Tempus sure fugit, and how. Twenty years ago, on Saturday 1 July 1995, monarchs from around the world descended on London for the wedding of Greek Crown Prince Pavlos to Marie-Chantal, daughter of the duty-free magnate Bob Miller. I remember it well, especially the hangover. Never have I seen so many royals under one roof. The Greeks had treated King Constantine, father of the groom, very badly, managing to convince the press, and in turn the people, that the first man to resist the military takeover and stage a countercoup against the colonels was in fact one of them. Leave it to the Hellenes to say black is white and vice versa.
I’ll come back to the Greeks a bit later, but first the royal wedding. Both Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip attended the wedding ceremony and all the bashes, as did Prince Charles. At one point, the heir to the British throne sent Selina Scott to my table to fetch me. He asked me a direct question and wasn’t best pleased with my answer. It was something to do with race and three men who had tried to mug me in Cadogan Square. It was not an auspicious beginning.
Later on, I spotted a tall lady with an ample bosom and asked my neighbour, Prince Michael of Greece, if I should take her for a whirl. Go for it, was his advice. When the lady stood up, I realised that it was going to be tricky. The Queen of Denmark towered over me. I tried to bury my face in her poitrine, but she expertly pushed me away. Worse was the reaction of the mother of my children. She and a bunch of wise guys pointed at me and laughed.
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