Elvis & A Royal Visit E-Book

Robert Wells

• Herausgeber: novum pro Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 302

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Elvis is back. And so are the laughs. Here are another 12 fictional stories about the chaotic lives of Elvis, his family, manager Colonel Parker and the Memphis Mafia who live with him at Graceland, written by the author of 'Elvis: The Siege of Graceland and Other Stories'. In this new collection Prince Charles visits Graceland to celebrate Burns Night; Elvis tries to salvage his career by breaking with his manager; a school is started for wannabe Elvis tribute acts; and President Nixon has to deal with a request for Elvis's head to be carved on Mount Rushmore, America's national memorial. Some stories are inspired by actual events, such as Elvis's secret trip to Scotland in search of Balmoral Castle shortbread biscuits, and how he recorded 'Heartbreak Hotel'.

Leseprobe

Imprint

All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2023 novum publishing

ISBN print edition: 978-3-99131-899-6

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99131-900-9

Editor: Roderick Pritchard-Smith

Cover images: Miraswonderland, Arsgera, Thomas Milewski | Dreamstime.com, V-One Design Solutions

Cover design, layout & typesetting: novum publishing

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

1. A Royal Visit

“Aargh!” cries Elvis. His face is the spitting image of the famous painting called ‘The Scream’ as he looks down at the scales that tell him how much weight he has put on over Christmas.

“That’s ridiculous,” he declares. “They must be faulty.” In truth, if they were one of those old-fashioned machines that speak your weight, they would have been struck dumb.

He is so disgusted that he picks them up and hurls them out of the bathroom window without having opened it first and stomps off to find another set.

Luckily the scales and the shower of fragments of glass miss his wife Priscilla who is walking back from the stables having been out for a ride. She is not unduly concerned by the incident; she steps over the debris and continues on her way. It’s the sort of thing that happens every New Year’s Day when Elvis checks his weight, is horrified by what he sees, destroys the scales, and ends up having to go on a very strict diet. She calls it the Great Annual Shrink.

“Aargh!” She hears another scream. Yes, she thinks to herself, he’s realised the first set of scales didn’t lie.

The only problem is that every year it gets that little bit harder to lose weight because he believes that once Christmas is over, the pounds will fall away naturally as he resumes his normal diet and his routine cycle of concert tours, shows at the International in Las Vegas, and making movies.

And there is some truth in what he says, but how much easier would it be to diet, and how much healthier would he be, if he didn’t eat such huge meals in which almost everything is deep fried. Fresh green vegetables and salads are anathema to Elvis who has even got his grandmother Minnie Mae to start making him deep-fried chocolate bars, something he has learned from his Clan Presley kinfolk in Scotland. Priscilla reckons his daily calorie count must be akin to the Dow Jones Index.

Everybody loves Elvis and so they find it impossible to say no to him; they certainly won’t upset him by pointing out the blindingly obvious. Bernard Lansky runs the tape measure over him and never says a word even though he has been making Elvis’s outfits since his days at Sun; his personal physician Dr Nick would rather give him an enema than recommend a change in his diet, knowing how Elvis would react; and Minnie Mae is never happier than when she is dropping a big blob of hog’s grease on to the skillet and frying another helping of chitlins. Their laissez-faire benevolence can’t be good for his health.

But this year will be different and Priscilla needs to talk to Elvis as soon as possible. She believes that this time there is a compelling reason why Elvis will want to make an extra special effort to get in shape as soon as possible.

“Do you mind, honey, if I ask how much weight you’ve put on?” she inquires.

Elvis mumbles something, but Priscilla has excellent hearing.

“Oh, my word, that’s a lot,” she replies, resignedly shaking her head.

They are sitting on a sofa in the living room, with Elvis resting his feet on the glass-topped coffee table, as he explains that he cannot understand it, because all he had was just his regular Christmas fare, same as every year, no more and no less. He begins to list what he ate, but his wife says she can’t bear to hear it all, nor do they have the time.

