The Prince Charles Letters (2 page)

I like your ideas about Conservatism with a human face. I’ve always felt the best sort of Conservative is a smiling one and I’ve met a few over the years. Winston Churchill was sometimes a bit gruff, like a bulldog on an enforced vegetarian diet. Mr Macmillan was OK, though I didn’t like it when he said that we’d ‘never had it so good’ – I was at Gordonstoun at the time. Not a cheering thought when you’ve spent the afternoon being mock crucified with tent pegs on a bicycle-shed door! Anthony Eden always looked rather ill. In fact, all the Conservative Prime Ministers I met became very ill during their time in charge. You’re feeling quite well, I hope?

Anyway, congratulations again to you and Mrs Heath.

Yours faithfully

Charles, POW (Prince of Wales, not the other kind!)

Jim Callaghan

10 Downing Street

London

England

6 April 1976

Dear Mr Callaghan

I expect you’re as surprised as everyone else was to find yourself Prime Minister after all these years, but as my father is fond of saying, ‘Wonders never bloody cease!’ A bit salty, I know, but not too shocking for a man of your naval background, I’m sure.

I don’t envy you, I must say – scowling punk rockers, litter in the streets, faceless tower blocks that stifle the soul of man and take him further and further away from the grass that is our heritage, Wales ablaze with burning holiday cottages, the unsolved Lord Lucan mystery and continued confusion about the decimalisation system. All I can say is as one who has always sought a meaningful, rather than ceremonial role, I can guarantee your in-tray will never be short of constructive suggestions as to how best the likes of you and me can help restore Britain to the days of Eden. Not Sir Anthony Eden, I hasten to add – rather a mess, as I recall, his brief tenure – but the other sort.

Yours, in hope and determination

HRH The Prince of Wales

Margaret Thatcher

10 Downing Street

London

England

5 May 1979

Dear Mrs Thatcher

Well, I would be deceiving you if I said I wasn’t rather taken aback by your rise to Number 10, but let no one say Charles is a ‘male’ chauvinist pig. Congratulations to you, Mrs Thatcher, and to your husband Denis, who I suppose will have to boil his own breakfast egg from now on.

I must say, I was impressed by your quoting from St Francis of Assisi at Downing Street – how did it go? Where there is discord let us bring … well, cord! I’m hoping this will be a continuing theme of your period in office after all the adversarial strife we’ve been suffering. Let the 1980s be all about working together: yourself, the Monarchy, in particular those of us looking for a role within it. One thing I hope we see eye to eye on is the blasted new buildings they keep erecting across London, blighting the view and adding to a sense that the national soul is settling into some sort of cement-like torpor. I trust that under Mrs Thatcher, the property developer will get short shrift!

If there is to be a keynote word to what historians will call ‘The Thatcher Years’, I hope and believe it will be this: compost. Do you take an interest in compost? I have yet to meet anyone, certain members of my family apart, who appears not to do so. Let us meet at the earliest possible opportunity and talk compost.

Yours, in fellow leadership

HRH The Prince of Wales

Margaret Thatcher

10 Downing Street

London

England

10 August 1987

Dear Mrs Thatcher

As you know, the problem of the inner cities continues to gnaw at the very vitals of the body politic and plays havoc with the soul of this country. Forgive me, but I must speak plainly: we must show these people that we are very,
very
concerned and will strive to be as concerned as humanly possible. I suggest we use this sentiment as a platform, an action plan to move forward and actually do something concrete, though not involving actual concrete (which is at the heart of the whole problem, if you ask me).

It occurs to me, your name is Thatcher, so thatching must be in your blood. Suppose the soulless slate and lead of modern roofs were to be replaced with a thatched alternative? This little taste of the warp and weft of a vanished England reintroduced to the very heart of our conurbations could prove a tremendous fillip to the wretches who have to live in such ghastly places. I’m sure you could lend your generations of family expertise to such an initiative; it could be the making of your legacy. Imagine, instead of being remembered as ‘Margaret Thatcher, Milk Snatcher’, you’d be ‘Margaret Thatcher, Thatcher’.

