Dear Philippa,

 

During the eighties and nineties,  I was a frequent guest at the University Club in New York, so frequent in fact that the porter remembered my name. His invariable greeting was, “How very nice to see you again, Mr Croft. How is the Princess Ferguson, sir?” To which I would always reply, “Very fine, Mr Bauer. Thank you for asking.” I never understood his devotion to the (now) Duchess of York, alone of all the members of our Royal Family, nor his simple faith that because she and I both lived in London we were personally acquainted – perhaps my aristocratic swagger persuaded him that we must be. 

 

I wonder what Mr Bauer made of all the Royal Marriage coverage, and if he grieves for Fergie’s exclusion from the guest list. What the guest list did reveal was that some of the Windsors, or their court perhaps, are as preoccupied with celebrity as any Hello! magazine reader. David and Victoria Beckham were there, for example, as was Tara Palmer-Tomkinson who is famous only for having the appearance of possessing more libido than is good for her and for having destroyed her own septum. Allegedly. Are these people really friends of the Family? I suppose they must be. 

 

Not that any of this is new. Princess Diana enjoyed the company of the glitterati, Wayne Sleep and so on, and Prince Charles’s friendship with Spike Milligan was well known, arising from his enthusiasm for The Goon Show. But where will it end? I suspect a downward trajectory will be revealed.

 

Yorkshire people are not so easily dazzled. The Princess Royal came to Malton the other week in her capacity as President of a charity devoted to the care of injured jockeys. Apart from a bit of civic courtesy there was little fuss and she was allowed to go about her business, useful business at that, untroubled by gawking rubberneckers. Last year the Prince of Wales arrived here by train, alighting onto a deserted platform, not even a ticket inspector to be seen. 

 

The keenness  of politicians to enjoy the company of show business personalities began I suppose when Harold Wilson, who had “put the levers of power within the reach of youth” by lowering the voting age to eighteen (with catastrophic effects on the percentage turnout at elections ever since) gave the MBE to the Beatles, some of whom later put aside their spliffs to mail them back in disgust. Echoes of this in Gordon Brown’s improbable claim to fondness for the Arctic Monkeys, few of whose fans will have voted for him, or indeed for anyone. Recent press reports, based on her diaries, claim that Mrs Brown (Gordon’s wife, not Judi Dench) spotted Berlusconi trying to get Naomi Campbell to hand over her ‘phone number at a Downing Street dinner. It has not been explained why Naomi Campbell was present, though perhaps merely to be an hors d’oeuvre for the Italian whose unwholesome interest in beautiful girls is common knowledge. But I myself doubt this – it would after all suggest that there are those in government who are not averse to a bit of pandering, which is unthinkable.

 

Now I have to confess to being drawn to celebrities. Early one morning, having landed at Heathrow, I spotted a fellow looking through a copy of the Sun newspaper he’d taken from the rack, and showing no sign of going the cashier. “Having a free read, are we?” I asked.  He blushed beautifully did Wayne Rooney, the spud-faced nipper. Made my day.

 

Best wishes,

 

Howard