Rob Blackhurst

FT Magazine

Jan 06, 2006

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With the red and green Laura Ashley curtains, the gilt mirrors, and the deep-pile carpets that absorb all sound apart from the somnolent tick of a grandfather clock, I could be in the chintzy reception of a mid-range country hotel. In the scattered armchairs, an etoliated aristocrat, a shaven-headed naval officer and a pink and well-fed diplomatic delegation from Canada wait their turn to be seen. Despite the option of comfort, everyone sits bolt upright in their chairs. Since it seems impolite to break the reverential silence, I turn to the broadsheets laid out (strictly no tabloids) on the table in front of us. A man in a scarlet tunic – indistinguishable from a London doorman – hovers expertly. The only clue that we're in the seat of British Monarchs since George III- formerly the home of the Duke of Buckingham – are a brace of unread copies of Royal Insight – the free magazine that promises "news, stories and pictures from the latest Royal events". On the cover is a tanned and grinning Duke of York – or as he is still better known – Prince Andrew – who, it informs me, has been Britain's "Special Representative for Trade and Investment" for the last four years.

He is the reason that I find myself in Buckingham Palace's waiting room. After years of avoiding press interviews, the Royal Press Office have invited FT magazine to follow him one of his trade promotion trips to Hungary and Slovakia. These trips, more often than not, have been sources of ridicule in the tabloids. Andrew Albert Christian Edward Mountbatten-Windsor or, as the Daily Mail prefers, "Airmiles Andy" stands accused of using these trips to visit the world's best golf courses and chartering RAF executive jets as if they are taxis. Royalists, of course, claim that these trips help win orders for British exports – though they never exactly explain how a minor Royal with no working knowledge of business can persuade hard-bitten foreign businessmen to buy British. And while it is plausible that the Windsor fairy-dust helps to sell umbrellas, scotch whisky, shortbread and Fortnum and Mason hampers, doesn't having a Royal representing British products also reinforce perceptions that we are class-bound, old-fashioned and unfit for the brave new technological world?

Since I was once given a tip that an essential journalistic tactic is to visit the loos of every famous institution, I excuse myself. They continue the country-house hotel theme with prissy pastels, Molton Brown hand-lotion, pot pourri and faux-rustic wicker baskets with towels. Tucked in its own holder is a bottle of Dettol. This seemed very appropriate for the monarchy of bourgeois stability that the Windsors reinvented after the Second World War. I had expected muted tones and faded grandeur. Instead everything looks as if it was choreographed by Hyacinth Bouquet.

When I return, I find Sam, the Duke's Press Officer waiting for me. We are due to leave on the Royal Trip tomorrow and I have been told to come to the Palace for "etiquette lessons". Even now, I'm still not sure whether that was a joke. But rather than a drawling courtier I am met by a young and energetic Australian late twenty-something. "It's quite yellow here isn't it?" I say. She laughs. "I know. It's like working in your granny's front-room"

Inside her office, a china tea set and a plate of Duchy original biscuits in front of us, I meet Bradley, the Duke's private secretary. He is the archetypal English civil servant that never seems to change – short, bespectacled, phlegmatic, an indeterminate age between thirty and forty, wearing his intelligence lightly. His skin looks pale with jet-leg – unsurprising since he has to carry out a reconnaissance mission to every destination a month before the Duke arrives – as well as accompanying him on the actual visit. While I'm still fumbling in my bag for a notebook, Sam begins a high-speed sales patter. "First lets go through the funding. Everyone gets this wrong".

I manage to grasp amid the volley that since the Civil list was pruned in response to the Royal backlash of the mid nineties, Andrew hasn't received a salary directly from the taxpayer, apart from his twenty thousand pound naval pension. The Queen pays a two hundred and forty nine thousand pound annual stipend out of her own funds to "run the Duke" – which pays for his office staff, his valet, the upkeep of Royal Lodge at Windsor and, presumably, the odd golf jaunt. He has a career civil service as his private secretary on loan from the Foreign Office and a Military Equerry – who coordinates his "regimental" duties – on loan from the Ministry of Defence. His travel bill is picked up, like that of all Royals, by the Palace via the Department of Transport. Handily UK Trade and Investment, the Foreign Office and DTI quango that he works under - only have to pay his hotel bill tab – which came to 75 000 pounds last year.

. "The Queen hates lights being left on," confides Sam in what sounds like a licensed leak "when we go out for lunch we're in trouble if we don't turn them off". The modern monarchy could not be further from Walter Bagehot's aphorism that "we must not let daylight in on the magic". They constantly open themselves to scrutiny and justify themselves in utilitarian terms. Before coming, I'd checked out the Palace website. We're told that they Royals cost us 60p each or, as they prefer, the price of a loaf of bread. Their engagements are listed on the website. And where the raison d'etre of monarchy used to be the projection of power through ostentation, they now boast of their prudence.

