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It was my mother, Princess Tabitha, who encouraged me to sow my wild oats. Unfortunately, these seeds always spilled onto barren ground. But I had great success with pansies. Being a normal product of the public school system (normal to public schools, that is) this was simply par to the course.

I remember the day when mother interrupted my study of the Liverpool Street to Ipswich timetable. I managed to throw the thing out of the window before the burning pages reached my fingers. She has such a sense of humour! When she told that I needed to get a sex life, I told her I already had one. She said that I needed one that involved another person being present. Such a hilariously bizarre idea!

“You must get out more, Neil! Preferably permanently. I’ve company tonight. Brendan, Sean and Declan are moving in.” Mother was keen on helping Britain to improve relations with Ireland. She somehow thought that offering sexual relations to the navvies digging up the road outside would be a good place to start.

I barely had time to correct her error in calling me Neil, before I found myself spreadeagled on the pavement outside. A few seconds later, my clothes came flying through the window and formed a perfect rosette around me. (A panel of judges on the other side of the road held up numbers: ‘6.0, 5.8, 5.9, 6.0, 6.0, 5.6′. It was the best rosette of clothes around a recumbent figure they had ever seen). My last thought, before losing consciousness, on seeing a full trunk hurtling towards me, was: “I hope it’s not full.”

I woke to find myself covered in newspapers. A headline caught my eye: “Palace Sensation: Prince Nigel still a virgin at 36″. I can’t begin to describe my mortification. These newshounds should get their facts right. I was 37. I dusted myself down, gathered up my belongings and went to see two important people.

Firstly, I went to see my lawyer for advice about this slander. He told me to issue a libel suit at once, but my tailor didn’t know how to make one, so I decided to send them a morning suit, instead. Next I went to see my doctor about my sexual problems. We both arrived at the conclusion that whereas the tabloids have done nothing to help the love lives of Royal Family members, the tablets might help to improve mine.

Thus advised and equipped, and from a newly-acquired rented broom cupboard near Clapham Junction, I set forth to conquer the opposite sex.

A slow build-up was essential for a person with such little experience, so I frequented shopping centres and practised chat-up lines on shop window mannequins.

Fearing the ever-present paparazzi, I disguised myself in a long brown mackintosh, wellington boots and storm hat. This outfit seemed to inspire people to show me a lot of respect, as they would stand up and leave buses or railway carriages when I came in. I could walk through busy streets without fear of collision, as the crowds would part like the Red Sea before me.

When my already unnatural gifts of charm and repartee had shown signs of improvement, I managed to steal a mannequin out of Top Shop and bring it home. Melinda (for that is what I called her) had a chip on her shoulder. Her left forearm was missing, as well, but this afforded some good practise at living with someone’s imperfections. The subsequent newspaper headlines did not require legal action as they were quite impressive: “Prince Nigel living in sin with model girl”. But after three weeks of watching television on the sofa with her, it was time to pluck up courage to go and get a real girl. I decided to become a habitué of London’s nightclub scene. Tramp seemed like a likely venue for a person with my fashion sense, so off I went.

The music was loud and so was my suit, the lights were flashing and so was I, the women were arresting and so were the police officers who were trying to drag me away. However, convinced of my explanation of a faulty zip, they let me go with a caution: “Never buy the first round”.

And so the weeks passed, with nightly visits to the capital’s hotspots increasing my reputation as a ladies’ man. Wherever I went, people would laugh uproariously as I arrived and cheer devotedly as I left. I discovered that a sense of humour is the most important quality that women look for in men. So I always dressed as Coco the Clown and arrived armed to the teeth with whoopee cushions, handshake buzzers, exploding cigars, fart powder, itching powder and X-Ray Specs. As you can imagine, this makes quite an impression and people do sit up and take notice. Actually, most of them stand up and leave.

To date, I have dated only one woman, Melinda the shop window model. Perhaps I set my standards too high. Perhaps women are intimidated by my connections with the Royal Family. Perhaps I am too exacting about my requirements in a woman. But, I’m only fourteen years on in my personal quest for a distraction from train timetables, so there’s plenty of time yet.

Being born with a silver spoon in one’s mouth has its problems. For a start it’s a hellish birth experience for the mother. Especially if it’s a soup ladle. And it makes it so difficult to talk properly. But beyond these petty concerns, it makes you a marked man. You stand out from the crowd.

So, as one grows up, one becomes gradually conscious of being different. During the period when I was constantly being thrown out of Buckingham Palace, I spent days on the pavement becoming gradually conscious.

I rarely saw my mother (so little is known about Princess Tabitha that there is speculation that not many people know much about her). She divided her time between the drinks cabinet and the sleeping bag next to it at our flat in Battersea.

