If William and Harry had planned to let their hair down that weekend, then the sight of The Sun’s Royal correspondent was surely enough to make them think twice. On the plus side, our information about them joining Peter on the island had been right all along. But now it was going to be far harder to get pictures because the boys would be on high alert for photographers.
Working on the Royal beat was so often a game of cat and mouse. We knew the boys accepted they would be pictured, but it was far easier if they were unaware of our presence. There we all were, trapped on a ferry, and the secret was out. All I could do now was to steer clear of the Royal party and hope that they would not decide to go home rather than risk being photographed by The Sun.
An hour later I was sitting outside a hotel with my colleague, dwelling on my mistake. I was even considering getting on the next ferry off the island and writing off the weekend as a waste of effort. But as we sat there I recognized a man who was walking up towards us. He was a friendly protection officer who I had known for several years. It was clear he had been sent to find us and to ask what we were planning to do during the weekend.
In these situations it is always better to just accept the game is up. There is no point in messing the protection officers about. I apologized for blowing my cover on the ferry and pointed out that the last thing we wanted to do was to stop William and Harry from being able to have a good time. As we chatted I became aware that someone else had walked over to listen to what we were saying. He was standing to my left just out of my line of sight. It was Prince William.
This was the very last thing I needed. Prince Charles’s eldest son has a love-hate relationship with the press and can be very prickly. There is no doubt that if he was in the wrong mood, I was about to get a bollocking from the future king and be told in no uncertain terms my team was not welcome on the island.
But to my surprise William was very friendly. He said: ‘Hello, Duncan, what brings you to the Isle of Wight? Let me guess – you are here on a fishing trip?’
Clearly William was in a cheerful mood and had decided to start his conversation with a light-hearted joke. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be so bad after all, I thought.
‘Well, let’s just say I was as surprised as you were to see who was on the chain ferry earlier,’ I said.
William had seen by my reaction that I was horrified to have blown my cover and clearly had been caught off guard by the fact his entire entourage had driven onto the ferry behind us. He added: ‘What are you going to do? Will this be in tomorrow’s paper?’
By now it was 6 p.m., and apart from a few pictures of Peter and the others playing cricket we had very little to put in the Saturday edition.
‘If you print a story about me and Harry being here, you know as well as I do what will happen,’ added William. ‘By the time the paper drops tonight, photographers and reporters from everywhere will be rushing down to the Isle of Wight.’
William was, of course, exactly right. If we were, as I suspected, the only paper to know about the weekend, then a story for Saturday would simply tip off the world and his wife. By the time the stag party got out of bed the next day there could be at least fifty photographers waiting for them to emerge. If that happened, William and Harry would simply be forced to go home and they would understandably hold me responsible for ruining their weekend.
William asked: ‘Is there any way I could ask you not to run anything in tomorrow’s paper? You would still be able to print your story for Monday. Harry and I would be really grateful if you could do this for us, we’ve been looking forward to Peter’s weekend for ages.’
This was a rare encounter. I would often chat to William or share a joke when we met on official setpiece events. We had a good working relationship and being asked as directly as this left me little option. I knew that it would be nearly impossible to keep the weekend a secret and the chances were that if I didn’t put something in Saturday’s paper, the stag party would be splashed all over our rival papers on the Sunday. But I agreed.
I said: ‘OK, you have my word that we won’t put anything in tomorrow’s paper, but I can’t guarantee we are the only paper that knows about it. So far I haven’t seen anyone else I recognize, so with a bit of luck you will have a free run of it tomorrow and won’t have to go home early. Is there anything else you want us to do, or avoid doing?’
William looked taken aback by my question. He seemed almost lost for words that I was offering more than to hold the story for Monday’s paper. After thinking for a second he asked: ‘Well, I think I know the answer if I ask you all to go home, but how about agreeing to keep your distance? We don’t mind you taking pictures from a distance, but Harry and I hate it when photographers get in our faces and fire off the flash.’
I said: ‘I don’t have an issue with that. If you or any of the stag party are photographed up close this weekend then you have my word they will not be from The Sun. We will do our best to keep out of your way. If we bump into you during the weekend, we will pull off, you don’t need to change your plans.’
William must have had his doubts about whether I would be good for my word, but he thanked me before shaking my hand and walking off. After he got a few yards away he turned round and with a big grin on his face shouted back: ‘By the way, Duncan, you do know this isn’t my stag weekend!’
It was very funny hearing William make a joke at his own expense about the constant speculation he and Kate were already engaged. In all my dealings with William back then before he was married, he always came across as very quick-witted and good fun. It seems sad that since he has settled down, had children and come to terms with the serious business of being a future king, we rarely see this light-hearted side of the heir to the throne.
Many people wrongly think that William is the serious prince and Harry the joker. While Harry’s antics are the stuff of tabloid legend, his big brother is just as able to play the fool and make jokes at his own expense. The chief difference between William and Harry is that the elder son is less able to get that side of his character across in public.
