RICHARD LITTLEJOHN: Prince Philip? No, I’m worried about the dorgis

Buckingham Palace has released photos of the Queen holding a ‘virtual’ weekly audience with the Prime Minister. 

Her Maj is holed up at Windsor Castle for the duration, and is conducting her official business by telephone. 

Glad to see she’s using a proper landline — which looks as if it was installed when BT was still called the GPO — rather than one of those infuriating mobile videoconferencing apps. 

The pictures of her chat with Boris Johnson appeared on the Royal Family Twitter account. 

Traditionally, details of such private conversations between the Queen and her PM are kept secret. 

But today, this column can bring you an exclusive bootleg transcript of their conversation… 

(Bring-bring, bring-bring) 

Hello, Windsor One-Nine-FiveThree, this is the Queen speaking. 

Good evening, Your Majesty. It’s the Prime Minister here. 

Stop messing around, Charles. It’s about time you grew up. 

No, Your Majesty. It really is me, Boris Johnson. 

Pull the other one, matey. If it’s not you, Charles, then it must be one of those Russian radio pranksters. You must think I was born yesterday. 

Honestly, Your Majesty. This is BoJo, your loyal subject, First Lord of the Treasury and all that. Surely you recognise my voice. 

Anyone can put on a silly voice. Harry thought he was talking to that Greta Thingy girl. Made a right royal fool of himself. Mind you, that’s pretty much par for the course ever since he got hooked up with that self-serving, attention-seeking gold-digger. 

I’m sorry? 

The Markle creature. Have you seen her latest stunt? She’s going to foster a dog to help ease the strain on animal shelters during the coronavirus crisis. That should make all the difference. 

Your Majesty? 

Look, hang up and I’ll call you back. Just to be on the safe side. 

(Bring-bring, bring-bring) 

Thank you for calling 10 Downing Street. All our operators are self-isolating. 

 This is the Prime Minister speaking. 

So it was you, Boris. Can’t be too careful these days. You never know who’s listening. 

Indeed, Ma’am. How are you? I trust you are keeping well during this unfortunate corona business. 

In the pink, Prime Minister.

Glad to hear it, Your Majesty. I was sorry to learn that the Prince of Wales has contracted Covid-19. 

Well, he would, wouldn’t he?

Why’s that? 

I’m not saying he hasn’t tested positive, but he’s always been a bit of a hypochondriac. When he was at Gordonstoun, he was never out of the sanatorium. You name it, he had it — mumps, chickenpox, German measles. Anything to get out of games. At prep school, he was the first to go down with Asian flu during the 1957 pandemic. 

That must have been a scary time. 

I suppose so, but it didn’t stop me going off on a royal tour of Canada. Duty first, always, Prime Minister. 

Let’s hope Prince Charles makes a speedy recovery, Ma’am. 

He’ll be fine. He’s self-isolating at Balmoral, boring the pants off the daffodils and listening to his Goon Show tapes, I shouldn’t wonder. Camilla’s probably glad of the break. 

The Duchess has tested negative, I believe. 

That’s right. To be honest, I don’t know how Charles managed to catch it. For the past few weeks he’s been declining to shake hands with anyone. Instead he’s been doing that ‘namaste’ pressing the palms together thing, like Peter Sellers. 

Peter Sellers, Ma’am? 

You know, that song Sellers did, about the Indian doctor, with Sophia Loren. Or was it Britt Ekland? 

Song? 

It goes boom, boody-boom, boody-boom, boody-boom, boody… 

Goodness gracious me. 

That’s the one! 

Before my time, I’m afraid, although my father has always had a thing about Sophia Loren. And Britt Ekland, come to that. In fact, pretty much anything in a skirt. 

Like father, like son, eh? 

Yes, well. Not any more, Ma’am. I’m due to be married once this virus business is over. 

Glad to hear it, especially as I understand she’s up the, er, expecting a happy event. 

Quite. And how are your nearest and dearest? 

Should be safe enough. I found some gas masks in the air raid shelter beneath the castle. 

That is good news, Ma’am. I’d hate for Prince Philip to catch anything, not at his age. 

Philip? No, no, I’m talking about the dorgis. 

Dorgis? 

The dogs. Cross between corgis and daschunds. Keep them dorgis rollin’, Rawhide! 

But what about the Duke of Edinburgh?

Oh, he’s OK. Bloody-minded, as usual. We’ve had to hide the keys to the Range Rover. The Page of the Backstairs caught him trying to sneak out of the servants’ entrance with a matched pair of Purdeys from the gun room.     

Where was he going? 

He was heading for Tesco in Windsor. Said he planned to bag a few panic buyers and pick up a box of Andrex while he was there. We’re already running dangerously low on lavatory paper and even Harrods ran out weeks ago. 

The supermarkets are doing their best to keep supply chains open, Your Majesty, but sadly, you’ve about as much chance of finding any bog rolls in the shops as being reincarnated as an olive. 

I suppose we can always tear the Racing Post into strips. There’s not much to read in there at the moment. Can’t even study form. It’s difficult enough trying to selfisolate with no racing on the telly. This corona business better be over in time for Royal Ascot. 

We’re working on it, Ma’am. ­Anyway, toilet paper apart, how are you doing for provisions? 

We’re down to our last dozen bottles of Glenhoddle. And there’s a few dusty tins of Spam in the cellar. Not to worry, though. Andrew has arranged for a daily takeaway delivery from the Pizza Express in Slough. I’m particularly partial to the Sloppy Giuseppe. 

Me, too, Ma’am. But I’m sticking to the Vegan Giardiniera right now. Carrie’s got me on a plant-based diet to boost the old immune system. 

We’ve also got some cake in the pantry, left over from the Wedding We Don’t Mention Any More. 

My policy on cake is pro having it and pro eating it. 

So I believe. But we must all pull together and do our bit at times like this. 

I thoroughly agree, Ma’am. 

The Duke of Edinburgh and I are anxious to help in any way we can. Philip is in the shed at this very moment trying to build a ventilator out of the bellows we use to get the fires going in the Great Hall. Splendid. And I read in my Daily Mail that you are appealing for volunteers to help ease the pressure on Our Amazing NHS. 

That’s correct, Your Majesty. 

Well, you can count me in. I’m going stir crazy sitting here watching daytime TV. After all, I did drive an ambulance during the war …