There is a knock at the door and in walks Colonel Parker accompanied by a thick cloud of foul-smelling cigar smoke, followed by his assistant, Bubba, Minnie Mae, Dr Nick and Elvis’s closest friend and chief gofer, Charlie Hodge.

“I understand you have something very important that you want to tell us,” the Colonel says, easing himself into the largest available armchair. His vast bulk causes him to sink down with the result that his feet are lifted up off the carpet; he realises that he will eventually need help to stand up again.

Priscilla takes a couple of deep breaths as if she is preparing to sing an aria and announces: “We’re going to celebrate Burns Night here at Graceland.”

She looks at everyone to assess the impact of what she has said and everyone looks at each other, baffled, wondering what she is talking about.

“What exactly are we going to burn, honey?” smiles Elvis.

“Oh, Elvis, honestly! I expected better of you!” she exclaims. “You should know all about this sort of thing. After all, you’re Honorary Chief of Clan Presley and Laird of All the Glens of Prestwick.”

“Of course, I know,” bluffs Elvis. “It’s just my little joke.”

Priscilla explains that Burns Night is celebrated in Scotland and by Scottish people all around the world on January 25th to commemorate the birth of their national poet, Rabbie Burns. Next to Hogmanay it is the most important date in the calendar.

“Given Elvis’s position we owe it to his Scottish kinfolk to put on something really special,” she adds. “We’ve not done it before so it’s high time we did. It’s what they’d expect from their clan chief.”

“Ah’m jest a-sayin’ that the 25th ain’t so far away,” points out Minnie Mae. “Do tell us wut we’re a-gonna have ter do ter git things dun in time.”

“There’s no need to panic. I believe we can do it all here at Graceland. The meal is simple. The main thing to be served is a haggis.”

More puzzled looks from everyone else in the room.

“A haggis looks like a big fat sausage,” explains Priscilla. “And it comes with just mashed potatoes and swede.”

She hands over a recipe to Minnie Mae who quickly scans through it and declares: “A piece of cake!”

Priscilla says that she has already started making some of the arrangements, such as inviting the guests, the most important one being Her Majesty the Queen, news that brings loud gasps from everyone in the room, followed by a smattering of ‘wows’ and ‘gee whizzes’. After all, she was good enough to invite herself and Elvis to the Royal Highland Games last year and she thought she should return the compliment. Unfortunately, she and Elvis were unable to go because of a last-minute family commitment. Here she pauses to look daggers – or should it be dirks? – at the Colonel whom she blames for their non-attendance.

Meanwhile the Colonel, his face as round and red as a beef tomato, continues to sink lower into the armchair, his legs now sticking out at right angles, revealing a curious pair of socks decorated with pineapples. Nobody seems particularly bothered by his plight, including his assistant, Bubba, presumably because it is not an uncommon occurrence.

Priscilla sighs, “Sadly Her Majesty can’t make it, but she sends her best wishes.” Then her whole face lights up as she tells them: “Her son and heir Prince Charles will be coming in her place.” She claps her hands with delight.

“We couldn’t go to Scotland so now Scotland is coming to Graceland,” she declares, smiling at everyone, before adding that some of the prince’s staff will be arriving in a few days’ time to vet the arrangements. Apparently, it is standard practice before any royal visit.

She has also invited several well-known Scottish celebrities to the Burns Night celebrations at Graceland, including Sean Connery.

“Ah, we’ve been expecting you, Mr Bond,” interrupts Charlie, very pleased with his little joke.

But no one else laughs and Priscilla tells him, “Do you know what, Charlie, I bet he’s never heard that one before.” Charlie, suitably chastened, bows his head and examines the yellow dusters lodged in the pocket at the front of his floral-patterned pinafore.

“May I tactfully remind everyone that there’ll be a toupee at Burns Night – Sean Connery’s,” points out Bubba. “We need to make sure that Scatter is kept well out of harm’s way.”

(This is a reference to the occasion at a garden party at Graceland when Scatter, Elvis’s pet chimpanzee, grabbed Liberace’s toupee and ran off with it.)

