One woman’s joke is another woman’s poker face, and I confess that I opened my new copy of The Prince Charles Letters with low-ish expectations.

But it turns out my friend wasn’t joking at all:  The Prince Charles Letters is something of a literary crown jewel; a collection of letters written and sent by Prince Charles – to the Great, the Good, to other members of the Royal Family, and a whole battalion of celebs – lurks between the covers.

Described as: “An irreverent and seriously witty peek into the mind of Britain’s future monarch,”  this is a book that lives up to its blurb, with plenty of smile-out-loud stuff.

Want to win a copy of The Prince Charles Letters? Keep reading!

I mean, we’ve always known Prince Charles has a habit of bending the ears of politicians about the horrors of contemporary architecture and threats to the environment.  But I bet you didn’t know he once wrote to Tony Blair about his enthusiasm for the Eurovision Song Contest.

“My staff and I tune in every year,” Prince Charles confided.  He even suggested lyrics for his own Euro-contender: “Where hope lies like the turnip in the soil… Bing Bong-a-Bong, Bing Bing-A-Bong.

 If, by now, you’re beginning to smell a rat of the Adrian Mole variety, you’re absolutely correct.

The Prince Charles Letters is a literay hoax – and a wonderful idea.

Author David Stubbs skewers the public perception of HRH and serves him up as a loveable eccentric.

Here are a few excerpts from letters I particularly enjoyed:

• Congratulating Gordon Brown on finally becoming Prime Minister:  “So, at last you have your moment in the sun.  I, too, know what it is to be kept around waiting, and waiting, and waiting…”

• Admonishing Lady Gaga, when ‘her people’ accuse Prince Charles of being a hoaxer:  “…unlike yourself, I am whom I purport to be.”

• Words of wisdom to Justin Bieber who was ridiculed for saying he didn’t know what German was:  “Get on with your career, remember to get lots of fresh air and exercise.  No need to worry your young head about the Germans, save that knowledge for later life.  It’s rather complicated and grim.”

• To Princess Diana:  “I’m sure you’re going to think it’s a bit formal, my writing to you like this – especially when you’re sitting in the next room.”

• Bollocking Prince Harry after that Nazi Uniform incident: “In short, if you must dress up as a German, be a post-war German like Mr Helmut Kohl.

• ”Fan mail to Simon Cowell:  “To have persisted these many years with such a singularly unfashionable haircut shows (as some might say it does in me) a defiance and quality of mind rare amongst men.”

• Asking Jeremy Clarkson if he can appear on Top Gear: “I rather think I can show your viewers a thing or two about the thrills and spills of eco-sustainable driving.”

• To Michael McIntyre:  “Who are you and just why are you famous?”

• Lobbying Bruce Forsyth:  “In laying open the deciding vote to the general public you highlight a grave constitutional danger… I mean, John Sergeant, for Heaven’s sake?  Does this not highlight the dangers of an elective Republican state in this Kingdom of ours?”

 One of Prince Charles’ best ideas comes in a letter to the producers of Big Brother.  He announces he’s a fan, then suggests a Royal Big Brother.  (Are you reading my blog, Richard Desmond?)  “I’d be game,” says the Prince.  “I fancy my chances of going all the way.  Of course, Mother would probably decine to be involved.”

Then there’s HRH’s Unfortunate Crush on Fiona Bruce.  It’s doomed to failure when he signs off with a jaunty: “Oh, and despite what you say on Crimewatch,  do take care!  We lost Jill Dando and we don’t want to lose you as well.”

Prince Charles also reveals a hitherto unknown interest in sport.  I giggled at the thought of him offering David Beckham public speaking tips in exchange for advice of physical fitness – but his words of sympathy to Andrew Murray were “You must feel some days that it is simply never going to happen for you.  It’s certainly beginning to look that way, isn’t it?  I know that feeling – in fact, I have been rather gloomily prey to it, just lately.”

But what does Prince Charles really sound like when he opens his mouth in private?

