Early this morning my sources handed over a well-thumbed school pad purporting to be Prince Philip’s Secret Diary. It came, apparently, from a disgruntled member of the Royal Household, who explained that…
Them dam Greeks is takin’ da p•ss innit? Gotta get your own back somehow ‘aven’t ya?
…and handed said document over in return for £13.75 (cash), a slug of Dow’s Late Bottled Vintage and 40 Rothmans, filtered.
Trouble is, I’m not sure it’s genuine and if it isn’t I can’t flog it to the Mirror and donate the proceeds to Dave’s ‘Let’s Come Together to Save the UK Economy Sheeple’ drive.
Here’s a choice extract. I daren’t print any more until the handwriting expert’s done his thing.
Paris, 1 September 1997
Getting these bally foreigners to respray my rental wheels without asking any questions was the devil’s own work… Found myself yelling “it’s a white Fiat, you lazy grape-soaked oiks, how hard can it bally well be?”
They shrugged their shoulders. Addicts to the sauce, no doubt.
I didn’t want to do it, but I didn’t have a choice. Dialled up Edward Fox’s mobile as a last resort. He’s pretty smart with a spray gun that chap, but since that De Gaulle thing he doesn’t dare to leave good old Blighty’s shores and, anyway, he’s only good with Alfas.
Got through to the locals eventually. Phew! To the naked eye the rental’s as good as new.
The workers have been silenced. Unfortunate, but necessary. Sorry, Liz, but we both knew it had to be this way.
When I get back I hope Liz will put my face on a stamp or two. What I do for Queen and country, eh?
