The bodyguard who saw EVERYTHING: How Diana once flirted with Pavarotti, jumped 20ft from a hotel balcony and travelled 'goat class' with a hen party in a desperate attempt to be normal

AS PERSONAL protection officer to the late Diana, Princess of Wales, Ken Wharfe was in charge of round-the-clock security at home and abroad, from 1987 until 1993. He retired from the Metropolitan Police in 2002, after 35 years’ service, nearly half of it in royalty protection. He was then appointed a Member of the Royal Victorian Order, an honour in the Sovereign’s personal gift. Here, in an exclusive excerpt from his new book, he describes life with the dazzling but unpredictable Diana . . .

Dressed down in jeans, T-shirt and her favourite blue blazer, Princess Diana imagined she looked inconspicuous as she joined a line of holidaymakers at a Gatwick check-in desk.

It was probably the first time she’d queued since her marriage. But she was determined to be ‘normal’ for once — and that meant going on a budget flight in what she laughingly called ‘goat class’.

Unfortunately, she was recognised by some rowdy girls from Essex on their way to a hen party weekend in Ibiza. At first, they could barely believe who was standing in front of them.

With a few well-thumbed novels of the Jackie Collins-type, Diana could relax in the sun in her bright bikini, working on her tan

‘It’s bloody Diana! Look, it’s the Princess!’ said one in a stage whisper.

‘Bloody hell, so it is!’ said another.

‘Shouldn’t she be in first class?’ chipped in another.

Within seconds, we were surrounded and more heads were turning in Diana’s direction.

‘Can we have a photo together, your ’ighness? It’s her hen weekend,’ another of the party said, pointing towards one of her friends.

How would we get out of this? Diana was looking disconcerted, but as her personal protection officer, I knew she wasn’t in any danger.

So, mischievously, I let the situation unfold a little longer . . .

It had been the Princess’s own hare-brained idea to take a budget flight to Aix-en-Provence, just like any other member of the public.

Left: Princess Diana is greeted by Luciana Pavarotti in 1995. Right: The princess is shadowed by her detective, Inspector Ken Wharfe

‘I want to go away on holiday but I don’t want any special treatment, no fuss. I want to be just like everyone else. I want to be like normal people,’ she’d told me.

The curveball came from nowhere, and I knew it would be particularly tricky to manage.

‘Really? Are you sure, Ma’am?’ I asked. ‘It will present some . . . well, shall I say, logistical challenges. Of course I can make the arrangements as you wish, Ma’am, but to be frank . . . well, you’re not like everyone else.’

This was not what she wanted to hear. She flushed and puffed out her cheeks.

‘Ken,’ said Diana, breathing deeply — always a sign that I might have overstepped an invisible mark when she was in one of her moods — ‘can you please just make the arrangements as I said. That is what I want.’

When she was on top form, there was no one better; when she wasn’t, it was best to give her a wide berth — not that easy when you were her protection officer with a duty to keep her safe. The Princess is pictured with her son Prince William and Inspector Wharfe in the background

At this point, in the spring of 1989, I’d already been guarding her for two years. And I’d learned to my cost that Diana, Princess of Wales could be a difficult woman to please.

When she was on top form, there was no one better; when she wasn’t, it was best to give her a wide berth — not that easy when you were her protection officer with a duty to keep her safe. This time, her heels were well and truly dug in.

I knew full well that her madcap scheme would go one of two ways: either it would result in a total calamity, for which I’d doubtless be blamed, or it would be scrapped altogether and normal service would be resumed.

Because, of course Diana was not like any other passenger. She did have a passport, but that was as close to normal as she got. Hers — number 125580 — had ‘Her Royal Highness The Princess of Wales’ emblazoned across the front.

The Princess' passport  — number 125580 — had ‘Her Royal Highness The Princess of Wales’ emblazoned across the front

And instead of stating her nationality, it simply read ‘Princess of the Royal House’, which always made her giggle. Plus, she’d signed it with the single name Diana, and boldly underlined it.

Travelling can be dreary: standing in line at security, luggage allowances, plane delays, jet lag and strange hotels. But it wasn’t like that for the Princess of Wales, who was used to private jets, royal helicopters and billionaires’ yachts.

Even when she took a commercial flight, the Princess was driven straight to the plane by limousine, or we’d be temporarily entertained in one of the VIP lounges.

Her documents would be dealt with separately, and her luggage — emblazoned with the letter D and a crown — handled by the airport Special Services. Anyway, the big day arrived when the Princess would be voluntarily downgraded to ‘goat class’. I arrived early at Kensington Palace so we could head off to catch the Gatwick Express from Victoria.

‘Why do we have to leave so early?’ she complained. ‘The flight isn’t until 3pm and I have a hair appointment at 11.30am.’

Her favourite pastime, especially around December, was flicking through upmarket holiday brochures to find an escape from the formality of a royal Christmas

‘Well, I can’t see how you can make that appointment, Ma’am, and queue for luggage, then go through security in time,’ I replied. ‘We will miss the flight as we have to take public transport, too.’

She looked at me quizzically. ‘Really, as long as that?’

We compromised: I asked her chauffeur to take us to Gatwick as soon as the hair appointment was over. So by the time we arrived, we were running late and the queues were horrendous.

Soon, we were ringed by around 20 people, all vying to get a better look at the Princess. After a minute or two, Diana shot me a look. Without her having to say a word, its meaning was clear: ‘I’m a Princess . . . Get me out of here!’

