuss about the ponies? I couldn’t understand it. She wouldn’t give a clear answer, as per, so I rang the maid because I fancied something stiff.
I learned to keep schtum after all that, but now I’m getting invitations to speak from all kinds of people, such as what’s his name, Farage? Face like a border terrier. Someone called Tommy Robinson rang the other day. Tremendously thick neck. Terribly odd how things go full circle and I’m in fashion again. As I said to Lilibet, perhaps I’m not such an old boot after all?
Yes, fond memories of this one. Took Harry in it once for a few laps around the Great Park. He always was a fiery little chap. Terrible taste in women. Had an awful crush on one of those Spice Girls, or was it Little Mix?
I had to explain one simply doesn’t cavort with pop stars, actors, or colonials. For pity’s sake, I’ve never seen such hefty calves on the women as I did on our first tour of New Zealand. ‘‘Christ, Sidney,’’ I told Prime Minister Holland. ‘‘You’ve got your work cut out with Florence.’’ She could’ve snapped him like a twig, just with her tibiae. All that full-fat butter, I suppose.
He hasn’t listened to a word, Prince Harry. Idiot boy. All the same, the Duchess has good ankles and excellent teeth. She might go the distance and bring home the
Cup. Just needs breaking in.