If anyone is likely to be visited by three ghosts this Christmas, it won’t be Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor. He will probably be spending it alone at Royal Lodge, his sprawling home on the Windsor estate. But not for long.
Having been strong-armed into surrendering the lease on the 30-room manor, he is expected to relocate – as soon as is “practicable” – to a more modest property on the Sandringham estate, where, historically, he would join the royal family for the season’s festivities.
Past Christmases may have seen Andy at the heart of things, winking stagily at his adoring mother, patting passing bottoms and texting his pal Jeff in America. This year, when morning breaks over the Grade II-listed lodge that he is soon vacating – having allowed it to get in a state of such “dilapidation” that, according to a Public Accounts Committee report, he won’t now receive almost half a million in compensation for surrendering the lease early – Andrew will wake from happy dreams to the cold reality of an empty feather bed.
This year, there’ll be no Fergie to jolly him up (“Rise and shine, Old Sausage – eggs and soldiers on parade!”). Instead, his disgraced ex-wife and one-time duchess will reputedly be in Princess Beatrice’s granny annexe, hoping her eldest daughter and son-in-law Edoardo might invite her through for smoked salmon and a nice chat about the old days.
With the privilege of meals delivered from nearby Windsor Castle being withdrawn around the time Andrew lost his titles, it is likely to be a lone breakfast of beans on toast for him – or whatever else his shrinking retinue of staff can rustle up.
If he was hoping his ruddy brother might soften a bit, Andrew would make the 140-mile journey to Sandringham to attend church with the rest of the clan, and show the old face, which used to be bloody good-looking, actually, and still is, in some lights. But no such invitation has been forthcoming. He’ll have to watch the other royals, all in their new coats, glad-handing the crowds on telly. Never wanted to go anyway. Sitting through sermons when he could have been having a good laugh with the female staff. They all love a game of kiss-chase.
Instead, he’ll fire up another showing of Mr Bean’s Holiday. Feels a bit odd without Fergie to be laughing along, but not to worry.
Over Christmas lunch, he’ll think back to the lavish spreads he’s enjoyed over the decades. Goose at Buck House. Venison at Balmoral. Pheasant at Windsor… Still, there’ll be no sneering footmen and cruel jokes about Pizza Express this year. No vicious little digs from Anne – “Got you a new towel to stop you sweating, Andy…”
This year, he’ll enjoy a turkey ready meal from the big Tesco in Windsor – in fact, make it two – and perhaps he’ll have a whole microwaved Christmas pud to himself (they look rather like boobs!), before it’s time to Zoom Fergie.
Times might hang a bit heavy after lunch. After the King’s Christmas message, the others will play silly games. Perhaps he can make a start on his bestselling memoirs? He was hoping for some presents to open, but the Royal postman seems to have been held up. Mummy would never have let that happen.
Suppose he’d better change out of his dressing gown. Probably some rich friends will be giving him a ring soon, demanding he joins them for a helicopter trip to Klosters. Lots of snow and lovely ladies. There might be something wrong with his phone, of course.
Might as well have a little snooze on the sofa in front of the Bond movie. He and 007 have a lot in common. Money, women, no annoying family to get in the way…
He’ll wake on Boxing Day to a furious voicemail from his older brother. “I’ve just heard from the Public Accounts Committee about this ‘dilapidation’. What on earth have you…”
Andrew will delete the message. It will all get sorted out somehow. It always does.
Flic Everett is author of Murder at Mistletoe Manor (Penguin, £9.99)
‘ The preceding article may include information circulated by third parties ’
‘ Some details of this article were extracted from the following source www.independent.co.uk ’
