The Prince Charles Letters (15 page)

Then, on the fourth day I approached the spot and waited. Minutes passed, but no Nick. It was the same on the fifth. Perhaps he was sick, I thought. But then during the lunch break I was aware of two boys going around the playground, arms outstretched, chanting, ‘All In For Kill The Prince!’ Gradually, more and more boys joined them, forming a vanguard, their arms about each other’s necks. And then they saw me by the fence and advanced on me like a cavalry charge. Among the faces bearing down on me were some familiar ones twisted with hateful relish: Tubby Braithwaite, ‘Chips’ Dennyson.

I looked around for Nick in the hope that he might appear from nowhere and spring to my defence. After all, we said we’d look out for each other. And suddenly, there he was. There he was, all right – he was one of the boys advancing on me. No flicker of recognition of me or my plight: his eyes were dead as he joined in the fury of the mob as they set on me, grabbing my ears, scraping their knuckles down the side of my head and pulling at my hair. ‘Kill him, kill him!’ they chanted – Nick loudest of all. I suppose he must have made some new friends. I suppose he must have decided it was better to be one of the boys who ‘fitted in’ and this was his way of showing it.

You betrayed me, Nick: I put my faith in you and you betrayed me. (Not you, Mr Clegg! Lost in the mists of the past there for a second …)

HRH The Prince of Wales

Boris Johnson

The London Assembly

London

England

1 October 2010

Dear Mr Johnson

Whenever I see you in the newspapers or on television, you’re always ‘out and about’ on your bicycle. Well done! You’re sending out a very positive, very green message to the people of London.

There’s just one thing, however, and it’s rather a delicate point: you are, it must be admitted, a person of rather generous proportions. I do fear people will look at you in your unfortunate physical condition and think to themselves, ‘Well, cycling hasn’t done him much good, has it? We might as well climb back in our Mondeos or Rovers.’

Would you consider going on a crash diet or high-intensity exercise programme that would get you into the sort of shape that helps ram home the message that cycling really does keep you trim?

Yours, in hope and expectation

HRH The Prince of Wales

Baroness Warsi

House of Lords

London

England

30 November 2010

Dear Baroness Warsi

I am writing to you in your capacity as a prominent British Muslim. I know that you, like me, share the concern that Muslims are not adequately represented in all walks of life in Great Britain. You are prominent, you are British, you are Muslim … As a bonus, you are even a woman. But we both know, your presence could be greater. As an essentially peaceful people, I believe Muslims have a great deal to offer British society.

It concerns me greatly that there are, so far as I know, no inner-city Muslim polo teams in the United Kingdom. I did not encounter a single one all season and, given that the game may well have originated in Asia (where it was known as
Chogan
) it seems odd there has been so little take-up in such Muslim strongholds as Dewsbury, Bradford, Luton and the Harehills estate in Leeds.

If you were to provide horses and set up stables in these areas, I would be happy to donate some old helmets, mallets and skid boots I have which have seen better days, but would be adequate for community regeneration purposes. Let’s get the disaffected, the underprivileged, on horseback and thirsting for the opening chukka! And if there are no horses available, perhaps large dogs could be used instead? Ideal for the smaller Muslim!

Yours,

HRH The Prince of Wales, Defender of Yourself (and Many Others)

Theresa May

Home Secretary

House of Commons

London

England

10 December 2010

Dear Miss May

I must confess, both my wife and myself were thoroughly shaken up by the events of last night. To have one’s vehicle manhandled and scraped by young men and women practically red with rage, to hear cries for one’s own decapitation, to be temporarily uncertain of any escape route from the angry throng … well, it sort of makes your life flash in front of your eyes.

Most appalling was one of these malcontents managing to set about my wife with a stick. A stick! That’s what really ‘sticks’ with me, if you’ll pardon my pun. It’s the irony of it, hang it all. Like being attacked with a plant, or something. I’ve always been pro the stick – ask my wife, ask Anne, anybody … Whether whittled or in the form of a trusty staff, or propping up a length of runner beans, I have always regarded the stick as Man’s Best Friend, not an assault weapon. Where did that idea come from?

I’d be grateful, Miss May, if you could pass down instructions that the next time these self-styled ‘students’ gather with menace that the police impress upon them, using whatever means of physical force they have at their disposal as necessary, that a stick is not something you beat someone with.

