Diary – May 17, 1994

Virginia Bottomley has just been dealt another severe punch in the face. She was billed as the star performer in this weekend’s annual symposium of the Conservative Medical Society; now the event has had to be postponed owing to insufficient interest.
Officially a spokeswoman for the Society – an independent Tory association, headed by John Major and Baroness Thatcher – blames ‘unforeseen circumstances’ for the low number of tickets sold. Initially, I’m told, the situation was so dire the organisers decided to cancel, but optimism must have prevailed at the last minute.

The news can only be very disappointing for Mrs Bottomley, whose ‘keynote address’ was widely advertised in medical circles, and in the organisation’s bi-monthly publication: The Bulletin. It is, I’m told, the first time in its 19-year-old history that the event has had to fold. Nothing personal I’m sure.

A story comes my way from the Temple, which, I hope, will dispel the myth that the general mentality of barristers is as far above that of other mortals as their costumes suggest. A Recorder (senior barrister and part-time judge) in a well-known common law set returned from court one day to find her room transformed. On the desks, on the shelves, on the window sills, on the mantlepiece, and covering her favourite print of Lord Cockburn were those disgusting Lloyds Bank promotional toys, Quentin the Troll and family accompanied by the Talking and Accounting Pigs. Wearily the Recorder carried on with her duties among the debris, well aware which of her colleagues were the culprits. Future Lord Chancellors presumably.

A postcript to my story last week about the unfortunate hiccup in the otherwise dazzling career of Elizabeth Hurley, the actress girlfriend of Hugh Grant, who so effectively displayed an unusual fetish for safety pins last week. The next time we see Miss Hurley, I can reveal, she is likely to be wearing even less: on the front cover of a talking book she recorded last week, and which will be promoted in the next edition of The Modern Review. While I sympathise with those who have argued that it is a pity that Miss Hurley feels the need to market herself in so unsubtle a fashion, on this occasion, I can’t but help admire her honesty. The talking book, amply decorated with her sultry features, is suitably titled: Ambition.

It is just as well that Eton has resisted temptation, and maintained its exclusion of the fairer sex. For winging his way to the staff room in September, once he has cleared the hurdle of Oxford finals is Guy Burt, 21, precocious author of two published novels, and firmly considered (at least by my colleague, Marie, and myself) to be an absolute dish.

A scholar at Charterhouse, the self-effacing Burt has already demonstrated considerable agility in the classroom. He wrote his first novel, After the Hole, while supervising prep at St John’s preparatory school, Devon, during his gap year; his second novel, Sophie, due out this summer, was penned during his second year at Oxford ‘when there wasn’t too much else to do’.’

Nor will his role as Eton English master prevent him from continuing his scribbles. ‘I’ve got an idea for a third book on Oxford, which I hope to write there,’ he explains. Not, I’m sure, that this will prevent him from taking his teaching duties with the utmost seriousness. ‘I hope to be innovative in the areas not bound by the curiculum,’ he says – sounding ever so faintly resonant of Robin Williams in The Dead Poet’s Society.

Lord Sutch has been reunited with his top hat which, you may recall, he lost at Barry Island Conservative club at the weekend. Contrary to reports it had not been stolen. ‘It was just mislaid, – by him,’ sighs the finder Philip Walker. ‘He simply lost it as he seems to lose most things. . .like elections.’

(Photograph omitted)

Diary – May 16, 1994

In an attempt to disguise what is possibly its most embarrassing find, the British Museum is executing a cover-up operation to save a few blushing faces and curb public laughter. A few weeks ago, 70 yards of some of the rarest, most spectacular (and most valuable) Egyptian raiment dating from circa 2000 BC were discovered by a curator, immaculately preserved inside an Egyptian mummy case – which had lain, unnoticed, inside the museum for 80 years or so.
The case, thought to belong to an Egyptian royal or noble, had been collecting dust anonymously on a shelf when the curator decided it needed a clean and peeped inside. Despite the well-recorded Egyptian practice of enclosing clothing and bedding with their dead, it seems no one had thought to open it earlier.

‘We’re not sure what the cloth is yet, but it is in a very good state – perhaps the best ever found,’ explained another curator ecstatically. ‘There are reams and reams of it.’

In view of such excitement, I find it hard to account for the museum’s official line: ‘It’s just a few fragments really at the bottom of a box,’ said a spokesman.

