High life
Royal relations
Taki
TRougemont here's been so much rubbish published recently about the Queen that I thought it was about time for the poor little Greek boy to also have his say. Here's a little scoop for you. Those who know don't talk, and those who talk know nothing. No one knows less than the so-called royal correspondents, as smarmy as they're bogus, and they are very, very bogus. The truth is that none of these self-declared royal experts has any access to anyone remotely connected with the royals, and that includes royal biographers like Robert Lacey and Andrew Morton. (Lacey repeats tabloid stories; Morton interviews those with an axe to grind.) Be that as it may, newspapers have to be sold, and royal stories sell, It's as simple as that. Invention in defence of profits is no vice, or something to that effect.
Here's an example. The only person who really knew what was going on with Princess Di was Rosa Monckton, wife of Dominic Lawson, editor of the Sunday Telegraph. After Diana's death Rosa did write something setting the record straight but that's all it was. She has not written a book about her close friend, and has refrained from writing letters to newspa pers who publish totally invented stories. Lady Cosima Somerset, on the other hand, has published a few articles about Princess Diana, but although a friend of Di's, she was certainly not an intimate. (Cosima was the one who introduced me to Diana, and brought her around to my house a couple of times.) My point is that no hack knew anything remotely compared to what Cosi did, yet millions of words have been written by these not-in-the-know hacks. And Diana had acquaintances who spilled the beans, the rest of the royals do not.
Mind you, Gyles Brandreth's diary in last week's Sunday Telegraph was the real McCoy because it was a verbatim account of his dealings with the Queen and Prince Philip. Both came out as decent, hardworking and with a sense of humour, just the way people in the know have told me they are.
Although I've lunched with the Queen a couple of times, for some strange reason she did not acknowledge my presence. The first time was after Prince Pavlos of Greece's wedding, at Hampton Court, where the Queen and I were separated by some 400 schmucks. The second was again because of the Greek royal family, this time King Constantine's 60th birthday luncheon at Highgrove. I was the only hack there but did not write about the event because the King asked me not to. But, boy, if I had one euro for every time I read about that lunch. I'd most likely be made a lord by Tony Blair.
It was in June 2000 and, according to the know-nothing tabloids, the lunch was the first time the Queen would break bread with Camilla Parker Bowles, It was, of course, a total invention. All I know is that upon arrival I looked for Camilla, greeted her, told her a joke about Charles Benson, and then mingled. While talking to my friend Dino Goulandris, Prince Charles approached us and asked if Dino and I had been at Anavrita (King Constantine's school) together. 'No, Sir,' I replied. 'Dino was my fag at Eton.' The prince broke up, Dino asked me in Greek whether I had blown my mind, and then we sat down to lunch. Again, for some strange reason, the Queen and I did not have a tete-a-tete despite sitting three feet apart.
Which was not the case of the night before with Prince Philip. It was at San Lorenzo, and Prince Pavlos was throwing the bash. I was standing next to the Duke of Edinburgh when I spotted Ros, the redhaired hat-check girl who is known among the regulars as the Duchess of York. 'Oh, Fergie, I'm so glad to see you back in the bosom of the royal family,' I yelled at her. Ros blushed, Mara, the owner, began to scream at me to be quiet, and Prince Philip burst out laughing.
So, perhaps I, too, should become a royal correspondent, or expert, as they're called. After all, I've had far more access to the Queen than anyone else, with one or two exceptions, that is.
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