It may well be a deliberate decision on William’s part. He has far more responsibility on his shoulders and does feel the need to come across as serious when he is in front of the cameras. The only danger for him these days is that if he comes across as too serious it could turn the public against him.
And so the scene was set for a wild weekend to celebrate Peter Phillips’ upcoming wedding. Little did William or I know, as we joked in the street that day, that the damage had already been done and within days he and Harry would find themselves splashed across the front pages again.
CHAPTER 9
A RIGHT ROYAL ROW
‘You said I was dyslexic,’ fumed Harry.
‘OK, you’ve got me on that one, but are you saying that story was wrong then, Harry?’ I replied.
‘No, but why did you have to write that about me?’
Clearly he was very angry and the rigours of an all-day drinking session on his cousin’s stag weekend meant I was slap-bang in the middle of the firing line. I had never seen the prince like this and to anyone looking on it must have seemed as though we were in the middle of a heated row.
In reality Harry was getting months of frustration with the press off his chest. He had been denied the chance to go to Iraq, details of the strains in his relationship with Chelsy had been published, the breakdown in the media blackout had forced him home from Afghanistan, and just three days earlier the results of his mother’s inquest had made front pages all over the world.
Looking back, it was no wonder he was upset and had decided to take a rare opportunity to vent his spleen with a journalist. But at one point he was becoming so animated, as he bent my ear, that one of his Royal protection officers later admitted that he feared he would have to intervene to stop us from coming to blows.
It was a Saturday night in April 2008 and we were standing in the beer garden of a pub in Cowes, Isle of Wight. All day H
arry had been with his cousin Peter Phillips as they celebrated the upcoming wedding.
The party had been out sailing on a yacht suitably loaded with beer, cider and spirits. True to our word, the Sun team covering the stag weekend had refrained from getting in the way and instead taken pictures of the antics on long lenses from the shore.
An hour or so earlier I had been with a colleague watching rugby on the TV of the same pub. We had let the photographers get their pictures and were staying well out of the way as agreed.
Following William’s request, nothing about the stag weekend had appeared in that day’s edition of the paper, and as a result the boys had been left alone to enjoy a right royal knees-up with Peter and his friends.
And we had been well rewarded for our agreement. When the stag party boarded their yacht they had forced Peter to dress up as a sailor, painted a moustache on his face and strapped a little plastic doll to his arm. Peter had been warned that if the doll went missing he would have to pay a drinking forfeit, so the Queen’s grandson had carefully cradled it in his arms throughout the day. The pictures were great, and we knew the office would be more than happy with our result.
Yes, it was a gamble to have agreed to William’s request, but as the evening rolled on it appeared the gamble had paid off. The only other photographer who had got wind of the stag do was a local sailing enthusiast and he was happy for us to buy his pictures off the market to ensure we had it to ourselves.
But when I spotted a protection officer arrive in the pub where I had been watching the rugby I knew it was time to leave. He was there as an advance party to make sure the coast was clear for the stag party to arrive. As soon as I spotted him I went over and explained we were happy to leave as per the agreement.
I said to the officer: ‘It’s OK. We’ve been watching the rugby but if you are all coming in we will go somewhere else.’
The protection officer thanked us and said he knew the boys were grateful we had stuck by our side of the bargain.
When we got outside, the street was filled with party-goers, all wearing their special blue polo shirts. I stood back as they walked in and then spotted the protection officer I had met the previous day when William had come over to talk. We chatted about the rugby match I had watched and once again I explained we were happy to leave the stag party to it.
That really should have been the end of the matter. William and Harry had enjoyed their weekend, and I knew we had a great set of exclusive pictures that would keep the office off my back. But just as I prepared to say goodbye to the officer, one of Peter’s friends came back out of the pub.
He said: ‘Are you Duncan?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘But it’s OK, I’m just leaving.’
‘No, you are coming with me,’ he said. ‘William is inside and he said it’s OK for you to stay.’
It was hard to say who was more shocked by this statement, the protection officer or me.
I looked at the officer and said: ‘What do you think? I was leaving but if I’m allowed in, I’m not going to say no.’
The officer just shrugged in surprise and before I’d had the chance to think about it, I was in the bar surrounded by all of Peter’s friends. The big rugby-playing guy that had all but dragged me inside, then asked what I drank.
‘I’d like a pint of cider if that’s OK,’ I said, still taken aback by what was unfolding. I added: ‘Look, guys, I have agreed not to be in here so I hope you are not going to get me in trouble. Are you sure it’s OK for me to be here?’
The guy smiled before handing me two full pints of cider, and then said: ‘You can stay here as long as you down both of these. William is grateful that you have kept your distance but you can only stay in here if you are as drunk as us. We don’t want you writing a story about being drunk unless we know you’ve caught up with us first.’
I was stunned by his demands, but if those were the terms I was more than happy to drink in the line of duty.
