S.W.M.—mid-60s, divorced father of two adult daughters, thickening yet still randy, ill-bred but wellborn, doesn’t sweat, ever, eighth in line to a certain throne (actually one obstacle fewer than those faced by the determined would-be duke Louis D’Ascoyne Mazzini in Kind Hearts and Coronets), helicopter pilot and battle-hardened naval officer (ever hear of a little contretemps called the Falklands War?), enjoys golf, skiing, riding, porn, long walks in Central Park with convicted sex traffickers, flying on the private jets of convicted sex traffickers, massages at the Palm Beach homes of convicted sex traffickers, in general accepting the wide-ranging largess of convicted sex traffickers, denying any and all allegations regarding anything and anyone associated with convicted sex traffickers, not being a convicted sex trafficker Oneself, collecting teddy bears in naval outfits (but they must be positioned just so, or else), inspiring staff and associates with magnanimous tough love (i.e., the jocular, under-appreciated salutation “Fuck off”), laughing loud and long at One’s own hilarious off-color jokes (earning the purely affectionate schooldays nickname “the Sniggerer”), allowing sources to hint pre-emptively in the press at imminent, retaliatory revelations of “dark secrets” concerning brothers who are kings (and nephews who someday will be), squirting journalists with paint, ridiculing footmen, running over policemen, illegally using the fake name “Andrew Inverness” on company accounts, helicoptering short distances to golf games and other royal “duties,” and regular high-end international travel (“Air-Miles Andy”) accompanied by a special six-foot ironing board to help the help get the trousers exactly right, but nevertheless, truth be told, despite all that, really a homebody at heart, as long as home continues to be a mysteriously underwritten (never mind by whom) 30-room, 98-acre, $36 million estate and not, say, Frogmore Fucking Cottage … speaking of which, this might be the place to acknowledge a few personal dislikes, which extend beyond penny-pinching, self-important, jug-eared older brothers who want to evict you and include Virginia Giuffre, Emily Maitlis, A Very Royal Scandal, wildly expensive out-of-court settlements (thank you, Mummy, for anteing up), and so many more ungrateful subjects, especially a rectitudinous public, press, and Palace who cause One to (a) surrender well-deserved, hard-inherited titles, social-media accounts, royal duties “for the foreseeable future,” and military affiliations (seriously, civilian clothes? No ribbons? No medals? No robes?), (b) forgo essential security arrangements, government funding, family Christmas gatherings, and in fact most public appearances, plus (c) endure the indignity of seeing One’s name removed from schools, thoroughfares, racetracks, and so on … and in light of the preceding injustices, by the way, I am prepared to supply, on request, character references from Ghislaine Maxwell, Jeffrey Epstein, Koo Stark, Sarah Ferguson, David “Spotty” Rowland, HRH the Queen, and any number of allegedly shady and corrupt (but not really, once you get to know them) Middle Eastern arms dealers, Chinese spies, dictator-friendly London bankers—seeks meaningful, unserious relationship with like-minded but definitely not under-age woman eager to share my fabulous, spectacularly relevant life, also maybe a little massage.
George Kalogerakis, a Writer at Large at AIR MAIL, worked at Spy, Vanity Fair, and The New York Times, where he was deputy op-ed editor. He is a co-author of Spy: The Funny Years and a co-editor of Disunion: A History of the Civil War