The Duke's "Special Representative for International Trade and Investment" web-page listed his 250 domestic visits and five overseas trips - mostly trips to small companies who, the palace claims, find the publicity useful. They hardly evoke glamour – the Standard Chartered Lunch in London, the visits to Rolls Royce Fuel Systems, Loughborough, the Royal Norfolk Agricultural Association Show, the Pipeline Industries Gild Exhibition, and the intriguingly entitled "Briefing on the Northern Way" in North Yorkshire do not sound as afford much opportunity for a round of golf.

Prince Andrew took over from the Duke of Kent, who doggedly did the job for twenty-five years, when he left the Navy. Before, according to Bradley, the role had a "low profile" and a "lack of strategic focus on it". But I'm still unclear what his "work" actually is. The Duke himself, in the few magazine interviews that he has done with Business journals, takes refuge in the nebulous description that he is there to "promote UK plc". But, aside for some limited local publicity and some vague morale-boosting, what does this tedious round of plaque unveilings, fixed grins, power-point presentations, and bland speeches exhorting companies to invest in Britain or Buy British actually achieve? With the decline in deference towards the Royal Family will the sight of Andrew and his entourage really raise the spirits of the average machine tool company in the north of England? And, for all his global celebrity at the time of his marriage in the mid eighties, what kind of cachet does the second son of a British monarch now have among new members of the European Union – with no imperial ties to the UK

According to his staff, measuring his work by his tally of photo-calls is missing the point. Most of his real work is done from his third-floor office in Buckingham Palace. Here he exists, like the Queen and Prince Charles, in that curious British hinterland between the constitutional, the political and ceremonial. He has ministerial red boxes for his paper work, and he sits behind a lap-top drafting letters of endorsement for British companies who are trying to win international orders. He has all the accoutrements of modern government - a "five year strategic plan" and a "public service agreement". He meets Alan Johnson every month or so to give feedback that he has gleaned from his travels. He's on first name terms with "Digby" (Jones) and "Alan" (Johnston). He even has "Performance Targets" – though, given that one of the few employees in the country that is officially impossible to sack, it is unclear what happens if he misses them. I'm even more confused about what he does when Sam presents me with an itinery for our trip. I'd assumed that we would take a contingent of British businessmen selling their wares or, at least, investigating investment opportunities. But on the typed list I only see my name, the Private Secretary, the Press Officer and the Royal Protection Officers. Why aren't we taking anyone with us?

"We found that when we did that the commercial bang for buck was not high enough for companies to merit flying out" says Bradley: "they were a hassle, the companies involved got a limited amount of face time, and often, because of security considerations and itinery changes, companies didn't even know if they were going until the last minute. Now we have a more targeted approach"

The trip is envisaged as more geopolitical expedition – to play soothing political mood music to Slovakia and Hungary – two countries that have been overlooked by British business and Government as attention has focused their larger neighbours. According to Bradley, "there's a natural alliance between the Northern Liberals and Central European States. We're there with a high-level representative to say, "we think you're important". This is far more about the choreography of statecraft and flying the flag than it is about directly selling exports.

But wouldn't it be far better to send a Minister rather than a figurehead with no real political influence? "Often Royal visits are requested by our posts abroad rather than Ministers says Bradley: "Ministers are so busy. If we visited these places with the Trade Minister we would be in and out in a few hours. Our Trade Minister also doubles up as Foreign Office Minister for South East Asia. He has a huge portfolio. The Duke can focus more on the role and fit more into a visit". In the Ministerial merry-go-round, where junior Ministers are lucky to last more than two years before being reshuffled, he can also offer some rare continuity. This can give him time to build up relationships: "He's built up a relationship with Putin through meeting him on State visits. When Putin came over here he hosted an "away day" on the oil and gas industry. Putin will sometimes go directly to him if there are particular things he wants done".

The other contentious justification for Royals is that they can be more trusted than Ministers. "Sometimes we find that because people think there is no angle or side to the Duke, they are more likely to be honest" Bradley says: Sometimes there's more substance in these Royal trips than there is in Ministerial visits. "I've been in meetings with the a foreign Trade Minister and British Politicians and with the same foreign Trade Minister and the Duke. With politicians, both sides have their line to take and both try to avoid elephant traps. With the Duke the conversation was far more candid and free ranging"

He admits that Royalty still retains cachet. "Things that the Duke puts forward tend to stand out". When the Duke visited China last year – the first Royal visit since 1986 – it made far more impact than one of a grey landscape of Government Ministers. "Everyone in the world has heard of the Queen – so the Queen's son tends to make an impact even if they don't recognise him or understand his title". This is particularly the case in the Middle East where Royal families are comfortable meeting other Royals. Here, they can be knowingly used as a conduit. The Egyptian Trade Minister, for instance, told the Duke that Alan Johnson should contact him to talk about trade opportunities. There are occasions when Royals in the Middle East, sensitive to their dignity, will not give substantive messages to anyone but Royals or the most senior Ministers.

