You sometimes think that Buckingham Palace is in cahoots with Netflix series The Crown.
Consider all the new plot lines they’re offering up to the writers who must be thinking all their Christmases have come at once.
The young Prince and his bride of scarcely two years fleeing the country/shoved out the country despite, or maybe because of, being the most refreshing additions to the brand in years. Much talk of afightin’ and afeudin’ between his household and that of his brother. Not much fun being spare to the heir, suggest the commentariat.
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It’s a seam already richly mined by the Netflix team anent Her Maj and her more alternative sis Margaret.
If you haven’t watched the episode where the latter chats up LBJ, you’ve missed a treat.
Enter into the soap opera the middle-aged Prince accused of not complying with investigations into the activities of an erstwhile friend and convicted paedophile. A Prince who solemnly advised a BBC interviewer that the charms of a pizza parlour in Woking outweighed that of a comely wench in a London nightclub.
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You couldn’t make it up. And I haven’t. And the scriptwriters don’t have to either.
Meanwhile Princess Anne goes about her business, popping back to Helensburgh to open a local community centre with minimum fuss.
She may not be the most flamboyant Royal, and she can be frosty – especially with my trade – but right now I suspect she’s the Queen’s favourite wean.
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