Yours, constructively

HRH The Prince of Wales

Margaret Thatcher

10, Downing Street

London

England

16 August 1987

Dear Mrs Thatcher

Today I received a letter from one of your fellows, which beneath the usual Civil Service oil, effectively advised me to go boil my head. His gist was that you, Mrs Thatcher, had no time available to act as ‘period roofing consultant’. Can you not make time? From my end, I know I can.

Yours, etc.

HRH The Prince of Wales

John Major

10 Downing Street

London

England

29 November 1990

Dear Mr Major

Well, congratulations, of course, on reaching Number 10, but I know you’ll forgive me when I say that until a few weeks ago I hadn’t the faintest idea who you were. I know the last time we did meet, you had one of those identity laminates clipped to your breast pocket, which was jolly helpful. I’d advise you, for the time being at least, to hang on to that laminate, particularly when at the Palace. My grandmother is not good with new faces – catching sight of you approaching down the corridor she’s likely to take you for an official from her bank and go scurrying off to her quarters to camp out until one of her gentlemen-in-waiting sounds the all-clear.

The best of luck – in your in-tray, you will find a number of initiatives and suggestions which I submitted to your predecessor, who sadly never found the time to give them her fullest attention. I trust your sense of priority is more attuned with the needs of our kingdom than hers.

Yours, in hope and faith

HRH The Prince of Wales

PS I did get your name right, didn’t I? I’m suddenly plagued by this inkling you’re called ‘Geoff’. Ah, well!

John Major

10 Downing Street

London

England

12 July 1996

Dear Mr Major

I must say, I was impressed by your ‘Cones hotline’ initiative – it’s the sort of lead we hope our politicians will take, although alas, all too often fail to do so. I assure you my staff are on constant ‘Cone Alert’ with a large jotter in my office available for them to write down any infractions spotted on their travels. So far, it would seem from glancing at its pages that there is nothing to report, which suggests the motorway people have already taken heed of your scheme.

I wonder if I could run by you an initiative of my own: a five-point plan to get Britain back on its feet, which, although ‘apolitical’ in nature could, with your support I hope, become official government policy, or at least form the general basis for policy. It runs as follows:

SOCKS: Pull them up!

PECKER: Keep it up!

IDEAS: Buck them up!

CHINS: Keep them up!

EARS: Prick them up!

If you read down the left-hand side, it forms the mnemonic ‘SPICE’, which seems to be a buzzword at the moment. I’m sure you’ll agree, as a man who wants to get things done himself, it’s a catch-all corrective against pessimism, despair, cynicism, spinal curvature of the soul, slacking and slouching. So, once your men in suits have put some flesh on these bones, shall we clear our respective diaries to make a joint announcement? I’ll raise another alert among my staff.

Yours, ‘on the hotline’

HRH The Prince of Wales

John Major

10 Downing Street

London

England

14 July 1996

Dear Mr Major

Pulling back in the Bentley towards the Palace, I spotted a cone! It was lying on the pavement, next to an abandoned shopping trolley. Possibly the result of student ‘high jinks’, but thought you should know all the same.

Yours, etc.

HRH The Prince of Wales

John Major

10 Downing Street

London

England

16 July 1996

Dear Mr Major

Has anything been done about that cone? I need something in writing for my records.

Yours

HRH The Prince of Wales

Tony Blair

10 Downing Street

London

England

3 May 1997

Dear Mr Blair

Well, I must congratulate you, of course. Labour in power, eh? That used to mean smelly pipes, beer and sandwiches; also trade union leaders shambling in and out of Number 10, representing members whose ‘jobs’, sadly, mostly involved filling the atmosphere with ghastly industrial effluvium.

You, I sense at a glance, are different: you remind me of myself as a younger man. A moderniser, impatient with the old dogmas, eyes blazing with ambition, tough on things, tough on the causes of things … I like that. I sense we can work together. I have not always felt able to make the same sort of connection with your predecessors but with you I feel confident enough to say that when you are eventually relieved of office, you could perhaps work with me as a senior advisor on my staff. Yes, I believe that’s how much we see eye to eye on things (and the causes of things).

