If only Charles had gone into politics. He'd have been a natural wet, and perfect lobby fodder

Suppose that, three decades and more ago, Prince Charles had actually wanted to do what his demons told him. Suppose, up front, renouncing all private letters and salon whispers, he'd become a proper, elected politician: say, the Hon Member for Highgrove or Cornwall West. What would have happened then?

No great ideological problems, perhaps. Charles at the end of the 70s was a natural knight of the shire, which meant – at the dawn of the Thatcher era – being a "wet". He'd have sipped Earl Grey in the tearoom with Jim Prior and Francis Pym, waving to Willie Whitelaw across buttered scones. He'd have given little-reported speeches about social fractures in Britain. He'd have been on Newsnight after the Brixton riots, calling for more cash, more healing, more love and understanding. Archbishop Runcie would have hugged him close. But, look: see the scowl on the Lady's face.

Out, out, damned wets! Charlie MP could probably have slunk through the Falklands. After all, it was our empire, our navy and his brother up there in a chopper. But they play damned good polo in Argentina. He was bound to feel unease. And once Mrs T was in her pomp, rejoicing, roasting old Runcieballs for guilt-dipped sermons, then Charlie would have been doomed to the backbenches. No dreams of becoming a minister of state at agriculture or parliamentary secretary for privileged education. He was to sit at the back, the most docile of lobby fodder, frowning while miners struck (that fractured society bit again), pursing his lips through the Lawson boom (though naturally pocketing its fruits), celebrating in his muted way when some Hezza fellow laid the bloody woman low.

A career reborn? Alas, public and private lives didn't mingle. That simpering blonde wife and two adorable boys he'd featured in his election pamphlets. That passionate old flame with the compliant hubbie who, unlike the flame, always went out. Those horrible stories in the News of the World.

It was so, so distressing, the end of everything surely: and yet, once David Mellor sucked toes and Edwina Currie started bathing with John Major, the circus of shame moved on and he was left, still standing, free to make speeches about saving the landscape for landowners, eating organic pies and pâtés from a neat little food company he'd worked on between wives, and attacking nasty, if renowned, architects building nasty, if renowned, buildings. Somehow the dear wet days of on-one-hand-and-on-the-other were dead and gone for Charlie MP. Now he knew what he didn't like.

But was anybody listening? Not as Ken Livingstone's skyscrapers marched across London. Not as ever younger prime ministers took over in Downing Street. Maybe a word in the right ear would be better than sounding off? Maybe a few letters in green ink could give him the influence he craved? Perhaps coffee with passing emirs – as chairman of the Parliamentary Qatar Friendship Society – might stop that obscene mess near Chelsea Bridge?

Behind the scenes was better than front of house, he thought. Lying low could bring many things he loathed low, too. But then, one bleak morning, he opened the Telegraph and saw his own face frowning out at him. Charlie Windsor in Moated Duck House Cash Claim Horror, the headline howled. Supposed Charities Pushed MP's Personal Passions! Tory Knight's Fingers in Porky Pie!

And so, of course, his career was over. He was back at Highgrove. Maybe if I'd been a prince or something, people would have heard what I had to say, he thought. But politics? Getting elected? Just too much jolly sweat and disappointment. Where on earth could he go now to give speeches nobody wanted to people who didn't listen? Ah yes! Thank God for the House of Lords.