Fortunately, I had a Plan B. Without telling Diana, I’d contacted airport Special Services the day before and explained the situation. They’d promised to help out, if I needed them.

The Princess and I began walking away. ‘Where are you going, Di? I wanted just one more photo!’ cried one of the hen party girls. Seconds later, normal service had been resumed, and we were being whisked through security.

Diana was offered a glass of water in the sanctuary of the VIP area, which she accepted with a smile. She didn’t say a word about what had just happened.Yet Diana was always dreaming or conniving at an escape from the strictures of life as a Royal.

Yet Diana was always dreaming or conniving at an escape from the strictures of life as a Royal. Diana is pictured in 1985 during a royal visit to Italy

Being at the centre of a gathering of hen party revellers was an anecdote she told many times, accompanied by screeches of laughter. She usually concluded it by saying she would have been happy to join in the girls’ fun. In reality, I knew that nothing could be further from the truth.

Yet Diana was always dreaming or conniving at an escape from the strictures of life as a Royal.

Her favourite pastime, especially around December, was flicking through upmarket holiday brochures to find an escape from the formality of a royal Christmas at Sandringham. She always felt suffocated there, she told me.

In fact, it wasn’t her husband’s family she really wanted to escape from, but Prince Charles. At this point, both had taken lovers and they were often barely on speaking terms.

Surfing through holiday brochures was a form of escapism that made Diana feel normal, as though she, too, could just jet away on a package holiday, like other people. And without Charles.

Even a three-day private visit to the ancient Italian city of Verona could make all the difference to her mood. It was August 1990 and I had seldom seen her so happy.

Surfing through holiday brochures was a form of escapism that made Diana feel normal, as though she, too, could just jet away on a package holiday, like other people

Diana and her mother, Frances Shand Kydd, were staying with Frances’s old friend, the Contessa Maria Cristina Loredan Guerrieri-Rizzardi. One evening, we all slipped out to an ancient arena to hear Luciano Pavarotti perform Verdi’s Requiem.

The great tenor held his audience spellbound. Then, about halfway through the Requiem, the heavens opened, and even our umbrellas failed to stop the torrential rain from soaking us to the skin.

Nothing, however, could dampen Diana’s spirits. She was elated, by the music, the atmosphere and the dramatic setting, and wanted the evening to go on for ever.

Pavarotti had spotted the Princess during the performance, and as he left the rain-drenched arena, he invited our entire party back to his dressing-room. There, in his broken English, he flirted outrageously with the already smitten Diana.

When she left, she was on fire. As we stood beneath a tarpaulin, waiting for the cars, she suddenly declared that she wanted to go to Venice. ‘Ken, we’ve got away with it. Nobody knows we’re here, not even the local Press. Let’s live a little,’ she said, beaming.

It was close to 10pm, but I knew from her expression and her manner that nothing was going to stop her seeing Venice that night — even if she had to walk there.

In minutes, Diana, her mother and I were heading for Venice, along with the flabbergasted British Consul, Martin Rickerd, who seemed bemused by our lapse into insanity.

We arrived at the police headquarters of Venice just after midnight. Jumping out of the car, Diana starting kicking the puddles, as if she were Gene Kelly in Singin’ In The Rain.

She then announced she wanted to walk through St Mark’s Square. It was a surreal experience. Apart from a couple of vagrants dossing down, we were the only people there

The Venice police arranged for two motorboats to take us to see the city by moonlight.

For the next hour, we saw Venice as few have been privileged to do. We sailed along the Grand Canal, armed with a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio, from which Diana would take the occasional swig.

She then announced she wanted to walk through St Mark’s Square. It was a surreal experience. Apart from a couple of vagrants dossing down, we were the only people there.

As she took another swig from the bottle, Diana — eyes alight with pleasure — turned to me. ‘If only I could have this freedom once a month, it would make the job worth it all the more,’ she said.

The Princess knew she had a life of great privilege, and she didn’t blame anyone for the restrictions placed on her. But she often longed to do the things so-called ordinary people took for granted.

A couple of years after her Venice expedition, in May 1992, Diana asked if I could allow her to take a long walk along a beach, without me at her side. My Scotland Yard superiors would have gone potty if they’d known, but I promised I’d make it happen.

From my childhood, I recalled the sandy beaches of Studland Bay on the Isle of Purbeck in Dorset, and thought they’d be ideal for her cherished solo stroll.

Less than a week later, we drove to Sandbanks ferry at Poole in a saloon car. Diana was hugely excited, and fortunately none of the passengers recognised her.

The Princess knew she had a life of great privilege, and she didn’t blame anyone for the restrictions placed on her

Half a mile from the ferry landing point, we crossed a wooden bridge to the deserted beach of Shell Bay. There was no one around except a few oystercatchers and other birds stabbing at the wet sand.

I gave Diana a two-way radio and a map I’d sketched of the shoreline, and said I’d meet her at the far end of the bay in a pub car park. Then she left — a tall, slim figure in denim jeans, a suede jacket and a scarf wrapped around her face to protect her from the chilly wind.

I watched as she disappeared into the distance. It was a strange sensation, watching the wife of the future King walk away by herself.

As the Princess disappeared from view, I radioed her. Her voice was bright and lively and I knew she was revelling in her freedom.