with Mrs Simpson after losing his way to the gents. A chivalrous Junker and coward, he instantly
surrendered, for which action the Princess was awarded a Distinguished Service Badge, sewn to her uniform by the little French girl who was to grow into a lively soubrette with interestingly close
links to the Royal Family.
In 1955, heartbreak struck when Margaret decided not to marry war hero Mickey Rooney, not because he had been divorced six times, but because she feared that none of their
children would be more than four feet tall. But romance returned to her life when, a few years later, she took up with Brian Armstrong-Jones, the fifth Beatle, only to end in tragedy when he was
thrown into a swimming-pool, possibly by the Archbishop of Canterbury, for constitutional reasons.
She then began a turbulent affair with her cousin Lawrence Llewellyn Bowes-Lyon, the playboy hill-farmer, to whom she gave huge sums of money in support of his makeover scheme to brew organic
gin, which could be poured on Weetabix to create a wholesome yet stimulating breakfast. Sadly, the relationship broke up during one of many experimental tastings, when the couple fell out over
whether breakfast should be served with a twist or an olive.
Famously fascinated from infancy by both fancy dress and show business, in 1959 Princess Margaret secretly joined
The Black and White Minstrel Show
. Watched –
though not spotted – by nearly 20 million viewers, she sang ‘Way Down Upon De Swanee Ribber’ so convincingly that it became the anthem of the Weybridge Klavern of the Ku Klux
Klan.
By now, her weekend house parties were the talk of both the beau monde and the gutter press – the latter, indeed, these being the days of hot-metal typesetting, once running out of
asterisks to describe what HRH didn’t give for either of them. Her lovable temper, however, was cleverly brought under control on one famous occasion by none other than Lew Hoad. Commanded to
join the Princess and her entourage at Bonkers, the Bermuda hideaway of celebrity society cook Mrs Cecil Beeton, the great Wimbledon champion was invited to play a singles match against his
hostess. Hoad, serving blindfold with a ping-pong bat, won the first set 6-0 in under two minutes, whereupon his opponent, having given her Tom Collins an enthusiastic suck, stubbed her cigarette
out in Hoad’s ear and summoned her protection officers.
After they had had a quiet word with Lew, the match resumed and the Australian lost 6-4. This became known as the Princess Margaret set.
There Was A Crooked Man
U P betimes, dawn the colour of a herring’s belly, and out to the frosted car. To find a big glossy card beneath the
windscreen wiper. Nothing odd about that, you say, every day there is a new BOGOF pizza cobbler, a new once-in-a-lifetime deal on double-glazed grannie-patios, a new ex-SAS Home Office registered
24/7 security platoon, a new crack squad of state-of-the-art cutting-edge drain-rod engineers, a new purveyor of fresh fish daily to the doorsteps of the discerning gentry, a new girl in town, the
former Miss Gdansk, silicone-free, own soap, all major credit cards accepted, absolute discretion assured . . . but, this time, it was none of these.
Nor any old pasteboard card, either, but a fine laminated plastic job. On which giant scarlet capitals hollered ‘STOP!’ Above this ran the explanatory line: ‘Vehicle Crime
Prevention Notice’, and below it, the kicker: ‘There Are No Valuables Left In This Vehicle’. Underneath that, the azure logo of the Metropolitan Police and beside it the slogan:
‘Safe in the heart of London.’ I plucked it out, turned it over, and learned that: ‘You have been given this card to keep in your car, as vehicles in this area are being targeted
by thieves. Please leave it on your dashboard when leaving the car unattended. Consider leaving your glove box open, so it can be seen to be empty.’
So I stood there for a bit, doing just that. I
surrendered, for which action the Princess was awarded a Distinguished Service Badge, sewn to her uniform by the little French girl who was to grow into a lively soubrette with interestingly close
links to the Royal Family.
In 1955, heartbreak struck when Margaret decided not to marry war hero Mickey Rooney, not because he had been divorced six times, but because she feared that none of their
children would be more than four feet tall. But romance returned to her life when, a few years later, she took up with Brian Armstrong-Jones, the fifth Beatle, only to end in tragedy when he was
thrown into a swimming-pool, possibly by the Archbishop of Canterbury, for constitutional reasons.
She then began a turbulent affair with her cousin Lawrence Llewellyn Bowes-Lyon, the playboy hill-farmer, to whom she gave huge sums of money in support of his makeover scheme to brew organic
gin, which could be poured on Weetabix to create a wholesome yet stimulating breakfast. Sadly, the relationship broke up during one of many experimental tastings, when the couple fell out over
whether breakfast should be served with a twist or an olive.
Famously fascinated from infancy by both fancy dress and show business, in 1959 Princess Margaret secretly joined
The Black and White Minstrel Show
. Watched –
though not spotted – by nearly 20 million viewers, she sang ‘Way Down Upon De Swanee Ribber’ so convincingly that it became the anthem of the Weybridge Klavern of the Ku Klux
Klan.
By now, her weekend house parties were the talk of both the beau monde and the gutter press – the latter, indeed, these being the days of hot-metal typesetting, once running out of
asterisks to describe what HRH didn’t give for either of them. Her lovable temper, however, was cleverly brought under control on one famous occasion by none other than Lew Hoad. Commanded to
join the Princess and her entourage at Bonkers, the Bermuda hideaway of celebrity society cook Mrs Cecil Beeton, the great Wimbledon champion was invited to play a singles match against his
hostess. Hoad, serving blindfold with a ping-pong bat, won the first set 6-0 in under two minutes, whereupon his opponent, having given her Tom Collins an enthusiastic suck, stubbed her cigarette
out in Hoad’s ear and summoned her protection officers.
After they had had a quiet word with Lew, the match resumed and the Australian lost 6-4. This became known as the Princess Margaret set.
There Was A Crooked Man
U P betimes, dawn the colour of a herring’s belly, and out to the frosted car. To find a big glossy card beneath the
windscreen wiper. Nothing odd about that, you say, every day there is a new BOGOF pizza cobbler, a new once-in-a-lifetime deal on double-glazed grannie-patios, a new ex-SAS Home Office registered
24/7 security platoon, a new crack squad of state-of-the-art cutting-edge drain-rod engineers, a new purveyor of fresh fish daily to the doorsteps of the discerning gentry, a new girl in town, the
former Miss Gdansk, silicone-free, own soap, all major credit cards accepted, absolute discretion assured . . . but, this time, it was none of these.
Nor any old pasteboard card, either, but a fine laminated plastic job. On which giant scarlet capitals hollered ‘STOP!’ Above this ran the explanatory line: ‘Vehicle Crime
Prevention Notice’, and below it, the kicker: ‘There Are No Valuables Left In This Vehicle’. Underneath that, the azure logo of the Metropolitan Police and beside it the slogan:
‘Safe in the heart of London.’ I plucked it out, turned it over, and learned that: ‘You have been given this card to keep in your car, as vehicles in this area are being targeted
by thieves. Please leave it on your dashboard when leaving the car unattended. Consider leaving your glove box open, so it can be seen to be empty.’
So I stood there for a bit, doing just that. I
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