JUSTICE has prevailed and thanks to a very large sum of money I have been proven innocent. But it’s easy to forget the real victim in all this: me.
I stand here a sad, lonely figure, my good name besmirched and deeply out of pocket – money that could have paid for luxury golfing holidays, Swiss chalets and visits from masseuses I need for my tragic sweat gland condition.
The higher you climb, the further you fall. Before these allegations I was a much-loved, respected member of the Royal Family (probably the most-loved). The nation is still eternally grateful for the joy I brought them in 1987’s It’s A Royal Knockout.
Now I’m not even patron of London Metropolitan University, although frankly it’s a relief not to have to visit that dingy remedial pleb-hole. Unlike the English National Ballet. They had some cracking fillies and very well-spoken too.
I didn’t actually do anything as colonel-in-chief of the Royal Irish regiment and all those made-up military roles, but you name me one royal with a proper job. What does Kate do? ‘Occasional hockey-playing stick insect’? Give me a break.
Yes, it takes a proud man to say ‘Life’s not fair, it’s just not bloody fair’. All I did was befriend a rich American financier with a creepy interest in young women, and suddenly it’s from Falklands hero to sex pervert zero.
Perhaps I should be thankful I’ve avoided an ordeal at the hands of the American justice system, but I feel compelled to say this: thanks a f**king lot, Mum. And you, Charles, you pompous arse. The only reason you talk to plants is they can’t get away.
All I can do is celebrate alone as best I can with a bottle or three of Bollinger from the cellar. I’d give Fergie a call, but she’s really looking her age these days.
