On the Chelsea frontline

Sometimes (well, quite often, actually), I'm accused by friends of being too cynical; and on occasion I worry that I am. But last week, all my prejudices were justified when I was talking to an old friend, a well-known public figure.

I'd heard him on the radio that morning, talking controversially on a subject about which he seemed to know very little. He'd turned waffling into an art form. I asked why on earth he had elected to appear on the supposedly wellinformed Today programme to tackle a topic that seemed completely beyond his remit. 'You're right,' he replied cheerfully. 'Don't really know anything about it. But I have to appear from time to time in order to keep my speaking fees up.'

Sadly, he is not alone. You can measure the course of the year by the John Major calendar. Twice a year, like a large grey maggot wriggling out of the woodwork, he takes to the airwaves to wax unlyrical, just to remind people that he was once (a disastrous, weak and pathetic) Prime Minister, thus keeping his speaker fees high and reassuring the boards on which he sits that he still wields influence.

I got the same sense of sinking predictability watching the latest staged 'skirmishes' between William and the paparazzi. Every few months - with or without on-off girlfriend - the Prince provokes a squabble with photographers to remind everybody that he's a precious commodity, son of the 'hunted' Diana, who should be left to lead a pampered, indulged existence free from scrutiny. In the last few weeks, with the grotesque Diana inquest under way, he had the perfect opportunity - in a flagrant, macabre way - to link himself to his mother's last days. Perhaps I am cynical, but it's all just a bit too convenient. He and the girlfriend he dumped (or was it pretended to dump?) apparently goaded photographers into chasing them. And, sorry, I don't buy the 'I felt threatened' line. First of all, he's an army officer paid (by us) to face far worse dangers. And secondly, unlike his poor mother, he goes everywhere with three burly protectors (paid for by us), trained to kill or be killed in the service of a future king. Get real, William.

The sad reality is that the great similarity between him and his mother, which he may not have realised, is the failure of those around him to point out that having to cope with the horrible paparazzi is part of the modern royal way of life.

And the way to cope with them is not to run around behaving as though you've got something to hide but to simply walk through it all with your head held high. It's how Camilla has always coped with it, and did you ever hear her complaining?

But despite his moans, William regularly eats out with Kate in protected-restaurants within the Chelsea exclusion zone. Brinkley's is one of them. I took a pampered dress-designer friend who loves it. There is nothing innovative about Brinkley's. As is the current trend, it serves a hotchpotch of dishes, presumably meant to appeal to all possible tastes - that is, within this rarefied region of the capital.

There are teeny starter plates of raw fish for the Chelsea laydees and hulking great mounds of chocolate mousse providing nursery pudding for their handsome menfolk. Mains are meat, fish and pasta (a linguine with king prawns was ambrosial), served by charming staff in a sympathetically lit room, adorned with vases crammed with gladioli. It seemed a long way from the front line in Basra.

Unlike his father, who was never seen in public with Diana before their engagement, William and his girlfriend lead a pretty cushy life. And unlike many of his comrades, he won't ever have to fight. Rather than playing games outside London clubs, William should devote himself to enhancing the standing of the armed forces among the young, and promoting a much-needed greater sense of respect among us all for Our Boys. He could fight hard for their reputation and do what generations have done over the centuries. It's called soldiering on.

Brinkley's
Hollywood Road, London, SW10 9HX