But I remember the day when she got a phone call from the Palace to arrange my schooling. She came into the room looking all bubbly and effervescent. I remember thinking I shouldn’t keep washing-up liquid in gin bottles.

She unlocked the glass display cabinet, took me out and put me in a suitcase. She slapped on some stamps and sent me by second class post to Martindales.

“I remember my first day at Martindales as clearly as if it was yesterday,” I wrote in my diary on the second day there. It was my great wit, good looks and sensitivity that would guarantee my popularity.

I devised a new initiation ceremony with my new comrades. This involved binding the victim to the scorching hot dormitory boiler and hitting him about the head with a cricket bat. Of course, ritual had to be tested, so we had to select one of our number to do so. Due to an overwhelming popular vote, they chose me.

Six weeks later, as they were near to perfecting the technique, I became vaguely aware of hands tugging at the ropes and a voice saying ‘Who are you? What are you doing here? Don’t you know it’s half term?’

How the chaps laughed when I related this on my return from hospital.

They insisted on celebrating by having me swim across the canal with my hands tied behind my back and a plastic bag on my head. Another whacky Martindales tradition!

One of my distant relatives once referred to the school as ‘a hole’. He must have been referring to the deep pit on the wasteland next to the compost heap and rubbish bins. Moments of youthful exuberance meant that I was often writhing about at the bottom of it. Ha! How I would laughingly threaten them with all sorts of unlikely retributions. They would laugh uproariously back, amicably pelting me with stones, rocks, old desks and dustbins full of rubbish.

It toughened you up, Martindales. And now? I’m fine except for frequently shaking hands and double vision. But was I bullied? Never!

We managed to trace three of Prince Nigel’s former classmates and asked them to comment:

Thomas Ffyfes-Bananas (the famous bananas heir): “Prince who? Oh, Prince Nigel. Oh yeah. He was great fun. You could pulverise him all night long and he’d come back for more. I enjoyed it.”

The Rt Hon Christopher Milky Barr-Kydd, MP (the famous confectionery heir): “Let me make myself absolutely clear. No, Let me finish. I can categorically state that there is no truth in the accusation that we did not bully Prince Nigel. We hardly ever let him regain consciousness.”

Wayne Duane Vidal-Sassoon (the famous hairdressing heir): “It was the frankfurter and laxative incident that made most of an impression on me. I was standing below the window at the time.”

Buckingham Palace declined to comment. There was no word from Kensington Palace either. In fact no building in London has ever been heard talking at all.

ARCHIVE: Issue 1, September, 1994, revised and re-written.

A LOT OF PRESS coverage used to be given to the possible damaging effects that violent videos could have on unstable minds. They used to be called ‘Video Nasties’. ‘DVD Nasty’ doesn’t quite have the same ring about it, but the same principles apply.

The theory is that if you show such a video to someone with violent inclinations it will propel them to commit such acts. And there are so many videos/dvds depicting chainsaw massacres and supernatural nastiness that their effects are bound to infiltrate society and disturb tea at the vicarage.

The Authorities are going to be hard-pressed to know what to do with all the murderous maniacs spawned by such readily-available digital indoctrination. Well, I may just have the answer.

The cure for a person suffering from heartburn because of too much acid in his stomach is to provide the opposite to acid: something alkaline. Milk of Magnesia neutralises the acid effects. Ergo, we must find the equivalent treatment to neutralise the effects of those Video Nasties.

Pinafore Dress

Wheel in the Video Nice-ies, straitjacket the patient, strap his head into direct viewing line with the screen and assault him with Mary Poppins, The Railway Children, Captain’s Courageous and other similar films. If he was so easily impressionable when expose to violence, he will most likely be equally influenced by niceness. So much so, that he will be able to skip out of the maximum security wing wearing a pinafore dress crying: “Daddy…oh, my Daddy!”

Of course, not all dangerous psychopaths will respond the same way to the same film, so a wide selection should be available. There is no telling if the more unstable mind might be inspired to even more nauseating deeds of carnage simply by exposure to the Truly Scrumptious episode from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. And who can possibly predict the adverse effects on such minds by any Robin Williams film?

Chimney Sweeps

So there is a small margin of possible error, but the basic tenet of this theory is sound. Or rather, video. The possible side effects are a justifiable risk in our quest for a safer society. And how society will have been changed as these formerly-crazed inmates pour into the streets and shopping centres.

The prison hospitals will be empty. Innocent pedestrians will walk dark streets not in fear of muggers, but in dread of a long lost relative hugging them. Some neighbourhoods will be kept awake by chimney sweeps dancing on their rooftops. It’s a hard choice, but which would YOU prefer? Fred West or Julie Andrews roaming your streets at night? Ha!