The Mad Prince's Dinner Party by Quintin Forrest

The Mad Prince's Dinner Party MP3

Read by Alex Woodhall

How did I feel about the new arrival? Princess Charlotte: the first filly in history who'd be on the throne ahead of the H-Meister, if anything happened to the other contenders?

Pretty bloody, if I'm honest. In less than two years, I'd gone from being third in line to the British crown, and thus, in theory, a solid plus one for Scarlet Johanssen, or some Texan young thing with a billion quid trust fund, to what now, fifth? 

 

Fifth, and counting. Dating-wise, Princess Lotty's appearance meant I may as well have been diagnosed, publicly, with a case of the syph. I'd always been afraid of heading into Mum territory, consigned to the margins as 'bonkers, unstable'. and now, it appeared, I was in it. 

For example, the other week, I was approached by three Goth-looking chicks in Whisky Mist. Or, okay, full disclosure, I may have approached them.

'Can I buy you ladies a dirty martini?'

'All hail' they'd replied 'Bluff Prince! Thane of Glamis!'

'Thane of Cawdor!'

'Who shall be king hereafter!'

'Yeah, yeah … I have seen the film. I'm not a complete idiot.'

Their laughter followed me into the Gents. I asked the security guys to give them a talking-to, but they probably just did a line of coke with them, or something. There was no way round it. As a brand, the H-Meister was, in a real sense, on his way to the facilities. With every child Wills and La Middleton fired out, my chances of marrying a foxy young thing from an oil-producing country fell. Did I want to be King? Not really, no. But I did want someone with a palace to have my back, if necessary, as La Middleton wrapped her tentacles ever tighter round the crown.

 *

Autumn, then. Out of all the stuff on the royal calendar (I'm including the four hour displays of tribal, Commonwealth dancing; ten minutes in, and I'd defy anyone not to start looking at the ceremonial weapons) this was the season I dreaded the most. Because, after a summer of pressing the flesh with the Gen Pop, it's off to Balmoral for our family hols, where it's open season on pretty much everything. Stags, pheasants, grouse. The ghillies, even, if you're in a blue mood. We need to decompress, to regroup, to let off some steam. But when we're not laying waste to the Highland wildlife, other conflicts can present themselves.

'Cabbage,' Grandpa Phil would say – the rumours of his demise have been exaggerated, he's still a demon after several large malts; there's no ice, there's no soda, there's no fooling around. 'Is the boy a poofter? And if he isn't, why won't he marry? Isn't it about time he suffered, like the rest of us have to?'

'I agree.' La Middleton would agree. 'I'm sorry, but he isn't in the army any more, so I don't see how the British taxpayer can be expected to fund his ... bachelor lifestyle for much longer.'

'Guys,' I'd say 'I am actually in the room at the moment ...'

So the crown's the crown, possibly something that's best chundered into after many tequilas. But the further you get away from it, the more everyone and his cat feels entitled to comment. The Blairs for example. As a prince of the realm, your social life is, perforce, a bit truncated. Smash the back doors off a filly from Love Island, say, and there's hell to pay in the Sunday papers. So you find yourself seeing the same people, over and over. That the Blairs were no longer in public office didn't mean they wouldn't still show up at parties. Dos hosted by the Beckhams and Elton John.

'You just need a family, Harry.'

'Tony, you've seen the one I've got. And anyway, isn't that what you told Gordon?'

'Well, that was Gordon ... Why didn't I sack him when I had the chance?'

'You seemed pretty full-on when it came to the Arabs.'

'Yes, well, the pre-emptive strike may have been discredited as a tactic, but I still believe in it - and so should you.'

Say what you like about TB's philosophy but it had, since the new arrival, increasingly seemed like food for thought.

 *

So it was Bonfire night in Balmoral. What with the pea-souper mists, the Wagnerian storm clouds (we like it up there for a reason, I guess) plus the general sense of unsplendid isolation, the atmosphere can start to feel a bit Gothic at times. A bit Hamlet, a bit MacBeth. As winter drew in, and we'd been Highlanding around for two or three days (time gets strange in the spectral glens) the brickbats from Grandpa and La Middleton growing more oppressive with every loss at Monopoly ('Imagine if you had to pay your debts with real money, Harry!' La Middleton would cackle, the Greek checking her bum out as she collected the rent) I found myself, uncharacteristically perhaps, withdrawing to the library. Reading matter included Shakespeare's tragedies, and Dad's annotated copy of the Observer Book of Plants. This, in particular, was an interesting tome.

A word about Dad; he really was my father. Since the Windsor ears, nose and, horrendously, the bald spot had kicked in, it had been all too clear whose son I was. Plus my love life (can I say this? Probably not) had, just lately, been a bit of a car crash. So I was a chip off the old block. Not least, perhaps, because of my interest in Dad's old gardening books, and the comments he'd added in green felt tip. Relating, as they did, to some of the contents of the Balmoral greenhouse. Which I'd have to describe as unexpected. He used to say, as a younger man, that he talked to his plants. But considering the array of poisons and hallucinogens he'd managed to assemble, it now seemed possible that the plants had talked back. The fly agaric mushroom, for example. Okay, if sieved through the waters from a stag's old chap, it's apparently a gateway through the looking glass, of a psychedelic hue. Fine. But, deadly nightshade? What had he been planning? A coup, perhaps? When Dad was a bachelor, had Grandpa Phil got on his tits too? Oh, and I'd caught up with Game of Thrones on DVD. I watched that a lot, actually, up until all hours, haunting the telly room.

