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and razzmatazz. You’re a man of conviction and it frustrates you that nobody listens to you . . .’
    ‘They don’t, it’s maddening .’
    ‘Well, sorry to have to tell you, sir, but people don’t want convictions, they want personalities . That’s why the Prime Minister’s on Parky .’
    ‘Did you see it? I thought he was rather good.’
    Calvin did not wish to discuss Parkinson. He was an astute judge of human nature and he was about to arrive at the point where he was certain the Prince would be unable to resist.
    ‘Your problem, sir, is that nobody knows the real you .’
    The Prince’s face lit up with an expression of surprise and joy.
    ‘Goodness gracious,’ he exclaimed, ‘I was only saying exactly that yesterday to my favourite aspidistra. How remarkably clever of you to spot that, Mr Simms.’
    Calvin smiled. He knew it was not clever at all. He had never met a single celebrity who did not lament the fact that people did not know the real them . From weather girls to rock superstars, the condition set in the moment a person was first reported or described in the media. Instantly they felt misrepresented, and the more the media represented them the more misrepresented they felt, until their whole lives were consumed with the passionate desire that people might somehow come to know the real them .
    ‘I am offering you a fresh chance, a chance to reach a regular audience of eight and a half million people , sir. Think of that, eight and a half million people every week. Predominantly young people , sir, don’t forget that. Our demographic is a prince or a politician’s dream.’
    Calvin knew that if there was one phrase above all others which was likely to appeal to the very soul of a modern prince that phrase was ‘young people’, that massive group of supposedly disenfranchised, disillusioned, dispossessed citizens who were already two generations away from any residual respect for the great institutions of state.
    ‘But I’d have to sing for it,’ the Prince replied.
    ‘What’s wrong with singing? People like singing. Can you sing, by the way?’
    The Prince hesitated. His was a generation not raised to boast.
    ‘ Can you sing, sir?’ Calvin pressed, sensing weakness.
    ‘Well, I confess I have been told that I have a pleasant light baritone. Nothing to shout about, you understand.’
    ‘There you are then. Come and sing on Chart Throb . You’ll have plenty of opportunities for sound bites, every bit as long as they’d give you on the news. While all the other contestants will be saying they’re singing for their mums or for their kids, you can say you’re singing for your charities or sustainable cities or to promote awareness about soil.’
    Calvin had nearly pushed it too far.
    ‘You’re being facetious, Mr Simms,’ HRH protested.
    ‘No, I’m not. You are one of the few people in public life who still has the conscience to set themselves apart. To rise above the hysterical orthodoxy of the celebrity-obsessed media agenda and talk about things that matter. Architecture, soil, mutton, good vegetables, a lost generation becoming increasingly cut off from society and turning to crack cocaine and knife crime. You are that rare thing, a public figure of real conviction !’
    ‘I say, do you really think so? That is kind.’
    ‘Of course, it’s obvious to anybody who cares to think about it. But nobody ever does think about it. And why?’
    ‘Because I’m just boring old buggerlugs ?’
    ‘No!’
    ‘No?’
    ‘No! It’s because your voice has been crushed by media hype and the celebrity culture.’
    ‘Well, do you know, I rather think it has .’
    ‘And what I’m saying to you is that if show business has conquered conviction, isn’t it high time that conviction conquered show business?’
    ‘Goodness!’
    ‘The monarchy is in crisis, sir!’ Calvin had stood up now, his teacup rattling in his hand. ‘Destroyed by the very people it represents! It is time to reach