Yours, millennially

HRH The Prince of Wales

Tony Blair

10 Downing Street

London

England

11 March 2005

Dear Mr Blair

Concerning the Eurovision Song Contest, then. As you know, this is an important gala occasion, perhaps on a par with the annual Royal Variety Show, in which the best and brightest European songwriting talent ‘battle it out’ under the bright lights. My staff and I tune in every year – it’s their annual treat.

However, in recent years the United Kingdom has fallen behind. This does no good to our credibility as a trading partner. Hang it all, at this rate we’ll get fewer and fewer foreign orders, more and more jobs will be lost and there’ll be more and more ‘boys in the hoods’ on street corners.

I feel it’s my duty to take a lead and so I’ve taken it upon myself to pen some ‘lyrics’ to which music could be set with a view to entering the Contest. I’d like your honest opinion.

Paean to This Green Jewel of Mine

Merrie, Merrie Englande

Where stout yeomen and apple-cheeked wenches caper

round yon maypole

Where hope lies, like the turnip, in the soil

Where the farmhand, like the slug, is happy with his lot

Where the herbs that flourish in yon hedge cure all that ails thee

And where the church bells ring out their Song Of Pleasantness

Bing Bing-a-Bong, Bing Bing-a-Bong

Bing Bong-a-Bong, Bing Bing-a-Bong

Bing Bing-a-Bong, Bing Bing-a-Bong

Bing Bong-a-Bong, Bing Bing-a-Bong

(repeat several times)

The last bit I slipped in to ‘jazz it up’ a bit for the young ones. As for musical accompaniment, may I make a bold suggestion: that you yourself, as a guitarist of note, compose a melody? It would certainly be a demonstration of Government and Monarchy really working together for their subjects. Could you let me have your reply, with sheet music sample, within 48 hours?

Yours, in tune

HRH The Prince of Wales

Gordon Brown

10 Downing Street

London

England

28 June 2007

Dear Mr Brown

So, at last you have your moment in the sun. I, too, know what it is to be kept around waiting, waiting and waiting, despite one’s expectations as a young man and the sense that the person incumbent was holding on for as long as they could because they suspected the fellow champing at the bit to take over was some sort of dundering incompetent.

And with those comforting words, I wish you well in what will doubtless be a long and successful tenure in office.

Yours, in fellow stewardship

HRH The Prince of Wales

David Cameron

10 Downing Street

London

England

12 May 2010

Dear Mr Cameron

So, now that you and Clegg have thrashed things out, I can finally extend congratulations on your partial electoral success. It’s not to everyone’s liking in this so-called meritocratic age that an old Etonian has his hands on the keys to Downing Street but between you and me, better an Eton man than a Gordonstoun one (or certainly some of those who came to manhood via that particular institution, in which sadism among boys was practically part of the curriculum).

As you hover on the threshold of governmental responsibility I see in your fresh face and rosy cheeks the perhaps naive optimism of a young lad who fetched up for his first term at Gordonstoun. His name too was David. I forget his surname – I was later given to understand that he would, in time, have been groomed to fag for me. But this was never to be. I remember in the dining hall some of the fourth form boys were discussing putting on some sort of Christmas cabaret whereupon David – who had been sitting adjacent to them – interjected, trilling about how at his prep school he had ‘done a turn’, singing ‘Food, Glorious Food’ from the musical
Oliver!
This, to my mounting horror, he proceeded to demonstrate in a soprano that carried across the hall.

As a public schoolboy I need hardly remind you, Mr Cameron, that no one likes a chatty little swine, especially a new bug – but a singing one? Like a close escort of some hapless victim of Stalin’s purges summarily removed from the Star Chamber, the fourth formers took him out of the hall and into the boys lavatories where, by all accounts, they gave him such a fearful roughing-up that he was under the care of Matron for three days before his father did what I wish mine had done – which is to say, drove up to the school in his Rolls and whisked him away for good, leaving the housemaster with a piece of his mind into the bargain.