“Good point. Dr Nick will make sure that damn monkey is anaesthetised, won’t you,” states Priscilla, with a steely glance in his direction. He nods his head enthusiastically.

“We haven’t heard much from Colonel Parker on the subject,” says Elvis, looking towards the corner of the room where his manager has sunk further into the depths of the armchair. All that can be seen of him is his head and shoulders and his legs which are now sticking up almost vertically in the air. His cigar, still clamped in his mouth, is sending up smoke like an ocean-going liner. Perhaps these are distress signals?

“The costs,” he manages to gurgle.

“We’ll get back to you on that,” declares Priscilla, briskly moving on to tell the meeting about the ceremonial aspects of Burns Night. First, there needs to be a piper who will play the bagpipes as the haggis is carried into the dining room on a silver charger. The piper will be Charlie Hodge.

“But I don’t know how to play the bagpipes,” he complains.

Priscilla gives him her Tiny Terror stare. “You’ve got three weeks. Better start practising right away.”

She continues, “The next thing to happen is that Prince Charles will address the haggis.”

“Ha Ha,” laughs Elvis. “Is he going to mail it to us?”

“No, Elvis, it means that he will read a poem written by Rabbie Burns while he looks at the haggis. Then we’ll all sit down and eat. And let’s see if you find this funny – everybody will be wearing full Highland dress.”

The whole room goes into a state of shock as they picture themselves wearing kilts. What they see in their imaginations is X certificate scary. But before anyone can protest Priscilla announces that the meeting is over.

She adds, “Can somebody help Colonel Parker over there? He seems to have been taken prisoner by an armchair.”

Elvis, as part of his annual post-Christmas diet, pedals away on the exercise bike but already, 10 minutes after he began, the tempo is starting to slow. Charlie, his faithful gofer, removes a towel from the pocket of his pinafore and mops his brow.

“Go, Elvis, you can do it,” he urges him. “You’re the man. Take the strain, feel the pain.”

After a 30-second burst of frenzied pedalling Elvis is bathed in sweat and the revolutions begin to slow down and then stop. He slumps over the handlebars. Charlie mops his brow again and hands him a plastic cup of water.

He consults his clipboard and reminds Elvis that a session with the medicine ball is next on the schedule, to be followed by skipping and then finishing with 15 minutes on the rowing machine.

Part of the Jungle Room, where Elvis likes to lie on a green faux fur sofa and relax with the guys, eating snacks while watching TV, has been set up as a gym for an intensive get fit programme ordered by his wife. He is disconsolate at seeing his ‘pleasure dome’ turned into a torture chamber.

The word is that everything has to be ‘just so’ for Burns Night to impress Prince Charles – and Priscilla! That means Elvis must be in the peak of physical condition as befits the Honorary Chief of Clan Presley and Laird of All the Glens of Prestwick, as well as being the King of Rock and Roll. He needs to slim down so that he can wear the splendid Clan Presley outfit designed for him by Bernard Lansky that he should have worn at the Royal Highland Games last year. Priscilla, who didn’t gain an ounce over Christmas, will wear the dress made by top Hollywood designer Edith Head.

“Charlie, will you do me a favour?”

“Of course, El. Just say the word.”

“Go over there and kick that medicine ball as hard as you can.”

“But El, it is very hard and heavy. It will hurt.”

“Charlie, just be reasonable and think about this for a minute. I can’t do it. What would be the effect on Hollywood and Las Vegas if I were to hurt myself? How long might I be laid up with an injury and unable to perform? It would be a catastrophe, a multi-million-dollar disaster. And who would they blame? You! That medicine ball deserves a kicking. It will revive my spirits, so get on with it.”

“Ow!”

“Thank you, but it’s still sitting there on the floor, mocking me. Again Charlie, and this time give it some pep.”

“Ow! Ow!”

Elvis climbs off the exercise bike and dries his face on a towel. He decides to pass on the skipping and the rowing machine exercises; perhaps he’ll do them tomorrow. Instead he heads off to see Dr Nick, followed by a limping Charlie.

