Prince Nigel is the Queen’s second cousin, twice removed (twice removed, forcibly, from Buckingham Palace. He now lives in Battersea). After leaving the famous public school, Martindales, he settled into his bedsit with his collection of anoraks and proceeded to read the entire Inter City and regional railway timetables. Here, he relates how he entered into the world of society and met girls for the first time.IT WAS MY mother, Princess Tabitha, who encouraged me to sow my wild oats. Unfortunately, these seeds always spilled onto barren ground. But I had great success with pansies. Being a normal product of the public school system (normal to public schools, that is) this was simply par to the course.
I remember the day when mother interrupted my study of the Liverpool Street to Ipswich timetable. I managed to throw the thing out of the window before the burning pages reached my fingers. She has such a sense of humour! When she told me that I needed to get a sex life, I told her I already had one. She said that it should ideally involve more than one person. Such a hilariously bizarre idea!
“You must get out more, Neil! Preferably permanently. I’ve company tonight. Brendan, Sean and Declan are moving in.” Mother was keen on helping Britain to improve relations with Ireland. She somehow thought that offering sexual relations to the navvies digging up the road outside would be a good place to start.
I barely had time to notify her of her error in calling me Neil, before I found myself spreadeagled on the pavement outside. A few seconds later, my clothes followed and formed a perfect rosette around me where I lay. (A panel of judges on the other side of the road held up numbers: ‘6.0, 5.8, 5.9, 6.0, 6.0, 5.6′. It was the best rosette of clothes around a recumbent figure they had seen in that street). My last thought, before I lost consciousness, on seeing a trunk hurtling towards me, was: “I hope it’s not full.”
I woke to find myself covered in newspapers. A headline caught my eye: “Palace Sensation: Prince Nigel still a virgin at 36”. I can’t begin to describe my mortification. I was 34. I dusted myself down, gathered up my belongings and went to see two important people.
Firstly, I went to see my lawyer for advice about this slander. He told me to issue a libel suit at once, but my tailor didn’t know how to make one. I decided to send them a morning suit, instead.
Next I went to see my doctor about my sexual problems. We both arrived at the conclusion that whereas the tabloids have done nothing to help the love lives of Royal Family members, the tablets might help to improve mine.
Thus advised and equipped, and from a newly-acquired rented broom cupboard near Clapham Junction (Princess Tabitha was incommunicado, wherever that is), I set forth to conquer the opposite sex.
A slow build-up was essential for a person with such little experience, so I frequented shopping centres and practiced chat-up lines on the shop window mannequins. Fearing the ever-present paparazzi, I disguised myself in a long brown mackintosh, wellington boots and storm hat. This outfit seemed to inspire respect, as people would stand up and leave buses or railway carriages when I came in. I could walk through busy streets without fear of collision, as the crowds would part like the Red Sea before me.
When my already unnatural gifts of charm and repartee had shown signs of improvement, I managed to steal a mannequin out of Top Shop and bring it home. Melinda (for that is what I called her) had a chip on her shoulder. Her left forearm was missing, as well, but this afforded some good practice at living with someone’s imperfections. The subsequent newspaper headlines did not require legal action as they were quite impressive: “Prince Nigel living in sin with model girl”. But after three weeks of watching television on the sofa with her, it was time to pluck up courage to go and get a real girl. I decided to become a habitué of London’s nightclub scene. Tramp seemed like a likey venue for a person with my recent fashion sense, so off I went.
The music was loud and so was my suit, the lights were flashing and so was I, the women were arresting and so were the police officers who were trying to drag me away. However, convinced of my explanation of a faulty zip, they let me go with a caution: “Never buy the first round”.
And so the weeks passed, with nightly visits to the capital’s hotspots increasing my reputation as a ladies’ man. Wherever I went, people would laugh uproariously as I arrived and cheer devotedly as I left. I discovered that a sense of humour is the most important quality that women look for in men. So I always dressed as Coco the Clown and arrived armed to the teeth with whoopee cushions, handshake buzzers, exploding cigars, fart and itching powder and X-Ray Specs. As you can imagine, this makes quite an impression and people do sit up and take notice. Actually, most of them stand up and leave, obviously incapacitated by my wit (particularly after the joke laxative sugar cubes).
To date, I have dated only one woman, Melinda the shop window model. Perhaps I set my standards too high. Perhaps women are intimidated by my connections with the Royal Family. Certainly, I’m sure they aren’t confident that they can live up to me, let alone with me. Perhaps I am too exacting about my requirements in a woman. But my quest is only fourteen years old, so there’s plenty of time yet.