Sam hands me a sheaf of positive articles on the Royal Family from the Times. The hard sell stops. As I get up to leave, she sighs: "you know, he's very straightforward, he's very honest, he's not pretending to be something he's not.".

On the way out she offers to give me a quick-guided tour of his office. We ascend to the third floor in a Tardis-like Edwardian goods-lift. On the walls of a long straight corridor hang epic canvases of the Battle of Quebec and a gloomy picture of Queen Victoria in her "black widow of Windsor" years. Everywhere else there are small portraits of dogs, spitfires, claret-cheeked aristocrats, and huge mounted ornamental swords. This is the corridor where Andrew, Anne and Edward have small apartments. They hardly ever use them because "you can hear every crunch of the gravel and the changing of the Guard at 4am" Sam tells me. Off the corridor they each have their own spartan pine kitchens. (No brushed steel here – they look as they were last fitted out by MFI in the mid 1980s). Our path is blocked by a huge pile what looks like the imperial spoils of some Victorian explorer. A grey leopard skin is draped over dozens of wooden chests and cases of wine. The only concession to this century is spoilt prince's toy – a miniature battery operated Ferrari that a rich child could steer through the endless miles of corridors. "Oh, these are all the presents for the Duke that we haven't got round to registering yet" says Sam. We're now outside his office. I see a familiar tanned face appear the door. We're introduced. He extends out a hand and maintains a military level of eye contact: "oh, you're the journalist are you?" he says, slightly ironically. Without waiting for an answer, he turns his back and disappears.

A digital indicator on the wall shows we are at exactly 27 000 feet. The seventies vintage of the RAF's fleet of BAe 146 jets – reserved for ferrying Royals and the Prime Minister around – is showing. Alarming plumes of white steam flood from the air conditioning shafts. During the ascent, the engines are making such a roar that we give up on conversation. Noise levels aside, It's a nice way to travel. We sit at railway-carriage style tables on comfy blue seats embroidered with the RAF insignia. But there's no obvious luxury – apart from the toilets – which are kitted out with a shoe-cleaning block and a collection of shaving brushes and eau de cologne. A uniformed steward arrives with an asparagus chicken salad and fruit Broulee lunch, served abstemiously with water and lemon. Andrew is sequestered behind a curtain reading a fat ring-binder file of briefing notes on Hungary and Slovakia that have been prepared by the Embassy and sending emails via his Blackberry. He's also possibly eating the Kit Kat chunky that RAF leave next to him (his favourite chocolate bar) on every flight. As I'm drifting off to sleep, he pokes his head round the curtain. "Anyone know what "mental furniture" is?" he asks me. "It's in my briefing and I thought it could be a spelling mistake. Should it say metal furniture?". I start on an incoherent explanation of mental furniture. With an exaggerated "Oh… I seeeee" he darts back into his territory. He enjoys keeping his entourage alert with a series of random stacatto questions. Later, without looking at me, he points to my frayed brogues and sing-songs the words "brown shoes" as he passes. I'd obviously committed a Royal etiquette crime. As I'm drifting off to sleep for a third time, he appears again out of nowhere: "Do you know what a strap-hanger is?" he asks. "I'm sorry, I don't", I reply. He doesn't seem to mind that, in the interests of journalistic integrity, I avoid the recommended flourish of "Your Royal Highness" or "Sir" after every utterance. "You'll be a strap-hanger on this visit unless you keep up. They're the security officers who run with the Presidential car – you know – they dived on the car when JFK was shot. If you miss the convoy, you'll have to run to catch up"

In the flesh Andrew still looks like he would be most at home wearing epaulets and scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars. He is bulky and greying but still looks as if he could manage two hundred press-ups at dawn on the deck. The two valets he has brought along for this trip (one is apparently undergoing training) are obviously under orders to maintain military standards of pressing and polish. While his bearing is martial, his mannerisms are far more like those of his older brother. He clasps his hands behind his back, plays with his cuffs and has the same breathy, modulated speaking voice. But where Charles's face stretches into agonised folds, he is more likely to throw his head back and guffaw in a manner more suited to the officer's mess.

It's a relief that he's talking as Andrew famously hates the press. I'm the first newspaper journalist the perpetually nervous palace has allowed to go with him on one of his trade missions – and that took endless negotiation. Every morning he is brought a copy of "that lovely funny coloured newspaper" as he likes to call the FT, so we seem to be on safe ground. He's disliked the media ever since during his adolescence he covered a group of photographers in spray-paint and they failed to see the joke. Nowadays, when he's written about at all, he's usually presented as a sybaritic oaf. When he appears in the press now he is usually lounging on the deck of a luxury catamaran surrounded by topless beauties or next to a large graphic of a private jet. But the national newspapers tend to ignore Andrew on his Royal duties now. This is because of a general loss of interest in the monarchy. The Press Association used to cover these kind of trips as a matter of routine. Now, they no longer even follow the Queen's visits. The Royal Correspondents, once so obsessed with Andrew, Fergie, Charles and Diana, are now on permanent Wills and Harry watch.