The concept of rivalry is seldom publicly admitted by London’s more genteel sporting establishments. It would not be seemly, after all, for Charles Swallow, managing director of the pounds 1,549-a-year Vanderbilt Racquets Club, to admonish the Princess of Wales never to play tennis at nearby pounds 730-a-year Queen’s Club. I am amused, therefore, to see a far more subtle form of attack from Monsieur Swallow in the form of an invitation to celebrate the Vanderbilt’s 10th anniversary next month – right in the middle of Queen’s Club’s most prestigious tournament, London’s international precursor to Wimbledon, the Stella Artois. ‘There is no reason why we should have chosen that week for the party,’ insisted a Vanderbilt’s spokeswoman. . .and equally, sceptics might quibble, no reason why not.

Consolation for the red-faced members of the ENO’s publicity department, responsible for a recent appeal leaflet which included a reference to that little-known work: ‘Verdi’s Tosca’. The team at Brighton Festival Opera is not doing too well either. Posters have gone up advertising: ‘Rossini’s Magic Flute’.

Despite the presence of luminaries such as Anthony Sampson and VS Naipaul at last week’s literary award ceremony hosted by the Society of Authors in the Middle Temple Hall, the proceedings took a dramatic tumble, as spontaneously and uninvited, a young man leapt on to the stage, seized the microphone and begged the crowd: ‘I need to be discovered.’ Astonished editors, authors and poets turned as the man, one James Glasse, continued blithely: ‘I’m writing a novel. . . I think its quite good. . .I’m looking for an agent called Bill Hamilton. . .Is he here? I’ve heard he is quite famous.’ Quite where Mr Glasse, 32, developed such marketing tactics, is beyond me. Presumably not in the Civil Service, where he hails from. Personally, I consider his methods refreshing, but on this occasion, it seems his audience lacked humour: ‘You won’t get discovered like that, young man,’ hissed one author. ‘You’ll never get published now.’

Aggravating, surely, the already-soured relations between the Ulster Unionists and the Tories, caused by the Downing Street Declaration, is the latest Euro-campaign strategy of Tory party chairman Sir Norman Fowler. He is planning to visit Northern Ireland next month to promote the province’s sole Tory Euro-candidate, Myrtle Boal.

Ms Boal, 55, is delighted by such high-profile backing. With less than ten per cent support in the polls, she hopes Sir Norman’s presence will draw out the closet Tories, including some Ulstermen, whom, she says, Northern Ireland Secretary Sir Patrick Mayhew, is urging to convert.

‘They’ll soon fall foul of the electorate of Northern Ireland,’ said Jim Wilson, secretary-general of the Ulster Unionists, adding: ‘Any time they send over bigwigs from Smith Square they leave the kiss of death behind.

(Photograph omitted)

Diary – May 11, 1994

Euro-sceptics may soon find new allies in the unlikely form of West-End impresarios, directors, playwrights and producers. In what is perhaps its most controversial proposal, the European Union is preparing to issue a directive which will ban the most spectacular theatrical effects.
Revolving stages such as those used in Les Miserables, Carousel and The Wind in the Willows are to be slowed to limits deemed quite absurd by the Association of British Theatre Technicians (ABTT), whilst, even the most sprightly actors are to be banned from leaping on and off them.

The regulations, effective from 1995, are part of new EU health and safety standards and there are already fears that the machinery restrictions will extend beyond turning platforms.

‘I can’t see how things like on-stage helicopters (Miss Saigon) and roller-skating ramps (Starlight Express) will still be allowed,’ said Roger Fox, vice-chairman of ABTT, adding: ‘The EU does not seem to understand that theatres are not like factories.’

Cricked necks, hunched shoulders, and stiff legs are being stretched as champagne is poured by staff at the Victoria and Albert Museum, preparing to move out of their cramped-would-be-an-understatement offices into more spacious surroundings behind the museum in what was originally the Royal College of Art. The museum is shelling out pounds 8m to revamp the Grade I listed building, which will be a centre for preservation of the ‘decorative’ arts, as well as new offices. These, I’m told, are so smart, staff may actually have trouble readjusting – as one fondly put it: ‘We’re used to working in a Portacabin.’