As they enter Dr Nick’s office-cum-pharmacy they are both assailed by a powerful, sickly sweet chemical smell that causes them to start sneezing.

“Quick, Dr Nick. Give us some face masks before we pass out,” gasps Elvis, covering his nose and mouth with one of Charlie’s dusters. “What the heck is causing that smell?”

“I don’t know,” shrugs Dr Nick, pushing aside his lunch of souvlaki with pitta bread and stuffed vine leaves. “I suppose it could be this after shave that Colonel Parker gave me as a Christmas present. I put some on this morning.” He reaches into a drawer of his desk and hands a bottle to Elvis.

It is called ‘Babe Magnet’ and promises ‘No one under 40 can resist the captivating allure of its aroma’. Perhaps Dr Nick intends to go out and give it a try, which is why he is dressed disco-style in a white suit and a shiny black open-necked shirt. He has also acquired a deep tan which is surprising, considering it is January in Memphis. Elvis notes that there is no reference on the bottle to the ingredients or where it was made.

“Sorry, Dr Nick, but I need to do something about the smell before we start our consultation. Let’s open a window and Charlie – go and get an air freshener.”

On his return he begins to spray the office but Elvis shouts through his face mask: “Not the room. Use it on Dr Nick.”

After blowing his nose and leaning out of the window for a minute or two to gulp in lungfuls of fresh air Elvis is able to begin the session. He has high hopes that his personal physician has devised a much less exacting solution to his get fit and get healthy programme which he is already finding exhausting; he is looking for something which side tracks strenuous workouts in the gym and rigorous dieting.

Dr Nick explains that he has prepared a course that includes vitamin and energy pills, plus his magic hunger-suppressant tablets. He pushes across three brown bottles and says he should take two pills from each one four times a day.

Elvis beams beneath his mask. “I knew I could count on you.”

“There is one other very important part of the treatment – enemas.”

“Oh no,” groans Elvis who, in his despair, slumps forward and rests his head on the edge of the desk. “Please not that.”

Dr Nick sighs, shrugs his shoulders and apologises, but says they are necessary if he is to lose weight quickly. Constipation, on which he is a world-leading authority, and a condition to which Elvis is prone, is a possible side effect which he needs to avoid.

“In the hands of a master, colonic irrigation can be a thing of beauty,” he muses. But he is willing to compromise, and they’ll begin the programme with one enema every four days and see how it goes from there.

Elvis is grateful for small mercies.

“Trust me,” Dr Nick assures him. “In next to no time you’ll be as lithe as you were when you were 25 years old. A new Elvis will emerge.”

There is much shaking of heads and furrowing of brows from Elvis and Priscilla as they accompany Prince Charles’s two aides on their tour of inspection of Graceland. What puzzles them is what they don’t want to see rather than what they want to examine. The Prince is a young guy, in his mid-twenties, visiting the home of the King of Rock and Roll and his Queen, the star of more than 30 Hollywood movies.

So, of course, he’ll want to visit the music room and perform a duet with Elvis; they’ll make a record and it will be something he can take back and play to the Queen. Elvis and Priscilla thought this would be one of the high points of the visit. Some of the TCB band are on standby but the answer from his aides is: Probably not.

Visit the Jungle Room and chill out with the guys? Watch an Elvis movie? Take a look at all his golden records? See the dozens of individually made stage outfits and maybe try on one of them for a photo? Tour his collection of cars, motorbikes and jets? “Possibly,” is the most excited response they get to any of their ideas.

What he would really like to do, they say, is a tour of the grounds and the gardens.

“He’ll be very interested in examining the local flora and fauna and he’ll probably ask if he can take some plants back home with him to put in his own garden,” says an aide.

Priscilla claps her hands with delight. “Just imagine, Elvis: a little bit of Graceland growing at Buckingham Palace!”

The aides inquire if the head gardener will be available to show the Prince around.

Elvis and Priscilla look blankly at each other. “That’ll be me,” Priscilla responds quickly. After all, who else could they trust?