The week before our trip, Andrew had been denounced as "Prince Pompous" by the Mail and "Very Idiotic Prince" by the Mirror for refusing to submit to a security check at Melbourne Airport - a legal requirement for anyone travelling through Australia.. "There was some confusion about that" Sam tells me: "when we did the recce we agreed that with the airport authorities that he would get straight on the plane. So, when they came along with a hand-held scanner he was a little taken aback". Cue another week of headlines that confirm the tabloid stereotype of a spoilt and wilful playboy.

I checked the press cuttings and found, apart from visit reports from local newspapers, almost universal bile. There were misgivings reported from the Foreign Office and Labour backbenches when he first took on his role four years ago. Senior Foreign Office sources told the Guardian that the Prince would have to be "kept on a tight rein" to ensure that his personal interests did not interfere with his official duties. Tony Banks described him at the time as a "useless overweight parasite" and Paul Flynn MP asked: "what example does he provide? Look at his business record. All he can offer is a fortunate birth". But since then the criticism has come from the direct redtops rather than Whitehall. He's largely managed to avoid pitfalls or gaffes – probably because the media scrum that used to follow him everywhere has found other targets.

The Palace counter the tales of roistering with briefing about Andrew's frenetic schedule and personal discipline. In the press cuttings from business magazines that Sam gave me at the palace, Andrew emphasises his industry and puritanism to an almost comical extent. A "Week in the Life" feature for the British Airways magazine is full of hilarious headlines like "Time for Golf? You're kidding". He describes his drinking habits with the earnestness of a Californian health freak: "I don't drink alcohol because I don't like the taste, so I'll have water with all meals. I don't drink coffee either. I drink one cup of tea a day. Otherwise, I drink hot water with root ginger and lemon zest". He's also at pains to stress his own long hours corporate culture. His weekends "never seem to be sacrosanct" and "as a rule I never work in the office after nine o clock at night if I can help it". He even uses the feature to debunk the impression that he spends his life playing golf ("This year I've only played a couple of serious games so far. There's just very little time"). In these articles, he maintains a studious humility. His job has a "steep learning curve". And, because he'd never worked in an office or had a pay cheque of his own, he toured city banks to see what they were like. He also visited Business giants like Lord Brown in their offices and solicited their advice. "He's very affable and very hard-working" says Sam again as I read the clippings.

But tabloid focus has remained on the Prince's travel bill. Now that the cost of individual journeys made by the Royal family appear on their website, journalists have had a feeding frenzy dissecting the Prince's 325 000 travel bill. Most controversial was his use of the RAF last year to fly to St Andrew's and back for the Centenary dinner of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club and his 3000 pound helicopter round-trip from London to Oxford. After complaints from a Labour backbencher, the National Audit Office investigated his expenditure. Though he was cleared of wrongdoing, his claims that train travel is "unreliable" were dismissed. They also pointed out that the balance sheets might make more palatable reading if he took smaller aircraft more regularly – rather than using the "Blair Force One" BAe 146 that we were travelling on.

Now that that the engine noise has subsided, I asked Sam about the Prince's private jet habit. "The big question the National Audit Office was asking was whether he was choosing his golfing engagements first and his business engagements second. They said that just wasn't true"

"We have the Public Accounts Committee and UKTI crawling through our expenses the whole time. The Prince can't just decide to charter a plane. The Royal Household are bound by a Memorandum of Understanding with the Department of Transport to find the most efficient method of travel that is compatible with safety and security".

And what about the golf?

"We didn't just fly there for the golf – he was carrying out some Trade visits in the area. The Royal and Ancient reimbursed the Palace with the cost of a First Class air ticket – so by combining golf with other duties he was actually saving the tax-payer money".

The Palace is adamant that the Royals fly commercially where possible. They say that often they don't take chartered flights because it would inconvenience other passengers. Prince Andrew was flying to the US during 9/11 on a commercial flight. They immediately had to turn the plane around and land because of the risk to other passengers. "There are a million variables that the press aren't interested in. They say "use a small aircraft" – but it's dependent on who is using the others. Does the Queen have the plane we need?" "Is the Prime Minister using it? If we're on a very high alert – as we were during the Iraq war and the London bombings –then we're not allowed to take commercial flights."