 Writing a novel that brings famous people face-to-face with a cast of fictional characters, is something of a high wire act.  And when that famous person happens to be Prince Charles, there’s definitely no safety net.

It’s a challenge I faced with The Power Behind The Throne.  Although Prince Charles isn’t a major character, he is central to the story line, and takes centre-stage in several chapters.

Did I successfully capture the essence of  Prince Charles?

Read this little taster from my book and see what you think.

It’s a scene that happens early on, when Charles is about to face hundreds of journalists at an historic press conference:

Jonathan Jones, the public relations guru who was the Prince of Wales’s Director of Communications, looked at his watch. ‘We’ve kept them waiting for about fifteen minutes, sir. Probably time to make a move.’

Prince Charles stood up and gave himself a final check in the full-length mirror. At least his appearance wasn’t one of the things he needed to worry about. He never had any problems looking the part, and was, as usual, impeccably turned out. Having adopted the double-breasted suit thirty years earlier, he had stuck determinedly to it ever since. It had been far from the height of fashion, even then, but he didn’t care. He had discovered a look that flattered him and made him feel at ease. That was good enough, although William and Harry had teased him mercilessly about his fuddy-duddy look since the moment they’d started to choose their own clothes.

Today’s suit had been hanging in the Royal wardrobe for several months, awaiting its public debut. It was the colour of soot. Beneath the jacket was a new white shirt and a black tie, fastened appropriately in the Windsor knot which had been pioneered by his great-great-grandfather, Edward VII, a previous Prince of Wales who had followed Queen Victoria onto the Throne of England. The whole appearance was one of utter dignity and restraint.

 ‘Just remember the communications plan, sir.’ Jones tapped his fingernails on a table for emphasis. ‘You were great during the rehearsal, and we’ve already anticipated the sticky questions. Start with the statement, then let them fire away. Everything will be fine. They’re definitely on your side today.’

All very well for Jones to say that. He was acknowledged as the most talented spin-doctor of them all, with the possible exception of Charles’s old school friend, Bobby Levin. It was Bobby who had recommended him for the job. But Charles was the one who had to get out onto that stage and stand up on his hind legs to face the mob.

He gathered his thoughts. It wouldn’t do to keep wondering when those bastards were going to regurgitate the whole, wretched Camillagate story. Even the memory of how telephone snoopers had picked up his light-hearted, late-night remark made him tighten his jaw. He’d merely told the woman he loved of his wish to be reincarnated as her Tampax. Next thing he knew, his jovial bedroom banter was global news. It had been the most humiliating moment of his life, and it would undoubtedly be raked up all over again within the next few hours. Either that, or on the day of his coronation. Probably both, he thought grimly.

He paused at the door of the small room and ran through the communications strategy one last time. It was simple enough. The plan hadn’t changed.

‘You need the journalists as much as they need you,’ Jones had informed him on his first morning at St James’s Palace. Charles gave him a deliberately petulant glare, but the new employee continued unperturbed. ‘Unless I have your full co-operation, sir, there’s no point in me being here. Would you like me to stay?’ The threat lingered in the air for a few seconds.

‘I’m sure you can understand the press aren’t exactly my favourite people.’ He responded with all the grace of a sulky teenager. The Prince of Wales was unaccustomed to being challenged by men with such implausibly blonde hair.

‘I know you’ve had a lot of grief from them in the past.’ Jones pulled a sympathetic face. ‘But it’s essential that from now on they’re on your side.’

‘That’ll be the day. Just look at the names they’ve given me over the years.’ Charles’s voice rose with indignation as began to reel them off. ‘The Loony Prince. That was simply because I talk to my plants now and again. Prince of Whingers. Don’t know where that one came from.’ He stuck out his lower lip. ‘Playboy Prince. Completely ignores the fact that I carried out over 600 public engagements last year.’ He paused. ‘Cheating Bastard Prince.’ The final three words were spoken softly, and the pain was written into his face.

‘That’s all in the past.’ Jones said cheerfully. From now on, think of yourself as the Comeback Kid Prince.’ He made it sound easy. ‘The biggest point in your favour is William and Harry.”

