Thwack! Randy Andy spouts a load of balls on the golf course

Windsor Castle. Some time in 2011. Prince Andrew is practising his golf.

Rustle, swish, thwack.

Oh, good shot, Sir! Wouldn’t be surprised if that one landed smack in the quad at Eton College.

Don’t be ridiculous, Timpkins, I’ve only got a No. 3 wood out. Watch this one….

Rustle, swish, thwack.

Oh, no. Fore, FORE! Crikey, Sir, bit of a slice on that one. You’ve taken out one of the castle windows.

Not a slice, Timpkins, you idiot… a fade. Expert and quite deliberate. And not just any window, but my brother’s bedroom window, damn him.

I see, Sir. Er, it’s Thompson, by the way.

Don’t bandy words with me, Timpkins.

No, Sir.

Serves the bugger right. Bloody wishy-washy liberal. Always dressing up in native costume and making a fool of himself dad dancing.

Well, it is required of him on foreign tours, Sir. He is the heir to the Throne, after all.

Yes he is, dammit. My dear mama got most things right. But she messed up on the order of her sons. I should be King, Timpkins.  A real man. A man of experience. A proper military background. Did I tell you I was a hero of the Falklands conflict?

I think you might have mentioned it, Sir.

Don’t like to boast, of course, but I was a bit of a diplomat, too. Leading hugely important trade missions. Must have earned the country billions.

Gross or net, Sir?

What the devil do you mean, man?

Well, the five-star hotels, the chartered jets, they can’t have come cheap.

Do you know whom you’re talking to, Timpkins?

Sorry, Sir, I didn’t mean...

Harrumph. Sorry, indeed.

Rustle, swish, thwack.

You’ve hooked that one, Sir. It’s hit a tree. Wait a minute, that’s not a tree. It seems to be someone dressed as a tree. It’s a Chinese gentleman, I think. He looks a little dazed. I’d better check him out.

Oh, don’t worry about him, that’s Ying Tong.

Who, Sir?

Ying Tong iddle I po. We met on a trade do at the Dorchester. Generous chap, he and the Duchess got on famously. He seems to pop up wherever I go. Not usually dressed as a tree, though.

I think that may not be his real name Sir. More of a nom de guerre. The Ying Tong Song is the title of a silly ditty by The Goons. You know, Peter Sellers, Harry Secombe, Spike Milligan.

Fucking hell, Timpkins, that just happens to be my brother’s favourite comedy. If you bring him up once more I’ll have you directing traffic at the only fucking crossroads in the Falkland Islands. And for your information, there isn’t any fucking traffic. Is that clear enough, you jumped up plod?

Crystal, Sir, but this Ying Tong chap bears a marked resemblance to a gentleman from the Chinese embassy who we think is a spy.

Spy? Why would anyone spy on me?

Secrets, Sir. Has he ever made any unusual requests for information?

Well, he did ask me if I had  mobile number for the Prime Minister. Or was it the Director General of MI5? Both, perhaps, on reflection. He also asked me how to get to Cheltenham. Said he had a meeting with someone from GCHQ. Anyway, look here Timpkins, I have a small favour to ask of you.

Sir?

Well, there’s this woman… called Virginia Giuffre. She’s American. She’s causing me a spot of bother.

I think I know what you’re alluding to, Sir.

Good, good. Thing is, I think she may have a criminal record over there. It would be enormously helpful to confirm that… and to know if there’s anything else questionable about her character. Associates, private life, business dealings, that sort of thing. If it’s any help, I’ve written down her date of birth and her US social security number.

Hmm, right, Sir. I’ll talk to some people, see what’s possible. Don’t want to get either of us in trouble, do we? By the way, Sir, you mentioned the Falklands. Is there any truth in the rumour that you’re going out there as Governor-General?

Governor-General? Who’s been putting that around? It sounds rather like exile to me. Banishment. Mind you, they do love me there. Did I tell you that I played a rather important role as a helicopter pilot during the conflict?

I think you might have mentioned it, Sir.

Rustle, swish, thwack.

Oops. Now I’ve hit a deer. Never mind, looks like venison for dinner. I hit one of the corgis last week. Her Majesty was furious. I blamed a footman, of course, but every time I pass that bloody dog it goes for my ankles. The footman too, some days. Well, Timpkins, what are you standing there for?

I’m your personal protection officer, Sir.

I know that, you idiot. I came out here with a full bucket of golf balls. Now it’s empty. Come on, shift your fucking arse, Timpkins, and go and fetch them. Christ, do I have to do everything myself?

*****

Deputy Assistant Commissioner’s office, New Scotland Yard, present day.

DAC: Wise of you to record it all, Thompson. Nothing incriminating there, quite the reverse, in fact. Arrogant so and so, isn’t he? I thought you showed admirable restraint, what with you being SAS-trained and carrying a Glock 17.

Thompson: I did it for my own amusement, really, Sir. He’s a hoot. A buffoon. Like a character from Evelyn Waugh. But now the proverbial rainy day is here and I’ve got something in the bank.

DAC: You have, Officer X (that’s what we’re calling you, by the way). The bit about Prince Andrew asking you to dig up some dirt on Virginia Giuffre is the serious part. You know the drill, we have to investigate.

Thompson: Yes, Sir, of course. Might I point out, though, that there are legal implications in just asking an officer to misuse his position in such a way?

DAC: Point taken, and we are looking at this from all angles. There is potentially the invasion of her privacy as well as a possible offence of inducing a public servant to commit a crime.

Thompson: Or we could just nick him for being a twat. Plenty of evidence for that. Remember the servant with the mole on his face? Andrew got him moved, said it was “unbearable”. He did the same with another servant who wore a nylon tie. Then there’s the poor woman who had to curtsey to him twice because she messed it up the first time. You know what he said? He said: “No. Not right. I’m going to go out of the room, come back in and you’re going to curtsey properly.” The woman has loathed him ever since apparently. That story comes from a journalist called Harry Mount.

DAC: Not sure there’s any such crime as being a twat. If there were, we’d have half the Royal Family and most of the House of Commons in the chokey. Let’s just wait and see what happens. I still think there’s some mileage in your Falklands rumour.

RICHARD DISMORE

22 October 2025