Princess Bertie Spit Domination

Princess Bertie Spit Domination
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Spit Show Me The Body & Princess Nokia
Spit Show Me The Body & Princess Nokia
Slumber Party (feat. Princess Nokia) Ashnikko
Singing Princess Harry Gregson-Williams & John Powell
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Last updated at 07:54 20 November 2006
He was one of the Royal Family's most influential aides and at the centre of some of the 20th century's most dramatic events. Now, the diaries of Sir Alan 'Tommy' Lascelles - Private Secretary to King George VI and (for the first year of her reign) the present Queen - have been published in a fascinating book.
In this, the first of two extracts, Lascelles reveals his blisteringly unflattering verdict on his first royal employer, Edward VIII, who threw away his throne for the love of Wallis Simpson in 1936.
Lascelles had first served Edward when he was Prince of Wales before becoming King on the death of his father, George V. Lascelles painted this unique portrait in March 1943, after being asked to comment on an obituary of his former master - by then living in exile as the Duke of Windsor - being prepared for future use by The Times:
For some years after I joined his staff, in 1920, I had a great affection and admiration for the Prince of Wales. In the following eight years I saw him day in and day out. I saw him sober, and often as near drunk as doesn't matter; I travelled twice across Canada with him; I camped and tramped with him through Central Africa; in fact, I probably knew him as well as any man did. But, by 1927, my idol had feet, and more than feet, of clay.
Before the end of our Canadian trip that year, I felt in such despair about him that I told Stanley Baldwin (then Prime Minister, and one of our party in Canada) that the Heir Apparent, in his unbridled pursuit of wine and women, and of whatever selfish whim occupied him at the moment, was going rapidly to the devil and would soon become no fit wearer of the British Crown.
I expected to get my head bitten off, but he agreed with every word. I went on: 'You know, sometimes when I am waiting to get the result of some point-to point in which he is riding, I can't help thinking that the best thing that could happen to him, and to the country, would be for him to break his neck.'
'God forgive me,' said SB. 'I have often thought the same.' Then he undertook to talk straightly to the Prince at an early opportunity; but he never did, until October 1936 - too late, too late.
Before the end of the Canadian tour I was strongly inclined to leave his service. One cannot loyally serve a man whom one has come to regard as both vulgar and selfish - certainly not a Prince.
But for domestic reasons, I put it off. Then came the 1928 trip to Kenya and Uganda, which was the last straw on my camel's back. It was finally broken by his incredibly callous behaviour when we got the news of his father's grave illness.
I remember sitting, one hot night, when our train was halted in Tanganyika, deciphering the last and most urgent of several cables from Baldwin begging the Prince to come home at once.
The Prince came in as we finished, and I read it to him. 'I don't believe it,' he said. 'It's just some election-dodge of old Baldwin's. It doesn't mean a thing.'
Then, for the first and only time in our association, I lost my temper with him. 'Sir,' I said, 'the King of England is dying; if that means nothing to you, it means a great deal to me.'
He looked at me, went out without a word, and spent the remainder of the evening in the successful seduction of a Mrs Barnes, wife of the local commissioner. He told me so himself, next morning.
When, about the middle of December, we got home, the King was still very ill and one evening I sent the Prince a note saying that I wished to resign.
When he asked me why I wanted to leave, I told him what I thought of him and his whole scheme of life, foretelling, with an accuracy that might have surprised me at the time, that he would lose the throne.
'I'm quite the wrong person to be Prince of Wales'
He heard me with scarcely an interruption, and when we parted, said: 'Well, goodnight, Tommy, and thank you for the talk. I suppose the fact of the matter is that I'm quite the wrong sort of person to be Prince of Wales' - which was so pathetically true that it almost melted me.
Next morning he sent me a message to say that he accepted my resignation and would like to give me a motor car, as proof that we parted friends; which I in turn accepted, in the spirit in which it was offered.
He bore me no malice. In Canada from March 1931 to October 1935, when I was Secretary to the Governor-General, he twice sent messages to say he would be glad to take me back. Eventually, of course, by a strange turn of the wheel, I did find myself in his service once more.
In October 1935, immediately on my return from Canada, Clive Wigram, then Private Secretary to King George V, approached me with a view to my becoming one of the King's assistant private secretaries.