Unlike the repeated insistence of Messrs Heseltine and Portillo that they have no wish, at present, to rise to giddier heights, the Education Secretary, John Patten, clearly feels no such encumbrances on his career ambitions. He has tried to change his title to that of ‘President’, he admitted at a conference in London last week, in emulation of Rab Butler, President of the Board of Education in the Forties. Sadly Mr Patten’s efforts have been doomed to failure -despite, it should be added, every effort by his permanent secretary, Sir Tim Lancaster. The title of President has been abolished and there is no way of getting it back, he has been told. This, admitted Mr Patten, has not been the only obstacle in this path. Presidents require boards . . . and boards require to be heard.

Undisputed though it is that the outgoing American ambassador, Ray Seitz , will be deeply missed by the British establishment, there was special mourning yesterday among the Commons cricket XI as they set off to play a team from Acas on the Civil Service pitch in Chiswick. The match was a late fixture, replacing what was to have been a Commons vs US embassy match, staged on a home-made pitch in the ambassador’s garden in Regent’s Park.

‘Seitz was planning to cut a wicket in his lawn,’ explained the Commons captain, John Hutton MP. ‘We were all so excited about it, but we knew we’d have to cancel if he left. His replacement, Admiral Crowe, had other engagements but we hope to reschedule next year.’

A hope that may be quickly squashed, I fear, for on calling the US embassy, a spokesman was emphatic: ‘Admiral Crowe is not remotely keen on cricket. He has never played the game, he has never been to Lord’s and nothing happens at his residence without his knowledge or approval.’

If the London Philharmonic conductor, Franz Welser, looked a trifle pale, performing Mahler’s second symphony at the Royal Festival Hall on Tuesday night, he had good reason.

In front of him, singing in the choir, and carefully watching every flick of the baton was Christopher Lawrence, managing director of the LPO and payer, therefore, of Welser’s wages.

‘Hmm,’ Lawrence said thoughtfully afterwards: ‘It’s interesting to see the conductor from the other side for once.’ String section beware – he is also a keen cellist.

Diary – May 10, 1994

Despite all the outward signs of a polished performance of Harold Pinter’s 1978 play, Betrayal, which opened last night at the BAC theatre in Battersea, tongues wagged venomously backstage over the terms issued by Pinter’s agent, Judy Daish, that all critics, other than one from a London magazine, be banned from the three-week run.
Given Pinter’s prolific output as well as his unique reputation – he is the only post-war playwright whose surname has formed a new adjective in English – the decision is viewed by some theatre buffs as quite astounding. ‘Initially Ms Daish actually wanted to ban the whole London production,’ explains the BAC’s artistic director, Paul Blackman. ‘It was only when producer Graham Cowley (manager of the Royal Court) talked to Harold himself that it was allowed go on at all.’

However, I understand Ms Daish is concerned that if too much attention is paid to the Battersea production it might prevent proposals for a West End production of the play in the next two years – an argument the BAC team finds hard to swallow since the maximum seating capacity of their studio is only 52.

Ultimately it seems unlikely that Ms Daish’s plans will go unimpeded; some performances are free and rumour has it there will be one or two among those audiences quietly taking notes.

The Queen is to be the subject of a controversial petition from the National Maritime Museum at Greenwich, requesting the return of the bullet that killed Lord Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, which she keeps in a locket at Windsor Castle and is said to be particularly fond of.

Nelson buffs at the NMR, however, argue that the bullet should be reunited with the Admiral’s jacket for a commemorative Nelson exhibition next year. His uniform, which they possess, has a small, round hole in the shoulder where the bullet, fired by a French sniper, sank in. ‘It just seems appropriate for the bullet and uniform to be exhibited together,’ says a maritime spokesperson, ‘especially since the bullet has a small piece of jacket attached.’

Buckingham Palace is refusing to be ruffled on the matter, however. ‘I’ve no idea if she’ll lend it,’ says a spokeswoman, clearly impressed by her regal environs. ‘We’ll wait until she’s asked.’

A new Soho club is to open above Cafe Boheme in Old Compton Street, rivalling nearby haunts, the Groucho Club and the somewhat less salubrious Blacks – where one must be thankful for the dimly lit environs disguising the quite inedible food. ‘The House,’ as the new joint is to be called, is a more congenial place – a tastefully renovated Georgian building – but not stuffy for all that. Founding members are being invited to a ‘hard hat’ party where the cocktails will be mixed in a cement mixer. Indeed the prospect has caused a considerable stir at Westminster, although some MPs are said to be confused by the establishment’s name. .they think it is a new division-bell dining club.

