I'd like to have joined the army, but I made do with being a renowned homosexual instead
I have a framed seaside postcard in my hallway that makes me smile whenever I happen to glance at it on my way to or from my camp comedy appointments. An effeminate youth stands, hand on hip, at the desk of a red-faced army recruitment officer, who asks: “But what I want to know is, could you kill a man?” “Oooh, yes . . . eventually!” is his reply.
When I was a languid 16-year-old my father had the nerve to suggest I might like to consider joining the army. Secretly thrilled as I was at the thought of bunk beds and being drilled by a sergeant major till I was red raw, I looked at him aghast. "I think I'll become a renowned homosexual instead, if it's all the same to you," I said. And so it came to pass.
Now, wading through all of Hooray Harry's positive press, I'm almost sorry I didn't take up the offer. The armed forces are, it seems, a sort of Priory clinic for hopeless pleasure-seekers. "He's grown up big time. This has made him a man," said a royal commentator on BBC News 24. Now, 30 odd years after he made his tentative suggestion, I can understand my father's thinking. He was trying to toughen me up, prepare me for life in the real world. If only I'd listened.
"PRINCE HARRY SEES ACTION!" read the headline. It should have been me.
How very restrained of the British media to keep shtum about our hero being one of our boys in whatever war zone it was. Now, of course, we're paying for it. Having held their breath for so long, they're letting it all out with a gusto that, I'd have thought, rather exceeds public interest. Page after page about Harry's warrior-like behaviour on the front line, photos of him looking determined and suitably grubby - why, there was even a film crew on hand to secure footage of every gritty, gun-toting, army-ration-eating moment.
Personally, I was surprised at the length of his hair. Surely a royal hairdresser should have travelled with him? And when I heard he hadn't had a bath for a week I, for one, threw up. If that's what our boys have to go through, it's a lot worse than I thought.
I love surprises, so my sister flew over from her home in Majorca and hid in my bedroom just before my parents arrived for a Mother’s Day visit.
"Come and see my new wallpaper," I said, luring them towards their eldest child, who was sat smiling on my fun-fur bedspread. They gazed at her blankly for a second, before they realised who they were looking at. Then their arms opened involuntarily, they made appropriate exclamations, and their eyes shone. Parents, grandparents, great-grandparents - it was good to see them happy. "I thought you were a mannequin," said my father.
In view of the occasion I insisted on cooking lunch while everyone else graciously drank gin and tonic. By the time it was all laid steaming on the table, I was a sweaty wreck. "On any other day of the year we'd help," said my mother and sister, "but obviously it's out of the question." As we tucked in, we themed our conversation to the occasion and discussed childbirth. Apparently it's even harder work than cooking a Sunday lunch for four. I found that hard to believe.
"Really," said my sister, anxious for me to understand. "Imagine shitting a melon." That shut me up. My mother had a friend who didn't know she was pregnant. She knelt down by the fire to clean the grate, and out popped a baby - the post-natal equivalent of a green salad.
Later we drove to the village for a walk. As he eased himself out of the back seat, rear first, my father got stuck. "My body doesn't fold up like it used to," he puffed.
As my sister and I stood either side, easing him out of the door like a breech-birth lamb, my mother wandered off to admire the daffodils. "Maybe we should book a trip to Lourdes?" she said.
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