As he is after all the Duke of Cornwall and owns much of the land that we call home and is owed our patriotism and leal duty, it is only fitting that we offer up a regular column for the worldly wisdom of our future Sovereign King and Commander-in-Chief, H.R.H. Prince Charles. This month, Charlie pontificates on what the bloody hell those Cornish oldies are moaning about. Take it away, Your Highness!
GOOD, ERR.. EVENING..? ladies and gentlemen
Now, I have always liked to consider myself, first and foremost, a man of the people. I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for all you rabble, going about your quaint little lives. Just like all the rugged, robust furry animals and our delightful woodland – many of which are mine, you know – yes, I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for you. Many of you are mine, you know.
Yes, I’m essentially just like you. Oh yes, I have bodyguards and tedious hangers-on bowing and doffing their caps and I’m considerably more comfortable, hah, but I’m just like you. I enjoy the ballet and Eisteddfod, and I’m partial to the odd tipple, and shoot the shit on Friday nights(by shit, one of course means grouse, pheasant, deer, poachers – the list goes on), and I like to watch a good kick-about. Yes, watching my boys give a trespassing pleb a good kick-about always brings a smile to one’s face.
Anyway, this month I’d like to give a good dressing down to those bloody pensioners in Cornwall who have been moaning about all their care homes being privatised. Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the elderly, particularly when they’re doing what they should – voting U.K.I.P., talking about spitfires and sending lovely letters to Mumsie – but this is bloody bolshevism! Listen, my own dear Mumsie has private home-care and let me assure you, it’s top bloody notch, and if it’s good enough for Mumsie it’s bloody well good enough for the proles! It’s not as if privatising the homes will plunge the elderly into a mismanaged, uncaring nightmare system run for profit, rather than compassion. No, quite the opposite, if Mumsie’s is any example. All this protest and hoo-har – well, yes, quaint, considerably, but it simply boggles the mind.
But anyway, that aside, it is now my pleasure to introduce to you, the Westcountry Mountaineer. I’ve always been partial to a bit of freebasing.
Now why won’t that stupid boy put some clothes on? If he can’t win the odd spot of billiards, then he’s no son of mine.