Yours, with rigid resolve

HRH The Prince of Wales

Head of Sports

BBC TV

London

England

6 January 1972

Dear Sir

I cannot but help notice you honoured my sister Anne with the ‘Sports Personality of the Year’ award last month. I didn’t realise we ‘Royals’ were eligible, alongside the regular Tom, Dick and Stirlings. Under these circumstances, one must confess to feeling a little overlooked. I am a sportsman too, you know. Polo’s the game and if I say so myself, I’m rather good: only yesterday, I scored with a pretty fine forehand in the third chukka – straight from the knock-in. Might have scored more but for a case of broken tack in the fourth chukka.

I also have a personality – I am rather a fan of
The Goons
and like nothing more than getting ‘out and about’. Could you please bear me in mind for next year – why should Anne get all the glory and not me? It hardly seems fair.

Keenly yours

HRH The Prince of Wales

Brian Clough

Derby County Football Club

Derby

England

17 June 1972

Dear Mr Clough

I write to you because we’ve a lot in common, you and me: we’ve both been impersonated by Mr Mike Yarwood (with varying degrees of success), we’re dark-haired and we were born before 1960. Actually, I’m struggling a little here but you see my point. In winning the Association Football League with Derby County Football Club, you’ve shown you’re a man who likes to get things done.

Now, I’m not writing to you for ‘soccer tips’ – I’m afraid when it comes to your game, I’ve long since shown myself to have ‘two left feet’. What I was looking for was vocal skills. I’m impressed by the way your voice carries – every word seems to hover in the air for a second or so after it’s left your mouth. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed but when I talk, my words seem to tighten – they emerge as if wearing stiff collars and tight shoes. So, instead of ‘outward bound’, I’ll say ‘iteward bind’. I’ve tried to eradicate the thing in front of the mirror – Prince Andrew caught me the other day, chanting, ‘ITE! ITE! ITE! ITE! ITE!’ – and guffawed in that carrying way of his. Trying to say ‘OUT!’, you see, but to no avail.

So, what do you say, ‘Big Lad?’ I’m proposing a course in vocal tuition. After three months, I want to surprise my polo team-mates by declaring in your own, stentorian manner, ‘FOR MISSING FROM THERE, YOU WANT BLOODY SHOOTING!’ Primarily it’s the emphasis I like, as opposed to that Northern coarseness, amusing as it is in its proper place.

Yours, vocally

HRH The Prince of Wales

Jonny Wilkinson

c/o Rugby Football Union

Rugby House

Twickenham Stadium

Twickenham

Middlesex

England

20 December 2003

Dear Mr Wilkinson

‘Jonny Wilkinson drops for World Cup Glory! … ’ Yes, I listened to the commentary on my transistor radio and, along with the rest of the United Kingdom, threw my cap in the air as I imagined the rugger pill sailing over the bar for three vital points against our Commonwealth friends and sporting rivals, the Australians.

In your case, Rugby Union was clearly character building. If that is the case, then in the light of my rugger playing days at Gordonstoun, I should be the greatest character on earth. For me, the scrum wasn’t an exciting goal-scoring opportunity but a sort of makeshift torture chamber, in which one was subject to every conceivable poke, hack, discreet but eye-wateringly painful toe-punt, rabbit punch and tweak. Whenever the ball came to me, I was at once trampled over as if by an army retreating at speed in hobnail boots across a tin bridge.

I do not know what it is to watch a ball sail over the bar for a conversion but I do know how the ball felt; on one occasion, in an inter-form challenge, I was physically hurled over the bar itself by an older, burlier boy – Reggie Bagshaw – like some tossed human caber. The referee turned a blind eye and when I told my father about the incident, he got up from the table and strode down the corridor, his belly laugh echoing long and loud behind him. In short, Wilkinson, even as I whooped, I winced. I trust you understand.

Yours, in both pleasure and pain

HRH The Prince of Wales

Jonny Wilkinson

c/o Rugby Football Union

Rugby House

Twickenham Stadium

Twickenham

Middlesex

England

29 December 2003

Dear Mr Wilkinson

Further to my letter of the other day, which I trust you received safely, one other point: as I mentioned, I’m a ‘rugger man’ myself and my father, Prince Philip, would now and again come and shout exhortations to me from the touchline. I can’t in all honesty say I always relished this.