Startling allegations of Tory collaboration with the BNP in the ward of Newham South have been sent to the Prime Minister, Sir Norman Fowler and Angela Rumbold by Newham Monitoring Project, a community group set up to aid victims of racial attack.

Last month NMP complained to Central Office that Tory candidates were using the slogan ‘Conservatives Against Labour’s Unfair Ethnic Policies’ which they saw as a direct bid to compete with BNP for votes. Now they say they have photographic evidence of negotiations for collaboration in future elections by Tory and BNP candidates, overheard at last week’s local election count. Tory Central Office is remaining stumm as it considers what to do. . . .over to you Sir Norman.

A touching moment at Monday’s opening of Fedora at the Royal Opera House, starring Jose Carreras. His rival tenor, Placido Domingo, was backstage rehearsing for last night’s Carmen when he realised the time. Not wishing to steal his friend’s thunder, he quietly departed out of the back door.

(Photographs omitted)

Diary – May 9, 1994

ONCE AGAIN there is quarrelling up at that bastion of Sylvan nudity – Highgate Men’s pond – where the Corporation of London are building a dividing wall to construct two distinctly separate areas – nude and non-nude – or ‘sun-bathing and changing’ as the Corporation gently phrases it. For several years there has been dissent between the homosexual and heterosexual users of the antique bathing area, culminating in the arrest of a young man sporting a t-shirt of a nude male in 1991.
Now the Corporation, the custodians of the area, have taken matters into their own hands, following a complaint and have decided to erect a wall – but only – it assures me after careful consultation with the locals and users. ‘Hardly anyone thought that nude bathing should be banned,’ said a spokeswoman, ‘so the separate areas give people an option.’

Not everyone is pleased however: ‘I will be unable to exchange greeting with my pals who stand in their favourite spot at the far end of the enclosure because a compromise wall divides, us,’ explained one dissenter.

CONTRARY to a report yesterday that the co-author of Prince Charles’s Return to Basics speech was his deputy private secretary, Stephen Lamport, there is another, rather stronger, whisper doing the rounds at Westminster that the original scribe of the whole piece was none other than the Prince’s official biographer, the broadcaster Jonathan Dimbleby. According to insiders Dimbleby, 50, ‘has been boasting about it publicly’.

Interestingly, his agent would only say yesterday, that, were, I to track him down, ‘Mr Dimbleby would not wish to comment on the matter.’

BAD NEWS for all those West Ham fans who have friends living close to Upton Park Football Ground, and, in the past, enjoyed many a game from a free vantage point.

Officious sorts on Newham Council have decided to bar admission to the council blocks to everyone who does not live there. You cannot even do a swap for a day, I’m told, since, so thorough is the new regime, it has issued residents with identity cards.

A MOMENT of mild embarrassment for the Tory party Chairman, Sir Norman Fowler, reaches my ears from Birmingham, where the Midland Independent Newspaper group (of which he is chairman) celebrated their recent flotation with a dinner. ‘Oh my God – you’ve all got those dreadful ties on,’ Sir Norman reportedly whispered to chief executive Christopher Oakley, pointing at the guest’s neckpieces, each displaying a hand-painted ‘fat lady’, crafted specifically for the occasion. Oakley must have smiled, since, moments later, before everyone, he duly presented Sir Norman with one such tie. To his credit, the recipient did not hesitate. To thunderous applause he put it on immediately.

WRY SMILES at the recent Annual General Meeting of Conde Nast, the publishing house which produces useful reference manuals such as World of Interiors, Vogue and Brides. Managing Director Nicholas Coleridge briefed each publication in turn in the Vogue House boardroom and listened to the staff’s ensuing queries. The Vogue lot were worried about sub-editors’ pay; the GQ team were concerned about the NUJ; Then it was the turn of Tatler – the society magazine which, last month, generously proffered free fashion advice to the Princess of Wales. ‘In the new canteen,’ a voice piped up, ‘will hot food be available?’. . .for a moment the corners of Mr Coleridge’s mouth trembled.

MORE trouble (if it were needed) at Westminster Council: It is likely to be sued by its former security company, Care Contract Services, which it fired after the building’s fire alarm went off twice in a row. Officially Westminster sources will only comment that they ‘were unhappy with evacuation procedures followed’ by Care Contract, whose job it was to shepherd everyone on to the street. Insiders whisper that the real problem was the cost incurred by the staff’s long wait outside – according to a source, pounds 20,000.