The Prince Charles Letters and The Power Behind The Throne are both available at Amazon.

In a foolish act of generosity, I am giving away two copies of The Prince Charles Letters.

One to the winner of my Twitter competition (follow me @sallynicoll to be in with a chance) which runs from 3 – 6 February 2012.

To win the other, suggest a person Prince Charles might write to, along with an idea of the topic.  Whoever makes me laugh loudest, wins the book.    Just hit the comments button, and I’ll pick the winner in March.

Here’s the story.

The day Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer announced their engagement, I was a very young radio reporter in the South of England. The second the news broke that the Royal couple would be spending their wedding night at Broadlands – an elegant country house home once owned by Lord Louis Mountbatten – my news editor turned to me and said, “Off you go! Three minute colour piece for the six o’clock bulletin.”
This turned out to be easier said than done.

I arrived at Broadlands to find the place deserted. No tourists. No well-wishers. No citizens dancing in the village streets of Romsey. Not even a Union Jack in sight. Just me, my tape recorder (these were the Olden Days) and a microphone.
“No story here,” I declared in a phone call to the news desk.
“Then don’t bother coming back.”

At that time, Broadlands was open to the public, so I paid my admission fee and armed myself with the official guide book. Broadlands, I learned, had once been owned by Henry VIII. Great! I could spin that fact out for all of five seconds, at the start of my report. Then I would be able to mention the gardens had been designed by Capability Brown, that there were Greek and Roman treasures in the Sculpture Hall, paintings by Van Dyck on the walls and a magnificent collection of Wedgwood that had a room all to itself. OK, so I would be able to take our listeners on an audio tour of Broadlands. Things were looking up.

After I had done my intro – “Hello and welcome from Broadlands, once the home of King Henry VIII… remodelled to its current splendour by former Prime Minister Lord Palmerston… frequently visited by Her Majesty the Queen… and now the Hampshire honeymoon choice of Prince Charles and his fiancée, Lady Diana Spencer…” – I headed for the river. Not to throw myself in, but so I could explain how the River Test, flowing through the elegant grounds of Broadlands, was world-renowned for its salmon and trout fishing. “…although it’s most unlikely that His Royal Highness will have time for a spot of fly fishing once he arrives…” Having made certain I was unobserved, I lobbed a few stones into the river: the sound effects would come in useful once I was back in the editing suite.

Everything was going well. I reckoned I had almost enough for three minutes, including a few words from a tourist I had captured en route to the aforementioned Wedgwood Room: “What a lovely couple they make, and what a great honeymoon choice!”
Just one more segment to record, then I’d be done. I was on my way back towards the drawing room, composing my final words – “Broadlands has been part of British history for centuries. And now, a new chapter opens.” – when I saw it. A sign at the start of a corridor that proclaimed: NO ENTRY. No-one was in sight. No-one could stop me.

What would YOU have done?

Not a moment’s hesitation. I crossed the red velvet rope, tiptoed down the possibly Persian carpet, turned left and found myself inside a majestically intimidating bedroom, complete with majestically intimidating bed.

SCOOP! “…who knows who has spent the night in this room before. Henry VIII? Perhaps Lord Palmerston. Winston Churchill? Florence Nightingale – she is reputed to have been a frequent visitor, as was the artist Sir Joshua Reyn––”

A heavy hand descended on my shoulder, and roughly thirty seconds later, I was ejected from Broadlands with the words, “Never, EVER come back, do you understand?” ringing in my ears. The News Editor was pleased with me, that day.

All these years later, I’m not so proud of myself. I remember, too, how Jack Hollander, the hero of my book The Power Behind The Throne pays his admission fee for Buckingham Palace, unaware of the deception that is about to engulf him – and change his life forever.

And on Princess Diana’s birthday, which coincided with Prince William’s North American tour, I couldn’t help but think how proud his mother would have been of him, and how much she would have liked her new daughter-in-law.

I just hope the new Royal couple don’t have to deal with too many unscrupulous reporters in the years ahead.