Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

A Partial Transcript Of Prince Andrew’s BBC Interview, 11/17/19

“Good evening, Britain. My name is Emily Maitlis, and this is Newsnight. You’re watching the BBC, which has been fiercely against child molestation for almost five years now, and our guest is Prince Andrew, the Duke of York. Hello, Your Highness.”

“Chip chap challywag.”

“Let’s get right to it. Sir, you had a long and close relationship with the disgraced financier Jeffrey Epstein, who was found dead under mysterious circumstances in his jail cell earlier this year.”

“Well, we all have that slightly-dodgy friend, don’t we?”

“No, sir.”

“A rascal, a rapscallion. A touch of the tenpenny scoundrel, eh?”

“Jeffrey Epstein was convicted of sexually assaulting teenagers, and alleged to have done so for decades to hundreds, if not thousands, of young women.”

“He had a type.”

“Your Highness.”

“You must understand that my relationship with Jeffrey was entirely innocuous. We had things in common.”

“Such as?’

“Our desire that he pick up the check. We were strongly allied on that point. And horses. We often chatted about horses.”

“You traveled with the man on his private plane?”

“I did.”

“You went to his private island?”

“You make it sound so dreadful. The island wasn’t ‘private.’ There was staff. One young man took care of the canoes and kayaks and the various other unpowered craft. And, you know, canoes are very wholesome. It was a family-oriented island, if anything.”

“Oh. Did you ever take your family to Mr. Epstein’s island?”

“Family-oriented. As in, as in, uh, pointed in the direction of. Not containing. So, so, uh, the island was facing the family, the proverbial family, and not indeed encompassing them. Oriented.”

“So you didn’t take your family to the island?”

“Not as such.”

“Did you tell your family that you were visiting Mr. Epstein’s private island?”

“Yes, in a way.”

“In a way?”

“Gesturally. With my facial expressions more than with my words. My words would often be far more vague, or outright misleading.”

“So that’s also a ‘no?'”

“Mm.”

“You do claim that you broke off your friendship with Jeffrey Epstein in 2014.”

“That is correct.”

“You are aware that he was convicted of having sex with minors in 2008?”

“Convicted on astonishingly flimsy evidence. The word of a strumpet versus the statement of a respectable businessman! And the strumpet is assayed true? The Americans are barbaric.”

“So you continued to socialize with Mr. Epstein after his placement onto the sex offenders registration?”

“Once again, you’re framing things in such an awful way. So he’s on a list? Lists aren’t the worst thing in the world. Santa has a list.”

“I will not take that bait. Fast forward to 2014. You say you severed ties with Epstein that year. How did it happen?”

“How did what happen?”

“The breaking-up. Did you ghost him? E-mail? Phone call?”

“We sailed around the world together.”

“Good gravy.”

“I mean, it wasn’t quite ‘sailing.’ Jeff’s yacht was 100 meters long and had two pools. Not exactly Two Years Before the Mast. And, as one does, we celebrated our time together. One doesn’t text in that situation. A good, sturdy face-to-face is necessary.”

“Face-to-face is meeting for coffee, sir. You two hung out on an orgy boat for a quarter of a year.”

“I take umbrage at the phrase ‘orgy boat.'”

“Did any orgies take place?”

“There were movie screenings, too, but you didn’t call it a ‘theater boat.’ That’s bias in media. And we did casino night every Tuesday. Why not call it a ‘casino boat?'”

“So, you’re confirming there were orgies?”

“I don’t recall.”

“You don’t recall orgies?”

“I don’t recall whether or not there were orgies. I neither confirm nor deny.”

“That’s absurd, Your Highness. ‘Did an orgy happen?’ is a simple question.”

“You would imagine! But I cannot remember. I’m wracking my brain. Hold on, I shall rewrack.”

“No, nothing.”

“You are stating on the record that there were no orgies on Jeffrey Epstein’s boat as you and he traveled from port to port having bro-time?”

“I also do not recall whether there were no orgies.”

“What?”

“My recollection is unclear on the existence of non-orgy events. We’re kind of sliding sideways into the philosophy of memory, aren’t we?”

“No, sir. You’re just obfuscating.”

“I don’t remember any orgies. What I do remember the sundae bar. Magnificent spread. Every sweet you can imagine. One night, I made myself a triple banana split. Vanilla, pecan, and pistachio. I layered it, too. It was like a delicious log cabin. And then the fudge, of course, but this was no common fudge. The Americans have this miracle substance. It’s literally called Magic Shell. When you pour it on your pudding, it’s liquid, but then ten seconds later you’ve got a crunchy shell. Magic Shell. Oh, do I remember Magic Shell.”

“So you don’t remember any orgies, but you do remember a dessert topping?”

“One doesn’t forget such a occurrence.”

“Sir, a woman who was 17 at the time has filed a lawsuit against you for actions allegedly committed on this cruise.”

“Voyage. We say voyage.”

“Lower courts have allowed the case through based on merit. She is quite specific in her charges. She alleges you two were dancing with each other. The song, she relates, was Turn Down For What. Furthermore, she alleges you shrieked girlishly ‘This is my jam!’ and then sloppily kissed her.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, there you have the stake in the claim’s heart. This, uh, young woman says that I was sloppy in my kissing, and that cannot be true. I produce no saliva.”

“You’re going with that?”

“I am. This is a medical condition stemming from my time in Iraq.”

“Iraq? Were you there during one of the wars?”

“Before that. Mr. Hussein wasn’t always the bad guy. Here’s a travel tip: don’t go to a Mexican restaurant in Baghdad. Messed up my glands. Been bone-dry in there ever since. No saliva. Not a bittle of spittle.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I command you to. Can I do that?”

“No.”

“The Duke of York used to get to command people to believe things.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Pity.”

 

(The real interview was so much worse than I made it out to be.)

1 Comment

  1. What can they even do to him? Pretty much Teflon, isn’t he?

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