A bizarre conversation took place in Buckingham Palace thirty years ago today when Michael Fagan broke into the queen's apartments. Of course it's not protocol to discuss royal chat sessions, but rumour has it , it went something like this:
HM Good Heavens! What are you doing in my private apartments, you nasty little oik?
MF I was supposed to meet Bill - you know, Bill Sykes - who was casing the joint, already.
HM Aren't you confusing yourself with somebody else? A controversial Semite from London's
Underworld, perhaps?
MF No.
HM Well, what do you want?
MF I've got this lad, Oliver his name is, who wants to go straight. I taught him to pick pockets but he's got real career aspirations and wants to go on Britain's Got Very Little Talent. Nancy - you know, Del'Ollio - is trying to help him too, but Bill's threatening to cut her up.
HM How can I help?
MF Got any ciggies?
HM I'll just call the Old Bill, shall I?
MF Oh, he is here, is he? Thank God for that, I thought I'd got the wrong night. Talking of which, ma'am,
any chance of a K? You know, for services to breakin' and enterin'? Just thought I'd ask.
In other news ...
Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes, the White Company etc etc, died today in 1930. But of course, he didn't. Having thrown himself spectacularly over the Reichenbach Falls, he'll be back in a minute.
