The Prince Charles Letters (20 page)

The Most Revd the Archbishop of Canterbury

Lambeth Palace

London

England

16 July 1957

Dear Archbishop

I’m very worried about God and thought that I should write to you about it. After all, you’re awfully closer to our Lord and probably talk to Him all day, not just before bedtime, like I do.

Last year, Mummy took me to one side and told me there was no Father Christmas. The year before, she informed me there was no such thing as the Easter Bunny. And the year before that, she said there was no such thing as the Tooth Fairy. So, this year, I’m expecting her to tell me there’s no such thing as God, and I want to be ready this time and not burst into tears as I have in the past.

Is there really no God, then? And if not, why do you dress up like that? Is it just pretend, like Santa’s elves? I suppose you’re like God’s elf, really, helping Him out down here, keeping everything nice and tidy for when He comes next. Or is Mummy going to wait till I’m a teenager before she tells me there’s no God? Or does everyone know there’s no God except you because your mummy didn’t tell you? In that case … oops, sorry!

Yours, trying to be brave

HRH The Prince of Wales

The Most Revd the Archbishop of Canterbury

Lambeth Palace

London

England

7 April 1958

Dear Archbishop

Guess what? Yesterday, I was just talking, at the table, when Anne turned to me and for no reason said, ‘You really are the most boring, boring, boring, BORING boy ever!’

Will God send her to hell for committing the sin of rudeness? I do wish he wouldn’t, because even though she’s just a smelly old girl, I would miss her in heaven. Perhaps God could send one of her horses to hell instead and make her watch as he does this? Because that would REALLY make her cry! Or he could dangle the horse just above hell and pretend he was about to drop it in, but not do it at the last minute. Yes, that would be best because then the horse wouldn’t have to be burnt, just be a bit scared, but Anne would still cry – which serves her right for being rude!

Yours, in mercy

HRH The Prince of Wales

The Most Revd the Archbishop of Canterbury

Lambeth Palace

London

England

12 June 1958

Dear Archbishop

My Uncle Dickie says that one day I will have to pick myself a wife. I hope I will choose wisely. Have you ever heard the tale of the Frog and the Princess, Archbishop? It’s about a Princess who kisses a frog and the frog turns into a Prince and the Prince becomes a King, and then they live happily ever after. I know that sort of thing doesn’t happen in ‘real life’ but it gives me a great idea, which I think I will try out when I’m old and need to look for a wife.

What we could do, OK, is have all the women who want to be Queen sit in a waiting room, all six or seven of them. Then, through a secret door, one of the footmen could pass through about twelve or thirteen frogs from a box into the room, all hopping about the place and going, ‘Ribbit! Ribbit!’ All the women who start screaming and jumping on to their chairs, they’d be told to go home and come back another time. But the one who picked up a frog and kissed it, she’d be Queen, because that would be kind to the frog and just what a Queen would do. And then I’d appear from another door and say, ‘Congratulations! We’re getting married.’ And we’d get married, and go shooting and live happily ever after.

Cheerfully, yours

HRH The Prince of Wales

The Most Revd the Archbishop of Canterbury

Lambeth Palace

London

England

14 December 1958

Dear Archbishop

I heard a hymn – a carol, I think, although it might just have been a Christmas song – all about God and how he watches you at all times, even when you’re sleeping, to check you’re not doing anything wrong. Does he really? I’ve hardly been able to go to the bathroom all week because I get embarrassed if I think someone’s watching me and then I can’t go. Then I got tummy-ache and had to go and see Nurse, and when I told her about it all the other boys in the sickbay laughed and I went bright red.

The next time you talk to God, could you ask him to look the other way while I’m on the loo? I promise him I’m not doing anything bad, just number ones or number twos. I’d ask him myself, but I’m too shy.

Yours, urgently

HRH The Prince of Wales

The Most Revd the Archbishop of Canterbury

Lambeth Palace

London

England

1 January 1960

Dear Archbishop

In our Divinity class yesterday, our teacher was talking about the reasons why God exists and he said that the best reason of all was ‘Design’. That means you can tell the Universe was made by a God because when you look at things like a snail or a worm, you can tell they’ve been crafted by hand. The stars are like that, too.

