MORE tea, pillock? The Prince of Britain is to host the President of the United States for tea next month, and royal observers fear there could be fireworks.

Charles, the aforementioned p., is said to be hostile to Donald Trump’s political position and hairstyle. When the president blundered into Britain last year, the prince didn’t attend the state banquet laid on for the leading statesman and intellectual, and the Americans took this as a snub.

However, it’s claimed that Charles has turned over a new leaf, learning to wear the mask, as his mother, a Queen, did when entertaining controversial visitors. Only once did she fail to follow protocol. On spotting Romanian dictator Nicolae Ceaucescu and his wife waddling around the Buckingham Palace gardens, she hid behind a bush.

Imagine if they had caught her.

“What are doing in there, Her Majesty a Queen?”

“Er, thought I spotted a 20p coin glinting among the foliage. But it turned out to be the screwtap off a bottle of Buckfast. Margaret must have been in there at some point.”

Entertaining Trump (good name for a movie) is the first part of Prince Charle’s proper training to become King of England. When younger, he boycotted a state banquet with China over the wicked country’s appalling human rights record, particularly as regards the people of his guru, the Daila Lama.

Whatever loopy lefties say (well, we know what they say: “Fascist! Nazi! Racist!” Yawnorama), Trump isn’t as bad as Ceaucescu or China, but there’s still plenty for the prince to deplore. Trump doesn’t believe there is an environment, for example, while Charles claims to have seen it and argues that it needs protection.

Trump likes his chicken chlorinated, whereas Charles believes the birds should be reared organically among plentiful poop and muck. However, this isn’t a subject likely to come up over tea and muffins. And, besides, Charles promised recently to put his personal feelings aside in the interests of the country.

It’s doubtful if his boys, Harry and Billy, will do the same. The Red Princes have been going around the country stirring young persons and other inebriates up for revolution, and it wouldn’t surprise one (cripes, I’m talking like the Queen now) if they turned up among the self-righteous protesters shouting the odds and trying to ban, shut down and censor, as usual.

If they can ignore the inevitable hullabaloo furth of Clarence Hoose, I’m sure Chaz and Don will get on fine, even if the Trumpster is bound to do something daft like ask for a burger and Coke, or say, “I’m just nipping out for a wizz”, when he’s really going out to nuke Iran with a code built into his mobile phone (7625ddd; don’t try this at home).

You also have to bear in mind that Trump, for his part, will also have to wear the mask, given his suspicions that Charles is part of the liberal-left elite and a secret Jihadi. They’ll be passing the bowl of Smarties back and forth politely, while secretly regarding each other as “flakey”.

I can’t think Charles is look forward to it that much, though Trump might be. According to reports, he’s hardly given the UK Government a thought and is entirely focused on the royals, particularly the state banquet at the Queen’s bit that precedes the personal tete-a-tete at Clarence House.

Afterwards, the president will make with the big praise, saying: “He’s a great guy. A top prince. He gets things done. He’ll make a great ruler of England some day.” And Prince Charles will say: “One of our spoons is missing.”

Rab McNeil: It's amazing the state folk get into about Braveheart and historical accuracy


I WANT to be compost. It’s not like me to back a new trend, but I like the idea of my body being turned to soil after I’m deid. It would be the first time in my life that I’d felt useful.

Previously, I’d fancied being buried under a tree, and I might still go for that, depending on how I feel at the time. Composting, or “recomposition”, consists of the deceased being bunged into a steel container filled with alfalfa, wood chips and straw. After 30 days, all that’s left of a chap is compost: two wheelbarrows’ worth.

Human composting is already legal in Sweden and, while that suggests there must be something loopy about it, Washington state in yonder USA has also legalised the practice. Earlier this year, in California, actor Luke Perry was buried in a mushroom suit. Fungi in the garment feed off the corpse. Can’t say I like the sound of that.

One commenter said it was “creepy, disgusting and disturbing”, which sounds like my journalism, so perhaps it would be apt after all. But, no, I fancy the steel container. Under a tree, I’d get scoffed by worms, and I’d rather moulder away in peace than be ingurgitated by a legless invertebrate.

Fast paced

SLOW down, you’re going too fast. Well, not you personally (you look a bit idle right now, frankly). But society, ken? I was thinking about this after reading that, south of yon border, some GPs’ surgeries are cutting patient visits to 5 minutes.

Across the UK, the general portion is 10 minutes which, to be fair, probably should be enough to have your syphilis of the personality diagnosed before being sent on your way. However, I’m not sure we could always confidently say: “Ten minutes heals all.” Some cases must be more complicated.

Though I don’t visit the surgery much, I’ve often had longer than 10 minutes and like to think that’s because my symptoms are peculiarly interesting. “Elbow tinnitus? Tell me more.”

It’s the 15 minutes allotted to home help visits that really appals me. The poor folk carrying out these must be rushed off their feet. And the poor folk requiring such visits must miss the chance to have a natter that would have been normal in more sedate times.

Everywhere, one feels the pace of life speeding up. If it carries on like this, we’ll all be gone in the blur of a moment.