”It’s not too late... if Peter Morgan calls I’ll give him juicier titbits than Queen Elizabeth fed the corgis”

I know the name of His Majesty’s main mistress (an Australian) pre-dating Camilla and oodles about what might be described as the Duke of Edinburgh’s down-under doings.

I know the name of His Majesty’s main mistress (an Australian) pre-dating Camilla.

I blame myself completely. Why oh why didn’t I contact Netflix before that interloper Peter Morgan? Then it would be me counting the royalties from royalty. By now I’d be rolling in the revenues from The Crown – as opposed to Morgan’s half-a-crown version.

My dirt file dwarfs Pete’s. I know the name of His Majesty’s main mistress (an Australian) pre-dating Camilla and oodles about what might be described as the Duke of Edinburgh’s down-under doings. Furthermore I’ve spent quality time with the bloke now known as King Charles III – and his then young bride Princess Diana.

Even now it’s not too late; if Peter Morgan calls I’ll give him juicier titbits than Queen Elizabeth fed the corgis. And all for a very modest fee. Just in time for the final series.

Kiss-and-telling might sound a bit crass, but they’re not my kisses I’d be telling. If you’re reading this, Peter, here’s a few nudge-nudge-wink-wink-say-no-more hints.

First, re a Duke who shall remain nameless. From time to time he’d arrive here on solo, queenless visits to advance his charities and sundry good works. And among his alleged ducal dalliances were two I knew about. One with a woman I’ll call Jean, one with someone I’ll call Judith. As it happens those were their actual names.

One was a friend and colleague – a renowned arts administrator who felt duty-bound to support the monarchy. The other was the wife of a prominent portrait painter who’d previously had an erotic encounter with you-know-who in London. I will say no more until the cheque clears.

Now to King Charles III. As I’m sure he vividly recalls we met three times. Once at Government House in Canberra, one at Government House in Melbourne and one at the movies. Ditto Diana.

Invited to din-dins at Yarralumla in one of my official capacities (Chair of the Australian Film Commission), my wife and I were sitting at a little table with his blushing bride. And I use the word blushing advisedly. Every time I spoke to Di she would blush. “Please pass the sauce.” A blush. All over. This was clear, given she was in a backless gown. I had to be very careful for fear she’d pass out. (My main memory of our conversation? She told me HM’s favourite TV show was Kojak. Whereas, with a blush, Di confessed to preferring Dynasty. Or was it Dallas? A few days ago this newspaper reported that towards the end of her long life the Queen was a regular viewer of Line of Duty, though she complained it was hard to follow the plot. I agree. Unfathomable).

Cut to Gov House by the Melbourne Bot Gardens where we co-hosted a reception for local film identities – and I marvelled how the royal co-stars worked the room. Torvill and Dean. Cut to that night at the movies – was it a screening of The Man from Snowy River? At Charles’s request I presented him with a king-sized pack of DVDs of other Oz fillums, modestly not including my own epics Barry McKenzie and Don’s Party. I shuddered at the thought of such vulgarity besmirching Buckingham Palace.

So Peter, ring me. It’s not too late for a creative collaboration. Let me help end your series on the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha with a bang.