"But you're advising the Prince not to mix golf with business trips now, then?" "In future, I'd say not" "After all" she says drily: "we've had eighteen months of bad publicity"

We're lined up behind Andrew waiting as the Slovakian ground crew tortuously unfurl the red carpet into place on the concrete before we can open the aircraft door. He fixes a smile – just in case it opens unexpectedly – for the handful of local press that have turned up to greet his arrival. "stop pissing around and let me off" he mutters through his teeth to no-one in particular. As he shakes hands with the Ambassador on the tarmac, we run for the revving people carrier and dive in. Within seconds, we're moving as part of a convoy – sirens blaring – through a new dual carriageway that cuts across expanses of flat, barely cultivated land. It is late afternoon. The huge sky is covered in a film of beautiful pearly light backlit by a red beach-ball sun disappearing below the horizon. On some distant hills we can just make out the ruins of scores of mediaeval castles. This romantic scene is interrupted every few minutes by huge Tesco billboards, standing in the centre of deserted fields.

Motorcades, like red carpets, are part of the theatre of power. This is only the second Royal visit since Slovakia became independent in 1993 – and the Slovakian Government want to be seen to be taking it seriously. "There's a maxim" says one of our entourage: "the smaller the country, the larger the motorcade and the more aggressively they drive". Thus the Slovakian Police have provided us with three escort cars, five outriders, and an ambulance. It feels like the ambulance might be needed as they test their advanced driving skills by running any car that comes near us off the road. As we weave through villages, leaving a slipstream of gesticulating drivers, bystanders squint to see who is on the other side of the tinted glass. Suddenly we screech to a halt. Having forgotten to put our seatbelts on in the rush, I am flung forward. I assume one of the cars in front of us has crashed. But our driver has comforting news. We'd stopped to retrieve the Royal standard that had fallen off the front of the Ambassador's Jaguar.

Half an hour later, feeling sick from the motorcade's swoops and swerves, we arrive to officially open a huge new Tesco warehouse – Slovakia's biggest employer - in the middle of nowhere. We're bundled into a boardroom decked out with Union Jacks and a harvest festival of intricately arranged fruit baskets. We're treated to a presentation full of retail industry clichés – ("one of the most competitive markets in Europe"…. "in order to improve customer satisfaction… "we pride ourselves on our pricing policy") – and hear about Tesco's plans to grab more than their current 11% of the market and beat their main competitors Lidl. As Andrew seamlessly dons a black overcoat – with the assistance of a valet – we're struggling to put on Tesco padded jackets as if in a Christmas game of charades. We're shown a map of Tesco branches throughout Slovakia – plotted like a World War II battle plan with pins. "And what's the significance of the blue pins?" asks Andrew. There is a pause. "We ran out of red ones".

We clamber over crates of frozen lettuce. Andrew takes a closer look at a tray of ginger. The Ambassador, the Duke and the Head of Tesco Slovakia spend a minute in a huddle discussing its healing properties. Andrew keeps firing questions: "What's the logic behind having 1200 square feet?", "How do you tell what the customers want?". He's trying hard but it's clear that he's one of the handful of people in Britain not acquainted with shopping in a supermarket. He uses military terms "how do you manage the inventory?" and struggles with retail terminology: "How do you say it? Fresh-food counter?" Despite his blokeishness, he's cast adrift from everyday experience through his abnormal position. He's never been allowed to use a cash point for security reasons, he never cooks for himself, and he doesn't normally go shopping – apart from to buy his own ties.

We step outside into a spectacular sunset. A throng of bored-looking Slovakian workers are gathered around a podium. Andrew steps up and gives a five-minute speech on the virtues of Slovakia for British business. He does affable ceremonial well – embroidering the blandishments typed out for him by the Embassy with the odd joke. As the smattering of weak applause dies, a man on a mixing desk next to the stage wears a look of deep concentration. An ear-splitting bontempi organ fanfare sounds – as if we're in a pantomime. Andrew tugs on the curtain next to him, reveals a brass plaque, steps back, proof-reads it, nods and strides briskly over to the car.