Except when I look at the sky through my telescope, it doesn’t really seem like it’s been designed, it looks like there was a big bang and everything went BOOOOSSSSSSSSHHHHH! and bits of rock were scattered far and wide.

But suppose God did design the Universe, wouldn’t He have signed it? Suppose you got a really, really powerful telescope and pointed it to the skies in the direction of the bottom right-hand corner of outer space and there was a group of stars all clustered together and arranged into the letters, ‘Made by God’. That’s what I’d have done, if I’d been God and made all creation. Have you got Astronomers you could ask to look and see if it’s there, because then we’d really know?

Yours, as every week

HRH The Prince of Wales

The Sikh Community Leader

Hounslow

London

England

8 July 1977

Dear Sir

Before I begin, I must first welcome your community to this country with open arms. With your warrior spirit, pride and determination to succeed, I feel that you have the makings of great Britons.

However, already I note that we have found ourselves at a quandary, with UK law requiring motorcyclists to wear crash helmets but your people objecting because this prevents them from wearing the sacred turban. It is terrible to think that as a result of this we may never on these shores see a Sikh Barry Sheene – something must be done, though currently I am not sure what.

I am, though, impressed by the idea of you having a Community Leader. In our country, it is the custom to have elected political officials. Some say this is a more sophisticated way of doing things, but I myself sometimes wonder if we have lost a certain wisdom in this regard that you Sikhs have maintained.

Yours, most graciously

HRH The Prince of Wales

Drivers Jonas

Planning Consultants

16 September 1988

Dear Sirs

Recently, I’ve been rather ‘goaded’ by Mr Richard Rogers in particular into putting my money where my mouth is and establishing a practical architectural example of the way I feel Britons would live in harmony with nature, their own souls and the Monarchy.

What I propose is this – a model village near Dorchester, where I have land. It could shine like a candle as an example as to other villages, towns – even city planners. Its dwellings would be modest, as befits the character of the British subject. They would reflect the characteristics key to my vision of Britain – scale, harmony, hierarchy, locality, tone, spirit, elevation, humility, conservation, thrift, proportion, good grammar, diffidence, obedience (to nature, our benefactor or to benefactors in general).

As to the village’s name, I have as yet dashed out a few preliminary thoughts – Charlesville? Charlie-on-Sea? Littler London? Princonia? But an idea of its character is fermenting in my imagination. Here is a village redolent of a merrier England, of maypole dances, russets and fayres, Shire horses, scythes, in which no subject feels the need at any time from cradle to grave to move more than six to ten yards from their dwelling place. Everything is at hand, all humble needs catered for – this is how we would live. Or
they
, I should say, for my duties would keep me at Highgrove and the Palace.

And what name would we give to those who would live in these communities, which will surely become ‘all the rage’ in the 1990s? Peasants? Perhaps unwise – how about ‘Pleasants’?

Rustically, yours

HRH The Prince of Wales

The Plant Kingdom

6 April 1989

To Whom It May Concern

This letter is not intended for public circulation of any sort – it may be seized on and misunderstood. I have kept a copy for my files but the original I have buried in my garden as a symbolic gesture of delivery although perhaps in some sort of rhizome-type underground movement, its message might in ways as yet unknown to man spread and be transmitted from plant to plant.

In some quarters I am ridiculed among man for talking to plants but the truth is, I have only been lucky enough to talk to a tiny number of you. This letter is intended as a long overdue salute. As plants, you perform a vital function: you sustain the life we enjoy on this earth. I’m not entirely certain of the science but essentially it’s to do with carbon and oxygen.

Our science fiction writers have sometimes presented the notion of plants taking over the planet as a ‘nightmare scenario’ and yet would you make such a poor fist of running things, I often wonder. Then again, you are a gentle species group, not given to domination or tyranny. Asking only for water and the occasional kind word, you do not cavil or make fun of a man’s ears, abandon your roots or answer back. The antidote to cement and concrete, you are in total and quiet accordance with nature. Not for nothing do I often wish I were destined not to reign over men, but to reign over plants – you’re a lot less bother.

