New Year's Eve, 2005, and Prince Charles is sitting alone in his boudoir, musing upon the twelvemonth that has just passed. . .
One had been so tremendously looking forward to one's wedding - after all, one had waited for 30 years, but then that Hungarian fellow, Pope Paul John, out of blimming nowhere, died. One has always wondered whether he was named after the songwriting Beatles. So would there ever be a Pope Ringo George, one asks oneself.
However, one feared then that things might not go as one hoped, and one was right - for bless one's soul if the funeral didn't land slap bang on the middle of one's wedding day. One is used to rotten luck, but dash it, this took the flipping biscuit. For who would watch one's royal wedding on television when there was a great big farewell bash on the other side?
But worse still, Mama then ordered one to Rome for the Hungarian padre's funeral, which meant postponing one's wedding to the next day! One protested, of course, but she was adamant. That bearded Welsh cove - bless my soul, tufts of hair bursting out of every orifice, like the horsehair mattress that papa uses for bayonet practice, snarling "Take that, Fayed, you little Egyptian get" - apparently insisted. Just wait until one is king, and defender of the jolly old faith, and by Jove that pompous Welsh haystack will be preaching his horrid sermons down some tin-mine, or whatever it is they have in the South of Wales. Hmm. Is it salt? One is never sure.
So one went off to Rome for the funeral, looking fearfully glum, as one is supposed to. Naturally, one asked whether one could have a word in private with the grieving little lady. One had the little speech already prepared. Terrible loss. Inconsolable. One feels for her. But then one looks on the brighter side. Remember, ma'am: one never knows one's luck. One can find love again. After all, look at one. But the moment one asked to speak to the widow, some chap dressed up like a character from one of those Gilbert and Sullivan operas - frankly, they're a little highbrow for one, though the costumes are rather good - said this was no time for a joke.
One isn't joking, one protested, adding - By the way, who the blazes are you, sonny Jim? (One learns such robust turns of phrase "below decks", as we Jack Tars say.) Turns out the chap was Swiss. So much for your neutrality, chum, one said to him, as he showed one to one's very remote pew, with the assistance of a halberd. From what one could see of the service, one's pew was apparently in Hamburg. In fact one could see nothing at all - but it did mean one could slip out when no one was looking and head back for dear old Blighty.
The oddest thing, though. One had never been in an airport by oneself before, and they turn out to be the most surprisingly complex things. Apparently, hundreds of planes leave every day, not just one, as one had thought, and to all sorts of destinations, not just the one that one was going to. How jolly amazing! One knew one had to be in Windsor the next morning, and one noticed that there was a flight marked "Windsor" by a company called Ryanair. One asked the ticket-clerk whether that was Windsor, England, the one with the castle, and he replied, "Course it f***ing is, you stupid f***ing eejit". A cheerful cove - Irish, one would think. Told him one was rushing back for a wedding. No problem, he said, he could let one have a seat for £2,999. Very reasonable of him, one thought.
The oddest thing. The same fellow appeared to be loading the plane, and flying it, and dash it if the self same cove didn't sell one a sandwich for £350. A bit stiff, what, one protested. Winking, he nudged me and replied, Better keep it that way for the little lady. What a fearful bounder! Anyway, the plane landed back at Blighty, and one alighted, only to find one was in the Orkneys.
Look here, one said to the fellow at the Ryanair desk, this is meant to be Windsor. Hold on. Hasn't one met you before? It is f***ing Windsor, he replied. Sort of. Just f*** off outside and get a f***ing taxi and ask the f***ing driver for f***ing Windsor: that'll be £250 please, advice-fee. So one paid him the money, and took a closer look at him. Fearfully like someone or other one has met recently.
One went looking for a taxi, but there wasn't one, so one went back inside, but the airport had closed, because it was now midnight, so one started walking. It was then that one discovered that one cannot walk in a night to Windsor from the Orkneys.
So one curled up in a hedge and fell asleep. When one awoke, one was frightfully cold, and wandered for hours, finally finding this small town, where a crowd was gawping at a television set in a shop window, watching the Grand National. Suddenly, the BBC flashed to a place which was strangely familiar to one. It was Windsor! A car drew up, and a lady got out of it. Yes, she was familiar to one also. I stared closely - it was Camilla, and she was outside the register office! After that, things rather started to go downhill, sort of: and one is still not married. . .