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Royal exits gracefully

It was early on a rainy Saturday morning that I received the momentous news. While lying abed awaiting the first flash of inspiration with which I customarily begin my working day, my train of thought was abruptly derailed by the persistent tinkling of the telephone.

At the other end of the line was none other than my editor, tiresomely insisting that I proceed directly to the typewriter and hew from the living paper some appropriate epitaph to a "Princess Margaret". The odious whippersnapper, ignoring my protests that no newsman alive would think of embarking on such an onerous task without first completing a solid bowel movement and enjoying a hearty breakfast of devilled eggs, kidneys and thick buttered toast, ordered that I make all speed to the Remington, while apparently being urged to "pull my fuc*king finger out".

Having taken a moment to pour scorn on his hanging participle, only to receive a torrent of barrack-room filth for my trouble, I assured the presumptuous "dotcom yuppie" (as I believe he is known in the current vernacular), that said copy would be delivered within the hour.

Ninety minutes later, as I sat astride my own throne and perused a well-thumbed copy of Who's Who in order to ascertain the identity of this princess that they call Margaret, I was reminded of the occasion on which a particularly laboursome defecation had saved the life of Prince Wolfgang Graf von Bierkeller, heir to the fabulous estates and titles of all Saxmundheim.

Prince Wolfgang, or "Wolfie" as I am allowed to address his majesty, was a jolly fellow indeed, as fond of the serving wenches as he was of the black bread, smoked pork sausage and lager beer which entirely comprised his diet.

I had been dispatched by the society desk to cover Wolfie's forthcoming nuptials to the rotund Princess Helga von Faß, a beauty whose legendary radiance was matched only by her many appetites. My first meeting with the Prince, was, not unnaturally, in a local hostelry where he was wont to hold court until the early hours.

I was immediately attracted by this young man whose riotous revelry hid a melancholy side fuelled by his propensity for angst-ridden German philosophers and turgid Russian literature.

"Herr Sikorski," he bellowed. "I see that you are very much like myself — a man of intellect and insight. Not like these stinking peasants," he added, indicating the assembled company with a wave of an enormous Bratwurst. His entourage roared its approval, clearly accustomed to Wolfie's sharp wit.

The conversation — and beer — flowed freely over several hours. Wolfie noted that whereas he had been born great, I would doubtless achieve that status. I could not help but agree with this insight, having always felt comfortable in the presence of greatness.

"But enough of this idle chit-chat," roared Wolfie, disentangling himself from the particularly well-appointed innkeeper's daughter. "I insist that you must come immediately and see my library."

An unexpected and total silence suddenly descended on the inn. I confess that for a moment I was perplexed. "Do not be alarmed," the Prince reassured me. You are the first man worthy to be invited to the Great von Bierkeller Library."

Trembling with anticipation and the almost unbearable burden of this great honour, I followed the Prince as he trundled majestically through the apparently endless corridors of the von Bierkeller palace, pausing only to take a slice of sausage presented on a gold tray at strategic intervals by some quivering lackey.

Perhaps it was the Bratwurst, perhaps the beer, perhaps the occasion itself, but I at once felt a familiar stirring in my loins. Wolfie impatiently escorted me to a sumptuous lavatory and exhorted me to "fire the torpedo" as quickly as possible. We did, he noted, have much to discuss.

Anyone who has ever over-indulged on black bread will be able to confirm this is easier said than done. And strain as I might, I could not in all honesty get more than the tip of the torpedo out of the tube. The Prince, meanwhile, paced loudly up and down outside the door, muttering ancient Teutonic curses under his breath. This did not assist my cause, but, determined to hit the target, I gripped the seat and braced for an explosive outgassing.

The next thing I remember was lying on the floor outside the lavatory, covered in dust and with my lederhosen round my ankles. Wolfie, his face black with soot, regarded me vacantly from the other side of the corridor where he had been thrown into a glass display case containing a pleasing arrangement of stuffed wild boar.

It was several minutes before the reason for our unexpected relocation became clear. A bomb had completely wrecked the Great Library, some fifty feet away, killing instantly two unimportant servants who had been standing outside the door bearing platters of diced pork and boiled cabbage.

We later learned the explosive device had been planted by a man who, as a child, had witnessed Wolfie's father nailing his own father's hat to his head for not doffing it as tradition dictated. This deranged individual had spent thirty years planning his terrifying revenge, and had gone as far as to train as a bookbinder and establish a well-respected restoration business in the hope of one day gaining access to the Great Library.

But when he finally succeeded, his incredible plan was thwarted by the most mundane of human functions. And it had been my bowels which had saved the heir to the fabulous estates and titles of all Saxmundheim.

To commemorate this miracle, Wolfie presented me with a golden stool, encrusted with diamonds and other precious gems. Sadly, the loss of his precious library took its toll on the Prince's mental health. He gambled away his extensive wealth and now lives in a one-bedroom apartment in the poorer part of Munich. We do, nevertheless, still exchange Christmas cards with the inscription "Here's hoping you fire the torpedo this Xmas!" A wry smile never fails to cross my lips.

The Princess who died here was indeed called Margaret, and was in some way related to our beloved Queen. She has, it is said, touched the lives of millions and will be sadly missed by all of her subjects.

Previous insights from our Senior Reporter:

Vicar opens fete
Council unveils bench
Woman has baby
Youth steals phone

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