Prince Philip: My family and other animals

It may be a surprise that you find me in this pokey newspaper, so let me elucidate. During the festive season, I spotted a copy of Felix residing by one of the house/palace windows. I flicked through a few pages to be simply aghast at the clap trap rubbish contained within, not excluding the hideous specimen gurning at me from the centerfold – isn’t it odd that at a university of mostly chaps, you have pictures of naked males in your paper? It’s all rather how’s-your-father in a queerish way if you ask me. At Ieast, I think it was a man. But you never know with scientists.

I asked the footman, Cardell, where this garbage came from. It transpires his son is studying entrepreneurship at Imperial. Aside from the contradiction in terms such a degree presents (quite how one is supposed to develop maverick, out-of-the-box thinking by being pontificated to by failed businessmen is beyond me), I realised that this was my chance to do something for society, as my little cauliflower keeps insisting, and I would bestow you fortunate lot with my weekly wisdom.

I imagine your holidays were affected by Heathrow’s decision to close after a pithy 2mm snow drizzle. I hated having to endure the moaning of all those ghastly foreigners on the television – I mean, couldn’t BAA just get them to help shift the snow or shoot the lot? And I can only hope the plebs at BA soon dismiss Willie Walsh – that pea-headed, penis-named executive. This whole country is becoming a tad of an animal farm, one far darker and more terrifying than anything George Orwell could fathom

But enough about your holiday. Mine was horrendous. Some Irish acquaintances visited, all naturally lacking a native accent. They were very down – I did point out that offering free handouts of cheddar to the poor was never going to prevent the financial collapse of their country.

And Charlie kept harping on in bufferish indignation about all that climate change gibberish. He’s always been a bit thick, not much of a stickler for science. First he was talking to plants, next he was saying we will all die by drowning.

As for his horse-faced wife, she was still in shock about being poked in the eye by some lower class yobbos. I was quite glad about the whole affair, and it’s not the only place I would have prodded her. She’s quite the farter, I tell you. If you think the Iraq war stinks, you know nothing of Camilla’s posterior. Makes one feel for feel for Tony Blair – just imagine having to endure sitting next to a trumpeting John Prescott in all of those cabinet meetings.