Guest Blog: Prince Harry On Tour

“OI you, saggy flaps!” I shouted at the trolley dolly as she walked down the aisle to serve one of my six bodyguards, “I think you’ll find that this is only a triple measure of Jack and I specifically asked for a quadruple. Be a luv and bring us the bottle.” Jesus, here I was heading to the States for the most important gig of my life only to find that Grannie’s Flight is employing hostesses from the Helen Keller School of Dozy Bloody Arseholes.

Still, I suppose visiting America is a picnic compared to my tour of duty in Afghanistan. I can tell you it was no place for faint hearts or the type of retards my gay brother hangs out with. I remember one cold night sitting in a foxhole as the bullets were flying – it was just me, three lads from the Royal Protection Branch and seven members of the SAS. And it wasn’t so much a foxhole as it was fairly large, reinforced concrete bunker. But, I can assure you, a picnic it was not.

I arrive in New York, and immediately the scumbag press make a bee-line for yours truly, so I put my baseball cap and a pair of dark glasses on and try my best to avoid them. One of them manages to corner me just as I’m about to get in the limo, so I give big Igor ( my nickname for bodyguard No.1) the nod, and he gives the snapper a crack in the windpipe. HELLO! Down he goes and I high-five with the big man and climb into the Bentley.

America, home of the fat. I’ve never seen so many chubby munters in my entire life. One old bloater offered me what she called a ‘traditional apple pie’ at a reception being held in my honour. I said thanks before looking her up and down and telling her it was a wonder it’d reached me in one piece (cue big fist-bump with Igor). After that I had to sit and listen to a choir of poor kids sing some song about peace or something – I can’t fucking remember, I was listening to the Killers on my iPod.

Why am I surrounded by morons? This afternoon, I asked Hopkins to order room service and two minutes later he pipes up that ‘they don’t do sausage and mash, sir’.  Fucking useless. “HELLO? Hello? Yes, this is Prince Harry and I want a big, fuckoff plate of sausage and mash with the sausages sticking out of the mash and I want it covered in onion gravy. Why? Because that’s how cook did it at School and I also happen to be third in line to the throne, you poxy little turd.” And with that I shot Hopkins my not-happy face and told him to make himself useful in the thousand dollar prossie department. Oh and by the way, WHERE’S MY BLOODY JACK DANIELS?

As told to Matt Owen


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Your Problems Solved, With Holly Harper

Dear Holly,
I am a 57 year-old ‘cougar’ with four children and two failed marriages behind me. Until recently I had given up all hope of finding love again. However, during a recent holiday to Turkey with my good friend Barbara, something amazing happened. One minute, Me and Babs were in a bar, shimmying on down to Candyman by Christina Aguilera, taking care not to get my cardi snagged on Barbara’s mobility scooter; the next, I was melting in the arms of a charming 19-year old sex-pot-with-a-six-pack called Murat. Although we’d only known each other for 20 minutes, Murat had already declared his love and asked about how he might arrange a British passport so we can spend eternity together. All this despite the fact I weigh 18 stone. Do you think it’s too soon for us to get a joint bank account?

Dear Doris,
That sounds like the time Andrew Harris convinced the whole class that he had a real, live tiger in his back garden, when in fact it was just his dog with a stripy rug sellotaped to its back; or the time my parents promised me and my big sister a ‘fun’ family holiday in Hunstanton, which actually turned out to be a miserable week trapped in an airtight caravan with my flatulent granny teaching us every card game known to man; or indeed, the time I thought I was getting a bargain by paying £1.50 for  Sharon Eccles’ Tiny Tears doll that turned out to be massively incontinent and had to go in the bin after just one day. You may have picked up a recurrent theme here, which is basically that things which appear too good to be true invariably are too good to be true. I suggest you bid farewell to Murat, unless you want to run the risk of something terrible happening, like being chased through a back alley by an angry Alsatian wearing a carpet,
Hope that helps!