By now there were at least six of Peter’s friends surrounding me, eagerly waiting for me to try and gulp down the drinks. I was pretty sure that what they were trying to do was make me drink so fast I would have to run to the toilet and be sick. If they managed that, then how could I write a story about their drunken high jinks? It was an alcohol-fuelled logic, but it did make a sort of sense.
I controlled my breathing and prepared to down the drinks. The first one went down in one, but I was already regretting asking for cider, which fizzed and bubbled in my stomach.
‘Go on, drink the next one,’ demanded one of the others. By now they were laughing as I put the second glass to my mouth and tried to call on all my experience as an ex-rugby player. With, dare I say it, a degree of pride, I gulped down the second pint before putting the empty glass back on the bar. There was a pause as my tormenters enthusiastically waited for me to run to the bathroom. However, by some miracle I was able to keep the fizzing cider inside and managed to hide my discomfort enough to say: ‘OK, it’s my round, what are you all drinking?’
My efforts were clearly enough to have broken the ice, and over the next half an hour I stood chatting with Peter’s friends at the bar.
One of his friends then explained: ‘Look, we know you work for The Sun but Peter is a really good bloke and we are just looking out for him. We wanted to make sure you are not going to write anything bad about him, because he is a top bloke and doesn’t deserve nasty things being written about him.’
At last their plan to invite me in to drink with them began to make sense. They were defensive of their friend and were simply looking after his back. I felt a bit more comfortable now and assured them everything we’d write about the weekend would be done in the spirit of fun. Clearly Peter’s friends were a bunch of down-to-earth guys he had known for years and I actually started to enjoy being in their company.
‘So how has the weekend gone?’ I asked.
One of them replied: ‘It’s been fantastic, great fun. William and Harry have been brilliant. They have been the life and soul since they arrived on Friday in their helicopter.’
A helicopter, I thought. So that was why they missed the cricket and why we never saw them arrive at the ferry port.
The guy added: ‘Yes, they flew down here from London in a Chinook. William was at the controls and he picked Harry up in London.’
This was the first I had heard about the means of transport the princes used to get to the island. But before I’d had a chance to think about what I had been told, one of the guys changed the subject by asking: ‘Have you seen Harry’s funnel?’
I had no idea what he was talking about but he went on to explain that Harry had been going around with a plastic funnel attached to a small length of hose pipe.
He said: ‘He’s been making us drink out of the funnel, he is so funny.’
To this day I have no idea whether Harry had brought his makeshift drinking device with him on the stag weekend or whether he had spotted it with someone else and decided to take charge. But within seconds I was at the back of the pub on my knees with one end of the plastic hose in my mouth while one of the guys poured my entire pint of cider into the funnel.
By now I could barely face another drink, let alone one that shot into my mouth at high speed. Aided by the piece of hose, the cider shot into my stomach and it was all I could do to stop throwing up.
As the group all laughed at my expense, I saw Harry standing, cigarette in hand, looking on. Unlike his friends, he was not smiling. He looked decidedly unhappy that I was there and I felt bad that I was intruding on his weekend away. As I stood up, I asked Harry if he wanted me to go. He was very cross and I sensed that all was not well. Perhaps in my desire to appease Peter’s friends, I had encroached on Harry’s space. But with the alcohol now kicking in, I decided to confront the situation head-on. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘but I was told it was OK to be here. I will leave if that’s what you want.’
Standing next to Harry were his protection officers, by now th
e only sober people nearby. The pub was now very busy with locals who had heard the princes were in town and had rushed down to see. Many of them were shouting Harry’s name from a distance and were trying to take pictures of him on their phones. I remember thinking that this is what it must be like for Harry every time he goes out for a drink. It must be really annoying to be recognized by everyone, especially when they think it is OK to shout his name from a distance.
‘If you have a problem with me, Harry, then now’s your chance. Tell me what is making you angry,’ I said.
I could not have predicted what was about to happen and in all my years reporting on the Royals it was certainly going to be an hour that would stick in my mind for ever.
Harry’s protection officers, worried by the sheer number of people who were now in the pub beer garden to gawp at their principal, ushered us to an area where we would be out of sight. It was a small gap between the pub’s wall and a large van that was parked outside. From there the protection officers were able to stand guard and stop the increasingly excited locals from coming over.
As we stood in the makeshift alley, Harry said: ‘You have written some bad stories about me recently.’
I was at a total loss to understand what he was talking about. Just a few weeks earlier we had carried a front page under the headline ‘Harry the Hero’. Several pages inside marked his return from war with gushing compliments, praising him for his bravery and dignity in returning home early.
Surely, he must have been aware that it was in no small part thanks to The Sun that the concept of the media blackout on Afghanistan came into existence.
And as far as the cancellation of his Iraq trip was concerned, was Harry not aware that we had agreed to pull the story which was eventually run by another paper and contributed to the U-turn?
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