Sometimes you stumble upon a news item and only read the paragraph that caught your eye, from which you get hold of completely the wong end of the stick.

My eye was caught over the weekend by three words highlighted in bold on the page of a magazine. “Prince Rogers Nelson” they said.

SHOCK, HORROR! Had the Prince of Wales embarked upon a necrophilic love affair with one of our great national heroes, the victor of Trafalgar, Cadiz and Alexandria? If so it would herald the end of civilisation as we know it. Daily Mail Readers would be vindicated. The very foundations of our culture would crumble!

Opening the front door in the hope that a breath of fresh air would restore my shattered equilibrium I noticed a distinct lack of wailing and gnashing of teeth. Had I been wrong, misread the words perhaps, or at least misunderstood them.

I returned to the article. There were the words again, screaming at me in bold Times New Roman. Prince Rogers Nelson. Visions of Prince Charles pleasuring himself as he sat on Nelson’s column (oops, pardon!) came to mind. That would not make sense of course, the line would have to read Nelson Rogers Prince and as the Lord Admiral has been dead 200 years it would put a new slant on the phrase “getting a boner”.

On reading the article properly I found that our most noble carrot hugger was not involved and neither was our great Naval hero. Prince Rogers Nelson is the birthname of The Artist Formerly Know As That Dickhead In The Purple Suit.

This came as a great disappointment to me.

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