Elvis & A Royal Visit

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.”