We're driven past anonymous estates of brutalist high rises from what the embassy guide calls the "socialist period" (apparently "communist" annoys them) back into Bratislava. We snake through steep and narrow roads to reach the British Ambassador's Residence, a new building overlooking the capital. It is an incongruous mixture of the personal and stately. Inside, it feels like a well-heeled beach-house with soft furnishings, wooden buddhas and fresh flowers. The walls are adorned with modern paintings borrowed from the Government Art Collection including one abstract rendering of a tube train labelled Aldgate East. On the sideboard, there is a framed photograph of Princess Diana with a thank you note overlaid in school-girlish bubble writing and another 1990s portrait of the Duchess of York. Royals, including minor members of the Windsor clan, use British Embassies around the world as hotels on their visits. As guests are escorted on to the veranda overlooking the floodlit pink and grey stone of Bratislava castle, Andrew disappears for a briefing with the Ambassador. Here, he will present a signed photograph of himself in a Smythson frame to add to that of his ex-wife on the sideboard. He meets all those involved in organising the Royal trip and gives them a gift in turn. There's a typology depending on your importance in the operation: drivers have to make do with a leather key fob marked with the royal crest. He re-emerges and circulates round each conversational cluster. The guests all greet each other with a familial ex-pats intimacy: it seems to be the regular crowd of British businessmen and friendly Slovakians who are on the Embassy's mailing list. He seems to be the guest of honour at a social club rather than a great draw who will lever in Slovakian contacts for British companies who they don't normally get to see. We sit down to eat. The Ambassador talks about what a great privilege and pleasure it is for the Duke of York to be here; he replies what a privilege and pleasure it is for him to be here. He repeats his speech about the virtues of Slovakia and boasts that British consultants "can provide the change management that is required". Like any politician, he has a regular pay-off line: "When there's an investment opportunity there's a Brit there first. Or more accurately, there's usually a Scotsman there first. Followed closely by a Welshman".

Afterwards, as the guests are leaving, I ask the Ambassador what a trip like this achieves: "We requested a Royal visit because Britain needed some senior representation. In 1990s there was a reluctance to look towards Britain – other countries like France were nearer and more focused. Who runs the trains and trams in Bratislava is a key investment decision. British companies have a lot of expertise here with Public Private Partnerships. They're also looking for a regeneration strategy – which Britain can help with too".

The Prince seems to have absorbed these messages by the next morning when he gives an interview in his hotel room to Slovakia's main business daily. It's hardly a spontaneous inquisition. The journalist has had to submit the questions in advance and has only been allocated fifteen minutes. Andrew's answers are vague, feel-good messages. "Good things come in small packages" though he's presented with some tough questions. Why, if Britain is so commitment to Slovakia, is its share of inward investment is falling?" he asks. At this point he gives a convoluted answer about our initial push reaching a plateau – which means that we're still as committed as ever – where he probably would have been better to admit that Britain needs to do more. He ties himself in knots by trying to avoid political controversy. In the lift on the way out, I ask the journalist whether it was useful: "It was ok" he shrugs, "it will fill a page". Andrew is a good communicator in the flesh. If he's here for PR purposes, why don't they arrange some TV interviews? The Embassy press officer sighs: "I wanted to but the Palace wouldn't let me – he won't do TV interviews – it's crazy"

Next stop is the Bratislava office of an insurance company, exactly the kind of financial services industry we are supposedly here to promote. They're taking it seriously: the boardroom is festooned with more union jacks and small bottles of mineral water. They have stationed smiling and impeccably dressed employees on each of the five floors we have to ascent to get there. But something's not quite right with the Duke. Perhaps he's tired after a euphoric reception at a school earlier in the morning. But he has a hangdog expression, leans on the table with his elbows and clasps his check with is right hand. The nervous senior manager attempts to interest him "a power-point presentation that we have prepared". "Oh don't worry about that" he snaps "just tell me about yourselves". "Are you leading edge?" he says, apropos of nothing. No one is sure whether he is being sarcastic. The manager hesitantly continues with the corporate spiel in a Newcastle accent: "We have 90% customer satisfaction – twice what it normally is in the banking sector here… The business lends small amounts – the equivalent of 400 or 500 pounds a time" Andrew interrupts the soporific flow. "So, you encourage people to get into debt do you?". There is a murmur of nervous laughter. "No we don't – we encourage responsible lending" replies the manager. He's now reddening and dry mouthed. His hands are shaking. And what's your interest rate?" "It's fifteen per cent, sir". "FIFTEEN per cent?" Andrew rolls every syllable around his mouth. "That's a bit steep isn't it?" If he's joking, there is no sign of it on his face. Then there follows an exchange of Samuel Beckett-esque farce. "Why are you called Provident Financial?" asks Andrew.

"Well in England we've rebranded as Provident because our title is a bit too much of a mouthful, Sir"

"What, Provident Financial, too much of a mouthful?"

"No, Provident Personal Credit was too much a mouthful, Sir".

"So what does Provident mean, then?"

"I don't know, Sir".

He looks at the ranks of senior management. They shrug.

One of them quietly says: "It's just a title, like"

Watching this from seats around the boardroom, I try to conceal a smirk of acute social embarrassment. A young Slovakian woman giggles and whispers "what do think of this". I write the words "John Cleese" on my notebook. She looks blank. I write "Fawlty towers". She nods with recognition. As we get up to leave – and Andrew starts his tour of the company's call Centre, the senior manager mutters: "it's a bit rich being lectured about getting into debt about a member of the Royal Family. Still, he had a point about the name, didn't he?".