Yours, the Defender of all Species

HRH The Prince of Wales

To: Appointed Alien Leader

18 January 1999

Dear ?

This letter is to be read out in the event of an extraterrestrial invasion of Great Britain, being the authentic words, directly committed to stationery paper, of His Royal Highness Prince Charles, The Prince of Wales, KG KT GCB OM AK QSO CD SOM GCL PC AdC(P) FRS, Defender of Many Faiths. It may seem unlikely aliens will ever arrive here, but then whoever imagined the Internet or a telephone you could play the latest popular tunes on? One never knows, so one must anticipate all eventualities.

First of all, assuming your intentions are as friendly as those of our own, seafaring English ancestors who sought out new lands and opportunities, I welcome you. I am sure we have a good deal to learn from each other. It is your custom, I understand, to address those you visit on a new planet with the words, ‘Take me to your leader!’ (I once saw a jolly funny cartoon in
The Hotspur
of a little green, slitty-eyed fellow with wires coming out of his head standing next to a fire hydrant and saying to it, ‘Take me to your leader!’ That’s something you’ll soon discover about us British – our sense of humour. But I digress.)

The thing is, in this country the leader isn’t actually the King, which I might well be by the time you arrive, but whoever lives at a place called 10 Downing Street (it’s the way we do things). However, if you don’t like our way of doing things and would rather talk to me, that can most certainly be arranged. If you’re part of a successful invasion force, you’d doubtless be ‘calling the shots’.

Yours, with greetings and salutations

HRH The Prince of Wales

PS Do you have a faith? If so, allow me to defend it.

Alan Milburn (Minister for Health)

House of Commons

London

England

16 May 2003

Dear Mr Milburn

Every year, we’re losing thousands of man-hours to illness. It’s time to face facts: modern medicine simply isn’t working. We need alternative treatments – herbal, shiatsu, all this wonderful ancient medical wisdom we have sloshing about – well, not the ancient wisdom of dentistry, of course, which essentially consisted of a fellow hacking at another fellow’s rotten tooth with a piece of flint while two other fellows held him down – but a lot of the other sorts, and especially homeopathy.

Many people think of homeopathy as some sort of ill-founded quackery conceived by a crackpot. In fact, it’s anything but this: it was discovered by a Mr Samuel Hahnemann, back in 1796. Yes, a German, I know – but hear me out. Mr Hahnemann thought long and hard and discovered the best way to cure an ailment was to treat ‘like with like’, using an element of what caused the ailment in the first place, diluting it and rapping the container of the solution precisely twelve times against a leather-bound book in order to release its dynamic forces. Must be a
leather
-bound book, mind – none of your modern paperbacks or it won’t work. And twelve times, not eleven, not thirteen: twelve. A lot of people think I’m making this up, but I’m not.

Now, here’s the thing: water has a memory. We must accept that. It further follows the more you dilute the homeopathic solution – thousands upon thousands of times – the stronger the memory will get. Well, it would, wouldn’t it? Leap with me, Minister! I recommended a homeopathic treatment to my PA (with extract from rose hip, one of nature’s little givers) when she complained of a slight migraine and after several treatments she told me that yes, perhaps she was feeling a little better, or at least possibly so. I’d take that ringing personal endorsement from a trusted employee over a hundred of your so-called ‘evidence-based studies’.

Yours, in faith and healing

HRH The Prince of Wales

Alan Milburn (Minister for Health)

House of Commons

London

England

17 May 2003

Dear Mr Milburn

Further to our correspondence regarding homeopathy, a treatment was recently brought to my attention. It is promoted as a cure for a range of ailments, from rheumatism to high fever. To prepare it, you will need a large copper pan (it must be copper, mind – otherwise the treatment will not work!). Into this dice precisely six grams of fresh parsley, three grams of autumn crocus, then add a dozen milligrams of elderflower extract and – here is the remarkable part – a pint and a half of your own urine. Heat and mix, and then, once it has cooled, tap the pan and its contents nine times on your cranium while incanting the word ‘Chumbawamba!’ over and over. Then consume.