The tour of Graceland continues and after testing the bed in the room to be occupied by Prince Charles, they announce that he will bring his own mattress and pillows. This is no reflection on Graceland, but this happens on all his visits.

Finally, they request to meet the chef who will prepare the Burns Night banquet to discuss Prince Charles’s dietary requirements, but Priscilla has already taken the precaution of telling Minnie Mae to make herself scarce. From what she has seen so far, it was a wise move, since a meeting with Elvis’s grandmother might have been too much of a shock for his aides.

“By the way, I don’t know if I should mention it, but there is someone else living at Graceland called Charlie,” she points out helpfully. “Will that be a problem?”

No, reply the aides. They’re sure there won’t be any confusion as to who is the right Charlie.

At the end of the inspection Graceland is given the seal of approval for the Burns Night visit of Prince Charles who will be accompanied by the two aides as well as two valets.

Once they have left, Priscilla goes to find Minnie Mae and together they walk to the small pen where four sheep are being kept. Minnie Mae leans on the fence and casts an appraising eye over them and says she may have to kill and butcher all of them to ensure there are enough haggises for the banquet.

She wonders how Elvis’s diet is going. “Ah mind that ah ain’t seen him a-doin’ the hard yards an’ joggin’ around Graceland every day,” she observes.

The answer, replies Priscilla, is that Elvis has set up a gym in the Jungle Room, and that is where he is doing all his exercises.

“That be good ter know,” comments Minnie Mae, while still managing to sound sceptical. However, she must admit that no food has gone missing from the pantry or the refrigerator, and she has been keeping a careful eye on the situation. She recalls a previous diet of his when a padlock was put on the refrigerator and she came down one morning to find it had been sawn off.

“When he’s a-finished his diet I’m a-bettin’ he’ll have worked up a powerful appetite. Ah declare he’s gonna be a one-man wolf pack.”

She continues: “Ah’ve bin a-thinkin’ anyways that haggis, taters and swede ain’t much of a banquet. For everybody’s sakes, an’ not jest Elvis’s, ah’m gonna add some o’ my own down-home dishes to the menu. Ain’t nobody gonna leave Graceland an’ say they ain’t bin well fed.”

“We’re told the Prince does like to try homemade dishes associated with the particular area he is visiting, but the advice is always to keep things plain and simple,” cautions Priscilla.

“That’ll suit me jest fine an’ dandy.”

“Now, remember Minnie Mae, we’ve been told nothing too exotic.”

“Ah declare, they’ll be like wut me an’ all the folks in the Hood family an’ the Presleys dun used to give to their babes in arms.”

Almost as an afterthought she mentions that her daughter, Aunt Delta, has set up a still in the bedroom they share to produce a look-alike, taste-alike scotch for the Burns Night toasts. There should be two or three bottles ready in time and Aunt Delta is working on some fancy labels.

Priscilla goes back to the house, feeling more nervous than she did five minutes ago…

Prince Charles is inspecting an African mask which he has taken down from the wall in the Jungle Room where the guests have assembled for a reception before the Burns Night banquet. One of his aides coughs politely and the Prince turns to be introduced to Elvis and Priscilla.

The Prince is dressed with Savile Row meticulousness in full formal Highland attire with a Royal Stuart tartan kilt; he cannot stop himself from flinching as he takes in Elvis’s appearance. It is the outfit designed by Bernard Lansky for the cancelled visit to the Royal Highland Games: flared hipster trews in Clan Presley tartan, a tight-fitting black jacket with gold buttons and a high stiff collar, a cape with a picture of the Monarch of the Glen and a leopard skin sporran. To Prince Charles it looks like the sort of thing he’d expect to see at a carnival in Rio.

“Ah, good evening, Mr Presley.”

“You can call me Elvis, sir.”

“Right ho, good evening, Mr Elvis. I understand you are the head of Clan Presley and Laird of All the Glens of Prestwick.”