Dinner, then, on that fateful evening. As an example of the sort of stunt La Middleton would routinely pull, in an attempt to curry favour with the older royals, as well as big up her ideas about being the next People's Princess, she'd suggested we give the kitchen the night off, so the staff could enjoy the fireworks, down in the village. Meanwhile, us youngsters would prepare a traditional Scots supper. Wild mushroom soup, followed by haggis with all the trimmings. Well, I say 'us'. La Middleton would clearly be running the pass, while Wills and I, as 'hopeless men' would be chopping the veg, then washing the pots.

'Harry,' said La Middleton. 'Finally. You've emerged from the greenhouse. We thought you were going to take root there permanently.'

'Beloved sister-in-law, I wanted to stay out the way of the bonfire, in case the villagers decided to put me on it.'

'Yes. Well, there's a knife, there are the mushrooms. Get on with it. Nobody's interested in your mid-life crisis.'

'I think you'll find that some people are interested in my mid-life … my middle youth crisis. I regularly table five figure offers from the red-tops.'

'And I regularly table six.'

'Yeah but those are for glamour shots. The tabloids are interested in my opinions. I am a thinker, they seem to think. A thinker, and a war veteran.'

'Really? Are you sure they don't want to ask you about my sister's bottom?'

'Maybe that too.'

'Well anyway, I trust you'll keep your thoughts to yourself this evening.'

'I don't have much choice, do I?' I muttered 'It wasn't me that gave the maids the night off.'

We could have gone on like this for decades, La Middleton and I. But why fool about when you don't have to? She seemed determined to poison the palace against me, so it seemed only cricket if I returned the favour. As her bum was turned then, and we were plating up, I garnished the soup with a lot, I mean a lot, of deadly nightshade (it looks a bit like dried parsley, or wild herbs) having laced the broth earlier with fly agaric, for plausible deniability, in case the cops showed up. We would now see who was going to be thane of Glamis, and thane of bloody Cawdor.

Unless, that was, I made a bish with the dose.

One of the bowls was mainly nightshade-free, but as I turned my back to refresh my glass, ostensibly water, actually gin, I forgot which one it was. So now, in effect, I was playing a culinary version of Russian Roulette.

'Quite delicious this, Kate,' said the Greek 'Are the mushrooms locally sourced?'

'Indeed they are, Grandpa,' simpered La Middleton 'Wills and I picked them this morning.'

'Yeah,' sighed Wills 'We were up at dawn.'

'And what's the garnish? It has an unusual flavour … Some sort of herbal infusion?'

'My own secret blend. Also sourced locally.'

'Excellent,' said Father. 'I had noticed someone's been looking though my old gardening books. I thought it might have been Harry at first!'

Everyone laughed.

'I can't take all the credit,' La Midhdleton continued 'Harry helped out. He did some excellent work there, chopping the veg … But you're not eating, Bluff Prince?'

'Well, you know' I said, eyeing the broth 'What it's like when you've cooked something yourself …'

'Bluff Prince,' snapped La Middleton 'I will be disappointed if you don't try my food.'

'Your food?'

'Yes, my food!'

On the one hand, this was good. La Middleton had taken ownership of the hellish brew. But on the other, would my military training be enough to withstand it?

 *

Half an hour later, the answer seemed 'No'. It felt like there was wildfire on the loose in my veins. As an old hand at raves, I knew the signs, all too well ... Trees were on the march outside the window … Expired relatives appeared round the table. Arguably, you haven't really lived until the undead shade of Queen Victoria has explained, in some detail, why you're 'a bad cunt'. But it's debatable.

As everyone else was consumed by their demons, then, white rabbits, mad hatters, La Middleton shouting 'I'm off my head!' or maybe something more sinister, I went outside.

In the garden, there was darkness, night, the stars. Inside, the rest of the family was face down in the main course, or climbing the tapestries. But alive, still alive ... Even the QE2 was still visibly breathing, if looking a bit peakish, a shade green about the gills.

I was probably going to have some explaining to do.

Unless… could I blame all this on La Middleton? So she really could now be the People's Princess, considered 'bonkers, unstable'? She wouldn't like that

Then it occurred to me that it needn't be either I, or La Middleton, who was on a fact-finding trip to Uzbekistan for the next ten years. That the poisons had been sourced from Father's greenhouse. From Father's annotated copy of The Observer Book of Plants …? Father, who's been first in line for such a very, very long time ...

Basically, if us Royals seem a bit off in the future, out of touch with society, lost in strange, other worlds, distant and remote - even more so than usual - this episode may have something to do with it.

(c) Quintin Forrest, 2015


Quintin Forrest lives by his pen only in the sense that it sits near him on his desk. His book of short stories, Tales of Modern Stupidity, many of which debuted at Liars' League, was runner-up in the Best Collection category at this year's Saboteur Awards and is available on Amazon. He is currently looking for love, and an agent. 

Alex Woodhall (left) has worked in comedy for the last 15 years, on stage, TV and radio. He DJs extensively around the country in clubs, festivals and evil corporate events and is one half of The Coffin Dodgers' Disco at The Phoenix. Interests include floodlit horse-massage at Crystal Palace and Gardener's Hour.