(Photograph omitted)

Noodles and a long wait: post modern dining

EVEN ITS founders had only modest hopes for Wagamama, a Japanese noodle bar in an obscure London side street, when it opened in 1992. With its austere decor, bright lights, no-coffee, no-puddings, no-smoking policy, it seemed doubtful that even the Japanese would want to frequent the place for long.
Yet now its popularity is such that noodles are being feted as the food of the Nineties. Wagamama plans four more London branches plus one in Paris, and maybe even one in Japan. Judging by the lengthy queues outside the Bloomsbury basement premises every night and at lunchtime, the demand for stir-fry noodles and noodle soup is insatiable. Despite speedy service, and a daily tally of 1,200 meals (400 lunch; 800 dinner) a day, Wagamama can hardly cope with demand. ‘We are losing customers because of the tailback,’ says marketing manager Pauline Price.

One night last week a constant 50-strong queue seemed remarkably placid as they lined Streatham Street. Only one out of 20 arrivals departed. Another looked doubtful but a young man who was just leaving chirped consolingly at him: ‘It’s OK. It moves amazingly quickly.’ And it does. After 10 minutes you have a drink in your hand as you wait on the stairs, 10 minutes after that you sit down to a vast bowl of steaming noodle soup, costing pounds 4.50. The chefs get through 100 kilos of noodles a day.

The restaurant’s success stems from more than just an increasing desire among Westerners for Japanese food. The first Japanese restaurants in London were set up in 1969 and still suffer from a traditional British suspicion of raw fish. Wagamama’s success is due to a skilful Westernising of the food on offer; and what Mog Morishima, 29, design director of Wagamama Ltd, calls, rather blushingly, ‘the creation of a post-modern culture in eating’.

‘It was quite obvious to us,’ he says, (‘us’ being the four bright twentysomethings – two English and two Japanese – who formed Wagamama Ltd in 1992) ‘that there was a gap in the British market. Anybody who had lived in Japan would have recognised it instantly. Apart from a need for good, cheap, healthy fast food, the British had not yet developed the concept of commercial design. Wagamama is supposed to be more subliminal than McDonald’s – the concept is far more complex than the red- and-gold arches.’

The design is minimalist. Customers sit at long wooden tables and benches like students in their college dining- room. In fact, so many are students it easily could be a college dining-room. The few 30- plus oldies, especially those in pin-stripes in the evening (at lunchtime it is acceptable), squirm uncomfortably.

The new Wagamamas will look different though. ‘We want to destroy the idea that fast-food restaurants need to be generic,’ says Mr Morishima. Details and locations are still secret, but the likely areas are studenty neighbourhoods such as Notting Hill or Camden.

One fixture is the hi-tech computerised ordering system, largely responsible for the quick turnover – the average time per meal is 45 minutes. The waiters punch your order into a machine that resembles a calculator and it is logged straight into a terminal in the kitchen.

Only 5 per cent of the clientele is Japanese. ‘We are different from the other ramen bars in London,’ explains Mr Morishima ‘because we have westernised our food to a certain extent – although the core is Japanese. Real Japanese ramen, though, is made with pork stock and is quite fatty, whereas we use chicken stock; our noodles, too, are different.’

Wagamama may well be the only restaurant in London to include on its menu details of a Japanese management technique widely used in industry. Their ‘kaizen’ philosphy aims for continuous improvement and comes from listening and adapting to staff and customers. Examples are the questionnaires available for the queueing masses and a medley of international chefs are employed ‘for inspiration’. Kaizen also operates in subtle ways. All the 60 staff wear Aids- awareness ribbons and there is a basket of them at the entrance. ‘When we opened we had a lot of gay customers,’ explains Mr Morishima. ‘It is part of our young post-modernist outlook; actually it’s also a way of saying thank you.’

Evidence of wider noodle- mania is growing. Wagamama’s expansion follows the opening last year of Europe’s first Japanese superstore, the Yaohan Plaza in Colindale in north London. In a few hours last Sunday pounds 6,000-worth of noodles were sold – and many customers were not Japanese.

As Rory Ross of Tatler puts it: ‘Noodles are the food of the Nineties. They are far more politically correct than chips (no class connotations); they are healthier; less labour-demanding (no chopping); and – best of all – you don’t have to wash up knives and forks afterwards.’