Elvis nods and introduces Priscilla who looks stunning in a white dress similar to the black one worn by Audrey Hepburn in ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’, finished with a Clan Presley tartan sash draped over her right shoulder and reaching to her left hip. Her black bouffant hair is piled spectacularly high and is secured from toppling over by an industrial strength lacquer.

She wonders about Prince Charles’s connections with Scotland. “Elvis can trace his Presley ancestors back to before the Battle of Culloden,” she says. “That’s amazing, isn’t it? More than 200 years of history.”

“Actually, we go back a little bit further than that,” replies the Prince. “I’m wearing the Royal Stuart tartan and I also have one or two Scottish titles, including Prince and Great Steward of Scotland and Lord of the Isles.”

He continues to turn over the African mask in his hands and comments that there is a label on the back that says ‘Property of Paramount Studios’. What does that mean?

Elvis is embarrassed since he is sure that when the Jungle Room was decorated he told Colonel Parker to buy only genuine masks. He and Priscilla exchange glances. They know only too well what has happened.

The Prince says that Her Majesty the Queen, or ‘Mummy’ as he sometimes calls her, is sorry that Elvis and Priscilla were unable to attend the Royal Highland Games but wonders if Elvis will be able to come to the Royal Variety Performance later that year.

“He’d love to, wouldn’t you, Elvis?” declares Priscilla excitedly.

Charlie Hodge, attired like a member of a Brigadoon chorus, complete with tam o’ shanter hat, appears with a silver tray and asks Prince Charles if he would like a vol au vent. The ones on the right side of the tray are catfish, and those on the left are alligator.

The Prince hesitates but Charlie pushes the tray towards him.

“They’re a local delicacy, sir,” Priscilla assures him. “We were told you like to try local dishes.”

Elvis leads the way by taking one of each, while Prince Charles carefully selects a catfish one. As he does so, one of his aides, sensing his difficulty, steps forward to say it is time for the Prince to be introduced to another guest.

As they walk away Prince Charles hands the vol au vent to the aide who quickly pops it into his jacket pocket.

“You’re a very lucky boy,” Colonel Parker is telling Sean Connery, while brushing away some of the ash that has fallen from his cigar onto the film star’s highland dress jacket. Unfortunately, his efforts leave behind a large grey smudge.

“As I was saying, Elvis had to turn down the part of James Bond in ‘Doctor No’,” he continues. “He said no out of loyalty to me and Hal Wallis because he’d made a commitment to do ‘Blue Hawaii’ and I guess it just sort of fell into your lap.”

Connery manages to combine a thin smile with a deep growl while also muttering a word under his breath that would never be allowed in a James Bond movie.

The Colonel, who is attending Burns Night in his dress uniform of a colonel, continues: “Still you were a decent second choice. Don’t feel so bad about your career since. I mean look what ‘Doctor No’ did for Ursula Andress. She went on to star with Elvis in the ‘Fun in Acapulco ’movie. Have you done any musicals? If you like, I’ll introduce you to Hal Wallis – he’s over there.”

Connery glares and stands right in front of him, so close that the Colonel’s cigar burns a hole in his jacket. But he is too angry to care.

“Whoa there, Sean. Keep your hair on, ha ha ha.”

“I’ll see you, Tommy! D’ye ken a Glasgow kiss?” hisses Connery.

The Colonel rubs several of his wobbly chins and looks puzzled before replying, “I don’t think I know that film. Is it one of yours?”

Luckily for him at that moment an aide taps Sean Connery on the shoulder and asks if he can interrupt as Prince Charles would like a word with Colonel Parker. He bows and says, “of course”. As he walks away, he mouths to the Colonel that he’ll see him later, holding up a fist as he does so.

“That’s a splendid uniform,” remarks the Prince. “I’ve not seen one like it before. What is it?”

He is told that it is the dress uniform of a colonel of the Virginia Fencibles. It comes with a lot of gold braid, gold rope, gold buttons, epaulettes, medals and a sword.

“I’m the Colonel of some regiments, too, I believe, but I’m not sure how many.”