I refused, pointing out that I should be in a queer position if the King were to die and the Prince of Wales to succeed. I was assured that I need have no anxiety on that score.
'The old King,' he said, 'is never better in his life than he is now. He's good for another seven years at least.'
So I yielded; within six weeks of my taking up the appointment, George V was dead and Edward VIII was King.
Several people, who should have known better, assured me that there was an excellent chance that the history of Prince Hal would repeat itself, and that we might look forward to a better and wiser monarch than Henry V ever was.
But it soon became apparent that the leopard, so far from having changed his spots, was daily acquiring more sinister ones from the leopardess, in the person of Mrs Simpson [Edward's American lover, Wallis Simpson, who was then still married to her second husband, Ernest Simpson, a shipping executive].
As early as February 1936, I was warned that plans were afoot to liquidate Simpson - matrimonially speaking - and to set the Crown upon the leopardess's head.
My impression is that the Prince of Wales was caught napping by his father's death; he expected the old man to last several years more, and he had, in all probability, already made up his mind to renounce his claim to the throne, and to marry Mrs S.
I know that, long before this, he had confided to several American friends of his that he could never face being King; King George VI has told me that his brother, at the time of the Abdication crisis, said to him: 'It was never in my scheme of things to be King of England.'
The comparatively sudden death of King George V upset any such plans. But I believe that even then he would have clung to them (he always hated changing any scheme that he had evolved himself) but for the provisions of his father's will.
The will was read, to the assembled family, in the hall at Sandringham. I, of course, was not present; but, coming out of my office, I ran into him striding down the passage with a face blacker than any thunderstorm. He went straight to his room, and for a long time was glued to the telephone.
Under the will, each of his brothers was left a very large sum - about three-quarters of a million in cash; he was left nothing, and was precluded from converting anything (such as the stamp collection, the racehorses, etc.) into ready money.
It was, doubtless, a well intentioned will but it provoked incalculable disaster; it was, in fact, responsible for the first voluntary abdication of an English king.
Money, and the things that money buys, were the principal desiderata in Mrs Simpson's philosophy.
So when they found they had, so to speak, been left the Crown without the Cash, I am convinced they agreed, in that interminable telephone conversation, to renounce their plans for a joint existence as private individuals, and to see what they could make out of the Kingship, with the subsidiary prospect of the Queenship for her later on.
The events of the next ten months bear out this supposition; for, throughout them, he devoted two hours to schemes, great and small, by which he could produce money, to every one that he devoted to the business of the State.
Indeed, his passion for 'economy' became something very near to mania, despite the fact that his private fortune, amassed while he was Prince of Wales, already amounted to nearly a million - which sum he took with him, of course, when he finally left the country.
It was substantially increased by the very considerable sums which his brother paid him for his life interest in the Sandringham and Balmoral estates, so that, by the time he married, having no encumbrances, no overhead charges and no taxes to pay, he was one of the richest men in Europe - if not the richest.
When, in December, the storm broke, he went one evening to see his mother at Marlborough House; she asked him to reflect on the effect his proposed action would have on his family, the Throne, and the Empire.
His only answer was: 'Can't you understand that nothing matters - nothing - except her happiness and mine?'
It led to bewildering, and often ludicrous, situations. I shall never forget seeing Clive Wigram [Private Secretary to the new monarch, as he had been to his father] coming down the King's staircase at Buckingham Palace exclaiming at the top of his never well modulated voice: 'He's mad - he's mad. We shall have to lock him up.'
The same thought, if we did not express it quite so openly, was in the minds of many of us during those sombre months.
Ulick Alexander [Keeper of the Privy Purse] has told me that, in the May of that year, he at last induced the King, Edward VIII, to go round his immense kitchen garden and glasshouses at Windsor. The particular pride of the old Scottish gardener was the peach-house, at that time a mass of blossom, promising a record crop of peaches.
The King passed no comment till his tour of inspection was ended; he then turned to the gardener, and told him to cut all the blossom on the following day, and to send it to Mrs Simpson, and to one or two other ladies, to embellish their drawingrooms in London. Caligula himself can never have done anything more wanton.