These are flashes of the slightly grating Windsor humour – famously honed into an art form by his father – which is perhaps a form of defence against the tear-inducing boredom of endless ceremonial. He likes ritualised jokes (Every time he saw me with my notebooks he'd say: "Got enough paper have you this morning? Do you want me to lend you some?) and enjoys pedantry and mock pomposity. He'd recently been in the press for upbraiding a policeman for wearing a fleece rather than a uniform – probably his idea of a joke. Because they're constantly meeting people who are reluctant to challenge them, they are uniquely able to wind people up. The Head of Orange Slovakia told me that at the Ambassador's reception Andrew pretended for a full poker-faced ten minutes to have never heard or Orange, before he burst out laughing. His humour is touchingly childish. As the cartoonist Max Beerbohm wrote about regal behaviour half a century ago: " Royalty, not ever being brought into contact with the realities of life, remain young far longer than others"

After a short hop on the Bae 146 we're in Hungary for the second half of the visit. The motorcade maxim holds true. In large self-confident Hungary – courted by old Europe and unfazed by a long acquaintance with Royalty - no one bothers to give the Prince a police escort. We visit an Environmental exhibition with British companies who are variously manufacturing biological agents that organically break up chicken fat in drains; generating electricity out of compost, and pioneering solar powered traffic lights. He's in his element here: it combines his patrician environmentalism with a love of gizmos and gadgetry. "I've recently moved house – and the removal men didn't want their cardboard boxes back" he moans to a recycling company. Again, he seems a little hazy on the logistics of recycling boxes and the weekly wheelie bin collection. ("Are householders given information on how to recycle?") but asks intelligent questions about the worst offenders at the bottom of the Local Authority recycling League.

Next, back in another anonymous hotel over a lunch of salmon with lime and coriander crème fraiche; seared seabass on crushed new potato with baby leek and tapenade dressing followed by ice cream, we meet British entrepreneurs who are seeking their fortune in Hungary and senior Hungarian Ministers. Andrew chairs the conversation as if it's a seminar. He begins with his usual disclaimer: "I am by no means expert in any of it – I am not here to transmit – I am here to listen" "The businessmen (all 20 around the table are male) have the usual gripes about the growing pains of EU accession. There are complaints about foreign companies poaching Hungarian Labour: British builders are identifying the best builders to take home with them by spying on building sights with binoculars. "Perhaps you need a stronger pair of binoculars" suggests one wag. Another Chelsea landscape gardener with crisp Edwardian vowels complains that he can't get skilled staff in Hungary ("they don't take gardening seriously. They think it's a lower class profession". A furniture maker complains that even Hungarian labour costs mean that they'll soon have to move to the Far East.

The Hungarian Finance Minister, who looks like a young Seb Coe with a yellow shirt and Savile Row tie, speaks in perfect Ivy League educated English. He complains that the Maastricht criteria – which caps the public spending that member states are allowed within the Eurozone is "tailored for an infrastructure that isn't here". Only half-jokingly he says: "we should have our own second Euro-zone". The Hungarians are well past any EU euphoria. "Statistically nothing really has happened with trade after EU enlargement" says a telecom entrepreneur: "the number of foreign investors is actually declining". The Finance Minister, in playful mood, suggests that they need to subsidise their own national champions to compete with France and Germany. "We are dying. The only way we can compete is to have capabilities". An Adam Smith disciple to his right objects: "but this will make things worse- this is exactly what we have been doing in the past". Compared to most seminars with Ministers, this is freewheeling and bracing stuff. Instead of discussing detail, we're going back to first principles as if we're in an A-level economics staff. The British Ambassador says: "there is a conscious decision on the Euro that can be made – it's not set in stone. You don't have to join". Andrew, elliptically, says: "It's a shame we didn't stop the train – the conditions of then were far easier than those that came later" – meaning, I suppose, that an increased burden of regulation has made it more difficult for the new member states to join the EU.

I notice that after a ceremonial first couple of mouthfuls, Andrew hasn't touched his food. Because the whole point of his visits is conversation, he usually leaves the formal meals and, if there is a gap in his programme, has a plate of sandwiches delivered to his hotel suit during the afternoon. Though the Palace ask for bland fare in advance – shellfish is banned – often resident chefs use Royal visits as an opportunity to show off their regional cuisine. Though very little seems to happen, these trips are an endurance test. The Royals have their coping strategies: the Queen rocks on the balls of her feet to deal with all the standing around; Prince Phillip goes to sleep as soon as he gets on the plane; and Prince Andrew doesn't drink. The combination of pieties, standing around, speeding motorcades, rich three-course meals, alcohol, daily air travel, and having to be alert for endless polite conversation with strangers requires concentration, an elephantine constitution and an iron bladder. (You dare not visit the toilet during visits in case the motorcade leaves without you). After forty eight hours of being denied regular water and fresh air, staring at the fifth formal meal of the trip – this time beef with goose liver and tuna carpacio followed by chocolate mille feuille – and raising my fifth toast to the Duke – I want to lie down.