An aide leans forward and whispers in his ear.

“Twenty-seven apparently. You must have seen a lot of action, Colonel,” he comments as he examines the row of medals. “Always leading your men from the front, I expect.”

“Absolutely,” he replies, crossing his fingers behind his back. “Nowadays I’m a businessman with a particular interest in merchandising. It is an important part of the work I do for Elvis. As it happens, I’ve been giving quite a lot of thought as to how I might help you. For instance, have you thought what you might do with strawberry jelly?”

The Prince looks perplexed.

“Oh my God,” exclaims Priscilla, who has just noticed that he is talking with Colonel Parker. “Do something quick, Elvis, before he tries to set up some sort of dodgy deal involving the Royal Family.”

He summons the Colonel’s assistant, Bubba, who is walking around with a tray of drinks and sends him scurrying off. Within 30 seconds ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’ – the music that always heralds the start of an Elvis show – is booming from the speakers in the Jungle Room. As the drum roll fades away, Charlie appears in the doorway with a set of bagpipes. After a couple of false starts he begins to play what sounds like an approximation of ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

Priscilla claps her hands until she has everyone’s attention.

“The Clan Presley piper will now lead the procession to the dining room where our honoured guest Prince Charles will address the haggis.”

As they walk along she says: “Why did he play ‘Auld Lang Syne’? That’s supposed to come later.”

“To be fair, honey, that’s probably all he’s had time to learn.”

Elvis and Priscilla sit either side of Prince Charles, having already made sure that Colonel Parker is as far away from him as possible at the other end of the extended table. Sean Connery attempts to sit next to him, but the Colonel apologises, saying the places either side of him are reserved for Elvis’s father, Vernon, and Hal Wallis.

“I’ll see you later then, laddie,” snarls Connery, holding up his fist for him to inspect.

To add an extra air of ‘Scottishness’ the dining room is decorated with a stag’s head, two crossed claymores, and a few bunches of white heather and dried thistles. The centrepiece of the table is a plastic model of the Scott memorial in Edinburgh.

Minnie Mae, wearing a tall chef’s hat, walks in carrying a large silver platter on which there are four haggises.

“Four haggises, not one,” comments Prince Charles to Elvis. “I suppose it must be a Clan Presley tradition.”

After he has recited a poem Minnie Mae asks if he’d like to use an electric carving knife, but Prince Charles declines and says he will do it the traditional way and borrows Colonel Parker’s sword to slice open the haggises.

Prince Charles is intrigued by a bowl of deep-fried battered chitlins with which Minnie Mae has supplemented the traditional Burns Night menu, together with fried pickled onions, sweet potato fries, and biscuits and gravy. Elvis adds a helping of each to his plate. Realising that it would be bad form not to try some of the local delicacies the Prince puts a spoonful on his plate.

“Chitlins – er… what are they – a local vegetable perhaps?” he asks. “Like the potato that Sir Walter Raleigh discovered when he came to America?”

“No sir, they’re the large intestines of a hog and they’re a big favourite with everybody south of the Mason Dixon Line,”Elvis informs him. “Why, they’re so popular some folks organise regular chitlins festivals. Do you have them in England?”

Already feeling queasy from what he has heard but knowing that the Royal Family must always do its duty and show sang froid whatever the circumstances, he tries a forkful, really doesn’t like it, and surreptitiously hides the rest of the chitlins under his mound of swede.

Elvis notices the empty space that has quickly materialised on his plate. “Some more, sir, or would you like to try the biscuits and gravy?”

He looks at the thick, lumpy white sauce that covers some scones and says, “I must be careful what I eat and keep things plain and simple. I’m already feeling quite full. But I know, let’s get one of my aides to try it and see what he thinks.”

Fate decrees that the one he summons to try the biscuits and gravy is the aide who ended up having to eat the catfish vol au vent handed to him earlier by Prince Charles.

Just then Bubba arrives and puts two bottles on the table in front of them. “For the toasts,” he explains.

