Prince Harry's Last Hurrah MP3
Read by Alex Woodhall
On the morning of the wedding, I woke up in Claridge’s. Good old Claridge’s, they look after you there. Hopefully. Today, I was going to be on telly in front of an audience of millions. My biggest crowd since Mother's funeral. That unforgettable day, seared into the hard-drive, however much I tried to blot it out. Often, admittedly, with some success, but it was looming back now. The trek on foot, halfway across London, as the Gen Pop followed, both in town and at home, the horse-drawn progress of a doomed princess. At least this time I'd be in the carriage, I supposed.
If I made it. Was I so mired in sin that I was going to disappoint? It seemed a distinct possibility. Where was everything? On Sky News, the Great British Public were queuing up outside the chapel - why? What were they hoping for? La Markle to arrive looking totally doable, in a long white dress. And for the H-Meister to show up minus his strides? Would the loathed public get their wish? Where were my trousers? The old soup and fish was laid out somewhere, surely, but where? Had I given it a test-run the night before, in front of the guys and the ... specialist courtesans Rafe knew from Babes of Mayfair? I had a horrible feeling that I probably had.
It was just that it seemed like an octopus of madness had laid waste to the room. Ripped off my clothes, gang-banged the minibar, and then, horrendously, somehow polished off five grams of coke. There were the wraps on the table, undeniably hoovered, judgemental in the sun. When I could have done with a pick-me-up, too. It was like a portal of hell was going to open up under me, in the car to Windsor. In about two hours’ time. This was not how the stag-do was meant to go.
There had been … negotiations about what form, precisely, the celebrations should take. Ever mischievous, the tabloids had made a few suggestions. Private islands in the Caribbean were mentioned. Also Bangkok, Amsterdam and Vegas, baby. How long, conceivably, could the party go on for? And would I have to regroup in The Priory afterwards? I'd liked the sound of all of this, except for the rehab, but Meghan, my beloved, saw things differently.
She was sensitive, some might even say obsessed, about what got said about us in the media these days. About my alleged reformation, and then there was the speculation in the press about who her father really was … I knew what that was like.
'How,' she'd sighed, with the usual adorable, South Cal air of menace, 'd'you think it's gonna look, Harry, if you and your army buddies, and those sleazebags from Eton I've begged you to stop seeing, jet off round the world at the tax-payer's expense?'
'But isn't that basically what we're doing for our honeymoon?'
'Are you saying your bachelor party is as important as our honeymoon?'
'I suppose not. But this is the H-Meister's last hurrah …'
'I wish you wouldn't call yourself that ...'
'But babe, I am the H-Meister. I have a fan-base to think about.'
'No, you don't. I have a fan-base. You are just an over-privileged drunk! Who I'm trying to save from himself.'
There was something a bit J-Lo and Affleck about our relationship. Or maybe Macbeth and the Scotsman's plus-one. I was quite glad we were having this convo over the phone. That I'd so far resisted video-conferencing.
'And how,' she continued 'd'you think it's going to look if you're YouTubed with some hooker's thong on your head?'
'Nobody's saying anything about hookers. Strippers, okay. But it's not the same thing.'
'Explain the difference.'
'Erm …' Could I explain? I didn't think I could. 'Look, a chap's got to have strippers. It's a tradition.'
'Like slavery, you mean? Like women not having the vote?'
She was fairly hot on all this PC stuff. What was I letting myself in for?
'I thought,' Meghan continued 'that what we're doing is breaking with tradition?'
'Isn't that after the wedding?'
'No, let's go with before. Now, about the stag list.'
Reluctantly, I forwarded it.
Thirty seconds later:
'Harry, have you gone totally insane? Rafe, for Christ's sake? Isn't he in jail?'
'On the contrary, his father's just passed away. So now Rafe sits in the House of Lords.'
'Oh my God … Seriously?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'And Binky?'
'You'd like Binky, if you met him.'
'Harry, if Binky's Amnesty write-up is anything to go by, he sits on a throne made of human skulls.'
'Amnesty … always glass half-empty … I'm sure they're not really human skulls.'
'Are you? I'm not. Harry, he is a Nigerian warlord. If even half of what Google says is true, Binky is a psychotic mass-murderer.'
'But a bro from Sandhurst, all the same … He may not be able to make it, though. Problems with the embassy, and such.'
'Harry, you nearly got expelled from everywhere because of some of these guys? And as for your army buddies …'
'Brave men, all of them.'
'Well, they can talk to me then, can't they?'
'I didn't say they were suicidal,' I muttered, thinking, not for the first time, about drowning my i-phone in a large vodka-tonic.
So the international Bond-type bacchanal the press (and, in fairness, the H-Meister) had been hoping for, was slowly diminished. One by one, potential guests and locations were removed from contention, in blood red lipstick, not Meghan's usual shade.
Until what I was left with was a couple of pints with Wills, in a pub in Chelsea, the night before. We'd watch a game of footie or something, then go for a curry. Thus showing the world that we were normal blokes, regular guys in our rugger tops. Broken, emasculated, all of this carefully stage-managed by Buck House, with photographers outside. 'Prince Harry' was the story 'Finally Grows Up!'