‘Take the bull by the balls, boy!’ he used to cry out. ‘You’ve must take the bull by the balls!’ Taken literally, that always struck me as an ill-advised thing to do – you might well anger the beast. Got to admit, it left me confused rather than encouraged, and inside a scrum with form boys ill-disposed towards you at the best of times is not a place to be beset by confusion.

What do you think he was driving at? Is it some more widely used rugger term? Did you ever get it? If so, I hope it proved more of a ‘spur’ to you than me.

Yours, &c

HRH The Prince of Wales

José Mourinho

Chelsea FC

Stamford Bridge

London

England

8 September 2004

Dear Mr Mourinho

Hola! I notice I’ve yet to welcome you to the United Kingdom – very remiss of me, but ‘better late than never’. I can’t help noticing, however, that you have become notorious for declaring yourself to be ‘the special one’ and carrying yourself with a certain, haughty arrogance.

I’d advise against this. You will find us an essentially modest people, not given to ‘swanking’ and you will not achieve any kind of success in England if you carry on in this way. It is not our custom. In fact, your football club might even run the risk of ‘relegation’. I’d commend you to study the example of our English managers – Graham Taylor, for example. Watch how he carries himself, and learn.

Instructively, yours

HRH The Prince of Wales

Miss Paula Radcliffe, MBE

c/o The Amateur Athletics Association

London

England

20 April 2005

Dear Miss Radcliffe

I was sorry to hear of the toilet mishap during your latest race. I happened to have left the room when it occurred, but Prince Harry described the incident to me in excessive detail on my return and I sympathise. Once, during the second chukka of a vital Polo game on which the season hinged, I found myself quite unaccountably and urgently seized by a Call of Nature. And it was, I fear, Mr Brown and several members of his family who were knocking at the door.

It seemed impossible, that I would be overwhelmed at any second, but I thought of Rorke’s Drift and the English spirit that maintains the garrison in the face of intense pressure. I stiffened every sinew and held out for the vital three minutes whereupon I dismounted. Knees almost buckling, I somehow made my way to a ‘Portaloo’, where I experienced perhaps the most profound sensation of relief I have ever known in my time on this earth. Indeed, I wonder if, sitting in that rather smelly, cramped and barely sanitary cubicle, I came as close as I ever have to true happiness in this life. (I suppose I shall be dubbed a hypocrite as an advocate of ecological causes for not taking a spade, digging a hole and voiding into it, but believe me, there simply wasn’t the ‘time’.)

Next time this happens, think of my example. Then, like me, you will avoid making an utter fool of yourself in public.

Yours, in sympathy

HRH The Prince of Wales

David Beckham

c/o The English Football Association

Soho Square

London

England

23 June 2008

Dear Mr Beckham

First of all, allow me to thank you once again for participating in my Highgrove Impromptu Five-A-Side-A-Thon which, you’ll be gratified to know, raised £2,000 for the local underprivileged – which I hope will be spent wisely on their behalf. I apologise again for the roughness of some of the young Prince Harry’s tackles, particularly the one necessitating your hobbling off for a touch of the ‘Magic Sponge’. The boy is red-haired and impetuous (I’m not sure where he gets it from). I trust the crocus-derived balm I advised you to rub into the affected area did the trick?

I write because I happened to be in New York recently and was most taken aback to see a rather gigantic poster of you draped across the frontage of the department store Macy’s, clad in nothing but a pair of somewhat snug undergarments. I trust you won’t be disconcerted when I tell you I had my driver linger at the spot as I looked you up and down in fascination until the build-up of Manhattan traffic expressed itself in a raucous ejaculation of horns and we pootled on up 34th Street.

Later, in my hotel suite, I stared at myself clad only in briefs in a full-length mirror and realised how short I fall of the physical ideal. Hang it all, I’m a middle-aged man but there must be something I can do to get closer to being the model ‘muscular Christian’ (or muscular Defender of Many Faiths)? I was wondering, therefore – could you perhaps look in again next time you’re in the country and perhaps devise a routine that really puts me through my physical paces? In return, I could give you some tips about public speaking. I’m afraid you do have a habit of lapsing into some sort of Estuary mumble – I could help you with this.