Royal Flush

My females have been cackling excitedly about the royal princes’ tour of Africa.

“Why don’t you invite them here?” they piped. “We’d make them feel at home.”

“No you wouldn’t,” I said firmly. “Feeling at home for them means playing polo, visiting chutney factories and having their toenails clipped by a servant. They aren’t used to your jungle tricks and you haven’t learned the correct etiquette. I don’t want you thrusting your hips at them instead of curtsying.”

That shut them up. In truth, I was worried that a similar faux pas to the one in Botswana might occur, where a nervous rock python
pissed itself in fright after being introduced to the princes. Being English, they were too embarrassed to deal with the mishap like the president of Zambia, who sternly rebuked a monkey for passing water on his jacket. Let’s just hope the incident hasn’t left a sour taste in their mouths.

In accordance with royal protocol, the identity of the nurse who accompanied the princes remained a closely guarded secret. A hapless photographer who tried to take her picture was set upon by the royal bodyguards and forced to sit on a pineapple. If you think William and Harry are too old for a nurse you know little of the customs of the British monarchy. It is essential, on such visits, to keep the princes well clear of local floozies who would eagerly squat before them in the hope of receiving a royal rogering. The role of the nurse is to lessen the appeal of such sordid temptations by regularly milking the princes of their manly juices. The job is normally offered to a lady familiar with livestock breeding, who can render the service with clinical detachment. Surgical gloves and Vaseline are essential tools of the trade.

The finale of the princes’ tour was a visit to South Africa, causing some people to suggest they were only here for the World Cup. Such cynics forget that they also met various dignitaries, including that great man whose long struggle for freedom inspired millions of down-trodden humans, and quite a few up-trodden ones as well. I refer, of course, to
Bishop Tutu, who received the princes in one of his most fetching purple frocks. I don’t know what he said to the boys, but I’m sure he spiced up his sermon with plenty of whooping and jigging.

I had the honour of meeting the Bishop when he stayed at the safari guesthouse.

“Toots, “ I said, “don’t you resent all the hero-worship that Mandela gets when you did all the hard work in the dark days of P.W. Botha?”

“Not at all, GB!” he chirped. “My heart is full of joy for having done God’s work. And what makes you think I don’t have my own fans?”

He made a good point. The Bishop's many quiet admirers include a
team of scientists who obtained a sample of his DNA. They discovered he belongs to one of the least in-bred human populations on Earth, which might explain his sunny disposition. This is something the princes should bear in mind when listening to the morose prattle of their bat-eared father, who recently condemned Galileo for a remark he made in 1597. When royalty breeds with royalty, the results are rarely pretty.

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