'Look, guys,' I wanted to say, 'I am not, and can never be, a normal bloke. I flew an Apache helicopter in Afghanistan. I've killed a lot of people. I don't know how many, but why don't you ask me about that? Instead of this … stuff I have to do for charity?' I couldn't really bring it up, though. Amnesty was still a bit on my case, about all that.
So there we were, Wills and I, in a charming old place pub that had, naturally, been cleared of the regular drinkers.
'Bro,' I said, 'Any thoughts about the dreaded aisle?'
'Yeah … no, I don't know,' said Wills, looking even more pale, drawn and haunted than usual. 'Marriage can be … difficult. Sometimes, I wonder if Kate would have looked twice at me if I wasn't a Windsor?'
'Sometimes,' I said 'I think that if I wasn't a Windsor, I'd be in a loony bin ...'
'That has been mentioned.'
'I see … It hasn't really, has it?'
'Well, not a loony bin exactly … Let's put it this way, it's good that you're marrying, and doing more for charity.'
'Yeah. Charity.'
'I'm sure you're loving every minute. But chin up, mate. Remember you're a womble.'
We had another pint, and then Wills, slurring a bit, added;
'They want so much, these chicks we marry. They want to be the People's Princess. But the slightest misstep could mean they do a Mummy. Go blabbing to the Murdochs with tales of drunkenness and cruelty… This thing about duty. I don't know if it sticks any more …'
'Right ... You couldn't have mentioned any of this earlier?'
'You didn't ask. Anyway Meghan's got you trained, hasn't she? Prince Harry, the god of riot and debauchery, is being led to the slaughter … sorry, altar … Is she making you go to consciousness-raising workshops? Are you doing yoga? Are you already booked in for pre-natal classes?' Wills laughed, brokenly. 'It occurs to me, bro, that you've been sexually enslaved.'
'No way,' I lied. 'Though Meghan has often talked about how much she admires Mum.'
'Kate feels the same.'
'Oh well. We'll just have to keep them on separate continents.'
'Yeah.' said Wills, ‘Good luck with that ... Sometimes, I wonder who wears the trousers in our relationship … What does being king mean anyway? You just have to go to Canada a lot. And Australia, where you know they resent you. What I'm saying, bro, is that you should beware of chicks who want to be the new Lady Di, because what they always miss is, how that ended.'
Food for thought, perhaps, but I tried not to think about anything. Soon I'd be married, and what was Meggles going to do to me later, in the darkness of our suite? She didn't drink booze, she was more of a wheatgrass type, so however exhausting the big day was, it seemed a fair bet that I was going to need all my strength. Already I'd asked Rafe (Royal dealer, by appointment) to get me some Viagra, but an early night seemed in order, all the same. The last thing a fellow wants to read on Twitter, in the afterglow of the honeymoon night, is 'Meh, two out of five. No Prince Charming.' This being something my adored one had threatened to do in the past, after one too many underwhelming royal command performances.
‘Meggles,’ I’d beg, ‘I love you, I do, but I’ve been up for three days!’
‘I tweet how I feel, Harry,’ she’d countered. ‘So you better make me feel good.’
So I should have followed the script really. But was the H-Meister to be so easily outfoxed, sent to bed early, on his last night to roar? Absolutely not. I'd cased the pub a week earlier, and there was another exit, out through the basement, avoiding the photographers. So after the third pint I suggested to Wills, who, as a dad-of-three, was already mullered, the lightweight, that we escape to somewhere more … appropriate? I'd arranged to meet Rafe, the guys and some ladies Rafe knew, at Whisky Mist, for old time's sake. Bouji's having closed down some years earlier, after what the Evening Standard described as 'a mass brawl'.
By the time the after-party finished, around four in the morning, 'a mass brawl' was the least of what it looked like the room, and the groom, had been through.
So when you're rewatching the ceremony, laughing about the guest list (Elton John and David, Mumford & Sons) and the epic uncoolness of the whole occasion, spare a thought for the H-Meister, head hung low from cocaine withdrawal. And spare a thought for poor, late Meghan.
Tibet, where accidents can happen, may not have been the ideal honeymoon destination, from the bride’s point of view. It sounded great: a spiritual adventure! Being stuck halfway up a mountain, on a cliff-edge, with a guy who's scored shrooms off one of the sherpas, maybe less so. She really shouldn’t have asked me to Instagram her while I was holding the rope.
And so that, dear reader, was how my first marriage ended, in the Himalayas. It’s not like she wasn’t warned about us Windsors: do not fly too close to, not so much the flame, as the forty-watt Poundstretcher light-bulb. If you're reading this now, in a parallel universe, a universe that's different in some ways, but much the same in others, this may not have happened yet. But trust me, it will.
(c) Quintin Forrest, 2018
Prince Henry Windsor, Duke of Sussex is sixth in line to the throne of England and a devoted husband and charity ambassador.
Quintin Forrest, his unofficial autobiographer, is still a bit annoyed about the wedding and is working on Bluff Prince Hal: The Novel.
Alex Woodhall has worked in comedy for the last 20 years, on stage, TV and radio. He DJs extensively around the country in clubs, festivals and evil corporate events and is one half of Age Against the Machine at The Phoenix. Interests include floodlit horse-massage and Gardener's Question Time.
Comments