Many people have asked me: 'Could nobody have averted the ultimate catastrophe of the Abdication?' My answer has always been, and always will be, 'Nobody'. Given his character, and hers, the climax was as inevitable as that of a Greek tragedy.
He had, in my opinion and experience, no comprehension of the ordinary axioms of rational, or ethical, behaviour; fundamental ideas of duty, dignity and self-sacrifice had no meaning for him.
And so isolated was he in the world of his own desires that I do not think he ever felt affection - absolute, objective affection - for any living being, not excluding the members of his own family.
Consequently, when he came to the parting of the way, he stood there tragically and pitifully alone. It was an isolation of his own making, and the responsibility for it is entirely his own.
There was no hope of his finding the right answer to his problem in his own heart, and he had himself destroyed the possibility of others finding it for him.
My view is that, taking it by and large, Shaw [author of the Times obituary notice] has done an extremely difficult job remarkably well, and with fairness, tact and delicacy.
Yet no article of this kind designed for publication immediately after the Duke of Windsor's death can ever be wholly satisfactory, for it can't bring out what I regard as the key to his baffling character.
His is one of the saddest instances in all history of 'lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds' - namely, that for some hereditary or physiological reason his normal mental development stopped dead when he reached adolescence.
I don't mean his physical development, for, in body, he might have been a sculptor's model; but his mental, moral and aesthetic development, which, broadly-speaking, remained that of a boy of 17.
There was one curious outward symptom of this; I saw him at all hours of the day and night, yet I never observed on his face the faintest indication of the bristles which normally appear, even in men as fair as he was, when one has passed many hours without shaving.
(Frederick Smith, for many years his valet, told me that HRH never shaved in the morning at all, but only when dressing for dinner.)
Years ago I mentioned this peculiarity to [Baron] Dawson of Penn [royal physician], who said it was a common phenomenon in cases of arrested development.
If this theory is true, it would account for many of his vagaries of conduct, and for his often childish outlook on life - though I hasten to add that that outlook was often bewilderingly characterised by a shrewdness, a power of penetration, which hardened men of the world might envy.
It would certainly account for the fact that, as I have already said, it was quite useless to expect him to appreciate any general rules of behaviour; his only yardstick in measuring the advisability or non-advisability of any particular action was, 'Can I get away with it?' - an attitude typical of boyhood.
As a matter of fact, he usually did 'get away with it'; his one conspicuous failure to do so was, however, enormously expensive, for it cost him his throne.
But, though any reader of history is well aware that his family, for many generations, has
produced more than its fair share of eccentrics, any speculation on these lines - and admittedly it is only speculation - could not be appropriate in an obituary.
All I suggested in this direction was that the allusion to his 'immaturity' in his early manhood might be amplified so as to indicate that that immaturity persisted into middle age.
I asked also that, in the paragraph about his education, some reference should be made to his astounding ignorance of English literature.
I recollect him coming back from one weekend and saying to me: 'Look at this extraordinary little book which Lady Desborough says I ought to read. Have you ever heard of it?' The extraordinary little book was Jane Eyre.
Then there is the story of his luncheon with Thomas Hardy and his wife during a tour of the Duchy of Cornwall property in Dorset.
Conversation flagged, and to reanimate it, the Prince of Wales said brightly: 'Now, you can settle this, Mr Hardy. I was having an argument with my Mama the other day. She said you had once written a book called Tess Of The d'Urbervilles, and I said I was sure it was by somebody else.'
Thomas Hardy, like the perfect gentleman he was, replied without batting an eyelid: 'Yes, Sir, that was the name of one of my novels.'
The Prince's ignorance of literature is by no means irrelevant to any picture of him, for a good deal of his nervous restlessness and consequent lack of balance may have been due to his complete inability to find a safety-valve in a book (even a shilling shocker), as ordinary men do when they are overwrought or overtired.
Shaw, in his introductory summary of the Prince's life, tactfully introduces Mrs Simpson by saying, 'He fell deeply in love with a woman who had had two husbands.'
That misses the main point; what shocked public opinion throughout the British Empire was that she had two husbands still living.
Moreover, the implication is that he, a lonely bachelor, 'fell deeply in love' for the first time in his life with the soul-mate for whom he had long been waiting.
That is the romantic view which many people were inclined to take at the time of the Abdication and which sentimental biographers will doubtles
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