One is an excellent single malt whisky. The other, which Prince Charles picks up to examine more closely, has a label written in a wonky scrawl that says ‘Graceland wiskee’.

“My Aunt Delta has an unusual hobby, sir,” Elvis tells him. “She likes to make spirits and this must be her latest one. Spelling isn’t her strongest suit. If I were you, I’d treat it as a table decoration – something to be seen but not consumed.”

“Thank you, but it would be interesting to know how it compares with the single malt.”

“Sir, please be very, very careful.”

He beckons to the same aide who has been struggling with the biscuits and gravy and hands him a glass of Aunt Delta’s hooch. “Try this. It’s a whisky made here at Graceland. Let me know if I should take a bottle or two back for the Queen Mother.”

He turns to Elvis and Priscilla. “She’s a connoisseur, you know.”

His aide tosses back the drink and suddenly starts coughing violently. One hand clutches his throat while the other goes to his stomach. “Give me water, I’m on fire,” he gasps.

Dr Nick, Elvis’s personal physician, is sent for; he stands over the stricken aide, feeling his pulse and putting a hand on his forehead.

The aide is conscious of a terrible chemical smell that seems to be coming from Dr Nick and that starts him sneezing and coughing uncontrollably.

Dr Nick puts on his concerned look. “I don’t know if he’s got a bad cold or if it’s a reaction to something he’s had to eat or drink, but he’s burning up as if he’s got a fever. Let’s get him to the hospital room next to my office so I can examine him thoroughly.”

“Sir, I’m so embarrassed and so sorry about what’s just happened,” admits Priscilla.

Prince Charles says that he did notice a funny smell as they took his aide away.

Elvis decides not to mention Dr Nick’s after shave but adds, “He’s in good hands, but maybe Aunt Delta’s whisky isn’t the one to take home for the Queen Mother.”

As the aide is being helped from the dining room he is heard to shout: “Enemies? What do you mean enemies? I don’t have any enemies!”

“Of course, you don’t,” Dr Nick reassures him. “What I said was enemas.”

Prince Charles agrees to stay another day at Graceland to allow his aide to make a complete recovery from the effects of what he ate and drank at Burns Night. He calls in to see him and finds Aunt Delta, a Sairey Gamp figure of dissolution, sitting beside his bed, sipping from a hip flask, and looking slightly the worse for wear.

She tells him that Dr Nick has asked her to keep an eye on the patient. Thinking it’s the polite thing to do she offers him a drink from her flask, which he quickly declines. “Y’all understand it’s fer medicinal reasons,” she explains, taking another swig.

His aide is sitting up in bed but looks nervous and his fingers constantly pluck at the sheets. “I’m good to go, sir,” he declares. “Please.”

“Wut ah’m a-sayin’, sir, is he ain’t ate much fer breakfast,” exclaims Aunt Delta with a sad shake of her head. “That ain’t a good sign an’ the doctor’s dun gone ter write some more prescriptions.”

“By the way, what was for breakfast?”

His aide says, “Grits, sir, a Graceland favourite apparently, but one mouthful was enough for me.”

As he attempts to get out of bed Prince Charles says that the wisest course is to allow another 24 hours to fully recover. His aide looks devastated, but Prince Charles has his own reasons for wanting to delay his departure.

As he admits to Elvis and Priscilla it means he can carry on talking business with Colonel Parker.

Priscilla shudders. He looks so enthusiastic, and yet so innocent. A lamb to the slaughter, a bit like the four that ended up as haggises on Burns Night. If he is talking business with the Colonel then he needs to be saved and she looks desperately at Elvis for help.

“Colonel Parker wants to tell me something interesting about strawberry jelly which is what we call jam,” continues Prince Charles. “And he wants to show me some of the exciting things the Royal Family can do in merchandising with the likes of hats, diaries and cushions, just like Mr Elvis has done.”

Elvis stifles a groan and suggests postponing such plans until Colonel Parker accompanies him when he appears at the Royal Variety Performance in London, knowing full well that the Colonel setting foot outside the United States is something that will never happen.