(Photograph omitted)

Here is the news – of 1994: Gossip

IT WILL be a year of Royal births, which will deflect attention from the family’s more troubled relationships. The Princess Royalwill have a baby, as will Viscountess Linley and Lady Helen Taylor – though not necessarily in that order.
There will be another Royal wedding: Lady Sarah Armstrong-Jones will marry boyfriend Daniel Chatto, and wear a designer trouser suit for the occasion. This will provide a field day for the Royal fashion pundits who will waste page after page of newspaper space discussing whether or not her garb has constitutional implications.

Royal scandal, however, will emerge at the start of the summer – and its subject will be the least likely: namely, the Queen Mother, whose past, it will be discovered, contains a hidden secret – more political than sexual.

The Princess of Wales will also cause a stir when, during one of her husband’s visits abroad, she re-emphasises her wish to be kept well out of the public glare by making an announcement on satellite TV live from Wembley stadium.

The Prince of Wales will fall into the same trap as the fictional king in To Play the King and clash with the Prime Minister over some party-political issue while on a trip abroad. This will weaken his position constitutionally and his wife will seriously consider divorce.

Meanwhile, the public at large will care less and less what the Royals do, as focus on the entertainment business reaches an all-time peak.

Newman and Baddiel will get together again and French and Saunders will split up – only to become reunited in 1995 – the motive in both cases being publicity-seeking.

Madonna will steal the limelight from the Michael Jackson case when she writes SEX2 – the book and the video – which will star children as well as adults.

Declaring it to be a work of art, she will stir up such a national controversy that a British control system will be set up to prevent any further exhibitions of deviancy from entering the country.

The mood in the country will be cheerful, though. Economically things will be better; we will have come a fair way in the arts and film industries; and though we will have lost dismally in the Winter Olympics, nobody will care too much.

What does Charles really do?

THE MORE sharp-sighted of the Prince of Wales’s companions on his trip to Korea last year witnessed some extraordinary behaviour from a local businessman. Seconds after shaking the Prince’s hand at the international trade fair, he turned to his neighbour, an Englishman with whom he had been negotiating for months, and signed a contract worth several million pounds.
‘Excitement at meeting the Prince,’ explained onlookers.

This was tangible proof, the Prince would argue, of the contribution he has made to British trade. According to an article in Monday’s Financial Times, the Prince is seeking to emphasise his role, calling upon the Government to be more supportive of his trips abroad as a cultural and commercial ambassador.

According to Buckingham Palace, the reaction to the article – from the media, industrialists, even some ministers – was a ‘a gross misinterpretation of the facts’.

‘The Prince was merely seeking to emphasise the importance of a role he has been enacting for the past 20 or 30 years,’ explained his private secretary, Commander Richard Aylard. ‘He never said that he sought a new role in boosting industry or indicated that he wished to take on more foreign trips. . . . It has all been completely twisted.’

Nevertheless, industrialists and businessmen throughout the country were pleased by what they saw as a change in the Prince’s business policy. ‘We have never had an ambassador with such prominence as the Prince of Wales before,’ said the Institute of Directors.

The ill-defined nature of the Prince’s role is much to blame for such confusion. Earlier this week he complained: ‘People ignore what I do day in and day out.’ So what is it, precisely, that he does?

Sifting through the Prince’s public engagements reveals that no two weeks are the same; sometimes he is busy five days out of seven; sometimes only two. His public engagements revolve around his Duchy (Cornwall), his charities (the Prince’s Trust, The Prince’s Youth Business Trust, the Business Leaders’ Forum); his Institute of Architecture; various ‘business in the community’ sessions; environment meetings; and his cultural interests such as Royal Shakespeare Company meetings (he is the RSC’s patron) and chamber group concerts.

Occasionally he deputises for the Queen, if she is unwell or abroad, in his role as Counsellor of State; there is the odd reception for the diplomatic corps and, very occasionally, a regional visit.

He is not the hardest working Royal – his workload is only about a quarter of the Princess Royal’s – but he holds a respectable third position, roughly on a par with Prince Edward and the Princess of Wales, who tends to work less regularly and in sharp bursts. He also avoids the soft options, such as Prince Andrew’s 15 June engagement: ‘opening of Turnberry Golf Course’.

