Redefining Protocol: Prologue

One week before initial publication

“And we’re live in three, two…” Harry Da Costa mouthed the final number silently, pointing a finger at his guest as the little red light on the camera blinked to life.

“Welcome back to The Proper Gander, where we take a completely improper gander at the ridiculous theatre of modern media and celebrity culture. I’m your host, Harry Da Costa, former royal correspondent turned actual human being with a conscience.” He flashed a grin at the camera. “Today I’m joined by Dr. Amara Okonkwo, zoologist and conservation specialist at London Zoo, who’s here to discuss her new book, Endangered and Dangerous: The Politics of Conservation. Amara, brilliant to have you.”

“Lovely to be here, Harry,” Dr. Okonkwo said. She adjusted her bright yellow glasses. “Though I’ll admit your pre-show brief threw me. I was expecting questions about rhino conservation, not… what was it? ‘The Politics of Conservation of the British royal family’?”

Harry laughed, rich and genuine, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “All in good time, I promise. Conservation is absolutely on the agenda. But for context setting, I’d like to propose a theory I’ve been developing that I think sits squarely in your wheelhouse.”

He swivelled in his chair to face the camera directly. “Listeners, viewers, I’ve come to the conclusion that the British royal family are, in fact, pandas.”

Dr. Okonkwo nearly choked on her water. “I’m sorry?”

“Think about it.” Harry leaned in, eyes alight with the zeal of someone who’d clearly been workshopping this at dinner parties. “They’re expensive to maintain, they live in artificial environments constructed entirely for their benefit, they’re absolutely useless at basic survival skills, and yet the entire nation is inexplicably invested in whether or not they’re thriving, and shagging successfully.”

“Harry!” Dr. Okonkwo’s scandalised laugh was picked up perfectly by the microphones.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he said, the twinkle in his eyes daring her to try. “They’d be functionally extinct without an army of handlers, they have difficulty procreating when left to their own devices, and their main contribution to society is looking adorable in photographs that make for some excellent tea towels and souvenir tat.”

“I can’t believe I’m engaging with this, but pandas are actually quite resilient in their natural habitat,” Dr. Okonkwo pointed out. “It’s human intervention that’s destroyed their environment.”

“Fair point,” Harry conceded. “Though I’d argue that without the carefully constructed environment of royal protocol, our monarchy would similarly struggle. Which brings me to our key topic for today.”

He reached for the tablet on the desk between them. “Yesterday afternoon, His Royal Highness Thomas, The Duke of Clarence, widower to our late King Arthur, decided to take an impromptu stroll through London without his security detail. The result was… well, this.”

Harry tapped the screen, and the video began playing on the large monitor behind them. The footage was slightly shaky, obviously taken on a tourist’s phone. It showed a slender man in jeans and a navy jumper, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, stepping off a kerb into the path of an oncoming black cab.

There was a shout, a blur of movement as someone rushed to pull the man back, and then the cap went flying.

He looked up from the pavement, startled. His face instantly recognisable from countless commemorative plates, bobbleheads and gift shop tea towels. His striking blue eyes were wide with confusion and embarrassment.

“I… I thought they would stop,” came the refined voice, sounding genuinely puzzled. “The cars. They always stop.”

There was a pause, the Duke’s face processing something, and then the dawning realisation: “Oh. That’s… the RPOs do that, don’t they? They stop the traffic for me.”

The video ended with royal protection officers swarming the scene, one helping the Duke limp back to the pavement while another firmly told the tourists to put their mobiles away.

“Incredible,” Harry said, turning back to his guest. “Forty years old, three children, a £50,000 a year education from Eton, and yet after more than twenty years in the royal bubble, he’s genuinely forgotten that cars don’t magically stop for normal pedestrians.”

“That’s actually quite sad,” Dr. Okonkwo observed. “Though I notice he was rather quick on the uptake once it happened.”

“Oh, the Duke’s sharp as a tack, actually.” Harry’s tone shifted slightly, becoming more thoughtful. “I covered several of his royal tours back in my rota days. He was always the one asking the intelligent questions while everyone else was just there for the photo op. But this is what institutional living does to you, isn’t it? It strips away your basic survival skills.”

“Like pandas in captivity losing their natural behaviours,” Dr. Okonkwo agreed, warming to the analogy despite herself.

“Exactly! Though royals are marginally better dressed.” Harry tapped his tablet again. “The Duke was whisked off to the nearest private hospital to treat a minor ankle sprain. No doubt skipping the six-hour A&E queue the rest of us would endure for the same injury.”

“Do you think he understands the privilege?” Dr. Okonkwo asked.

“That’s the most fascinating thing about our royal pandas,” Harry mused. “I’m not sure they do. The bubble is all they know. The cars have always stopped. The doors have always opened. The perfectly brewed tea has always appeared at exactly the right temperature without them ever having to locate a kettle.”

He leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful beneath the professional veneer of podcast banter. “Twenty years in that environment would warp anyone’s perspective, even someone as fundamentally decent as the Duke.”

“You sound almost sympathetic, Harry,” Dr. Okonkwo noted with surprise. “That’s not your usual approach to the royals.”

“Professional hazard of being a reformed royal correspondent,” Harry replied with a self-deprecating smile. “Sometimes I remember they’re actual humans and not just content generators. Terribly inconvenient for my brand.” He straightened in his chair. “Speaking of actual conservation rather than my tortured metaphors, tell us about the real pandas. The ones worth saving.”

As she launched into her passionate spiel, Harry nodded, glancing at the frozen frame of the Duke’s startled face still on his tablet. For a heartbeat, something unreadable crossed his own, gone before the camera could catch it.