There is the occasional official meeting with the Prime Minister, but otherwise it seems that the Prince prefers chatting with Mr Major’s overseas counterparts. His itinerary over the past year, which involved 14 trips abroad, included meetings with Chancellor Kohl and President Lech Walesa. He spent 10 days skiing in March and had two weeks’ holiday with his sons in August.

Taking the official list at face value, then, it would seem that the Prince is a reasonably busy man, occupied mainly with riding, albeit for the country’s benefit, his personal hobby horses. It hardly seems that he is, as Commander Aylard puts it, ‘developing as many interests as possible, to prepare him for when he is King and less able to get about’.

In fact, the official list hides what those closest to him know to be the Prince’s real lifestyle. Last week, for example, it appeared that he had a relatively easy time, shooting with friends at Sandringham, the only official engagements interrupting the unofficial holiday being two university functions in Cambridge on Monday and a Buckingham Palace reception for the diplomatic corps next day.

Yet a brief chat with Tom Shebeer, director of the Prince’s Trust, the charity set up to help disadvantaged young people, revealed that he was on his way to Sandringham that afternoon for a business meeting – unofficially. It subsequently transpired that the whole week was taken up with meetings, either in preparation for future tours – he is off to Australia and New Zealand early next year – or to devise new strategies for all of his charities.

A spokesman for the Princes’ Youth Business Trust said the Prince was personally responsible for dreaming up nearly all their innovations: not an easy task, since all his schemes need to be seen to benefiting the country, yet not to come into conflict with red tape or party politics.

There is virtually daily liaison between Whitehall and wherever the Prince happens to be. ‘He carries on working, even on holiday at Balmoral,’ says his press secretary, Alan Percival. ‘He reads all the state papers and Foreign Office dispatches daily. If he writes a speech, he shows it, out of courtesy, to the appropriate minister before making it, and they send it back with extra information if necessary.’

Indeed, the Prince’s relationship with the Government is much closer than he cares to publicise. He often pops in to see ministers – Gillian Shephard and Chris Patten were regulars – to lobby them. Following his official visit in March to see Chancellor Kohl, where, as far as the media were concerned, the highlight consisted of his receipt of a German ecology award, he and the Chancellor had a long and serious conversation about anti- German feeling in Britain. As soon as he returned, the Prince wrote to the Prime Minister outlining the details of the conversation, and received a letter of thanks and congratulations from 10 Downing Street.

That this was not revealed at the time is testimony to the Prince’s awareness of the political delicacy of his role; just as, being the monarch, he cannot be seen to be a wheeler-dealer businessman.

What the Prince contributes, whether abroad or in this country, seems, as in the episode in Korea, coincidental. ‘I couldn’t pinpoint a business venture that owed its success to the Prince,’ said Commander Aylard. ‘The evidence can only be anecdotal.’

Even those on the Prince’s recent trip to the Gulf states and Jordan are reluctant to attribute the successful pounds 120m deal between John Brown Engineering and Ibn Zahr Plastics to his influence. ‘Of course, his presence helped to speed things up,’ says one, ‘and he did bring together all the essential groups which might not otherwise have met. But it had been in the pipeline for ages.’

The Prince may be frustrated by the personally restrictive nature of his role: that he may not, however, depart from it is highlighted by the itinerary of his proposed visit to Australia.

In a nation pondering republicanism, it would be tactless of him to combine, directly, his visit with that of Michael Heseltine, President of the Board of Trade, who will be there at the same time. ‘He has been invited by the Australian government in his capacity as the future sovereign,’ said Commander Aylard. ‘Though his visit may help those out there touting for business, there are limitations on what he can and can be perceived to do.’

If, as has been indicated, the Prince wants more focus on his positive value to the country, rather than a pat on the back for leaving matters beyond his jurisdiction to others, then perhaps he needs to let the public into his confidence a little more.

There was, after all, a hint of bitterness among organisers at this year’s annual gathering of the Prince’s Trust at Caister in Norfolk when, surrounded by television cameras and international paparazzi, the singer Phil Collins publicly welcomed the Prince. Cameras were poised for a dramatic juxtaposition of Prince and pop star . . . perhaps, the audience wondered, he might even treat them to a drum performance, like the previous year. It never came. The Prince merely took the microphone and started to talk.

Andrew Davies on Francis Urquhart, page 19

(Photograph omitted)