Next morning, I'm invited to attend Andrew's breakfast team meeting in the dining room of his hotel suite. Before us is a rococo spread of elaborately arranged pineapple chunks and croissants. There is a slightly forced sense of bonhomie around the table – perhaps usual in Royal company. A valet places a bottle of water next to his place. "Good morning your Royal Highness" says Sam as he enters the room. The full title is only used when his staff see him for the first time in the morning – after that they call him "Sir". For ease, everyone is served the same breakfast everyday, wherever they are in the world: bacon and scrambed egg. The Budapest variety is incredibly salty. "You should have been here twenty years ago" mutters the Ambassador "the only stuff you could get then was in tins". "The big news this morning, Sir, is bird flu. Imports have been banned from Turkey". "Yes, I see that" he replies, sounding exactly like Prince Charles: "Is it all migratory birds? Or is it like Foot and Mouth where sheeps are the carriers, pigs the engine room, and cows the victims?". He fires off questions to all around him expecting they'll know. ("What was the death toll in the Tsuanami?" he asks me). He suddenly halts a disquisition on satellite navigation that only he seems to understand. "Where's the toast? Who's got the toast". "We're guarding it for you, Sir" admits one of the Royal Protection Officers before gingerly revealing the basket that he'd placed at his feet. The Ambassador briefs Andrew on Hungary's 3200 municipal authorities, all with competing bureaucracies that are bankrupting the country. In a hangover from communism, Government departments still have their own full-time cultural entertainment on state salaries: "it's like the Home Office having its full-time symphony and folk group". The Ambassador pumps him full of short-term memory serum to get him through a private meeting with János Kóka, the Hungarian Minister for the Economy and Transport. Bradley chips in: "don't forget – we have to ask whether the Prime Minister of Hungary has any plans to visit the UK".

The Hungarians decide they don't want a journalist to hear their Minister at work, but Bradley tries to piece together his shorthand notes as we head to the airport at the end of our trip. They are annoyed about the failure to agree an EU budget under the British presidency – fearing that they will lose access to the "structural funds" that Hungary needs for regeneration. They pass on a message for the Prince to take to the Foreign Office that they think this should be resolved at the EU's next Heads of Government meeting. After a general discussion of Britain and Hungary's shared economic liberalism, Kóka said that an economic curtain between East and West had replaced the iron curtain. The "convergence critieria"- which membership of the Euro demands will never be acceptable for Eastern European countries trying to rebuild their infrastructure. Andrew said that a "two-speed" Europe could emerge. They agreed that though the French "talk the talk" on the importance of Research and Development and making Europe competitive, in practice they support protectionism. Afterwards, they had a conversation about Sarkozy where Andrew asked Kóka where he thought the balance of power lay in the French cabinet. It was the Hungarian view that Chirac was still in charge.

An hours flying time from RAF Northolt and I'm facing Andrew across the aisle. The rest of the entourage slightly disconcertingly watch my interview, apart from a slumped and snoring Royal Protection Officer. Andrew is trying to define his role: " I can't personally generate inward investment. I might meet somebody, as I did in Chicago last year, who wants to invest in the UK and I say – that's absolutely wonderful – these are the people you should go and see. And I'm forever getting short-notice requests to write letters – or to see people in London. In my case I'm often sent in at the vinegar strokes of a deal – right at the end, if you see what I mean".

So can he claim any successes? He speaks slowly. "Everyone is just a small cog. And you cannot claim much responsibility. We probably could claim some success getting British pig exports into China. The exporters came to us with what was a straightforward bureaucratic muddle between DEFRA and the Chinese authorities. We said, "no trouble…we'll talk to DEFRA". Both sides were being slow and we managed to sort it out". Occasionally one is used to try and convince large companies to come – one writes the odd letter or two. I've written one letter on behalf of the Welsh Assembly that came to nothing in the end over a tax issue" More often though, visits are part of a strategic programme to improve political relations: "We make sure that six months before or after somebody else of the same stature visits – the Foreign Secretary, the Prime Minister or the Prince of Wales"

He thinks there are Royal uses in not representing the Government: "One of our roles in life is to be the punchbag for the United Kingdom. Its much easier for companies or to complain to me – because I can pass it on – without them feeling that that they are causing either a diplomatic incident or political offence. You'll find that Ministers are there to transmit a message. I'm not – apart from the fact that the UK is one of the best inward investment locations in the world. I'm a conduit of information and messages. I always say when I go into a roomful of businessmen "If you could say anything to the Chancellor of the Exchequer what would you be saying to him"

And what is the logic in having a hereditary scion promote Britain in countries with no great attachment to the British monarchy? He admits: "There are some emerging markets that one looks at carefully and says "really, can one be of assistance?" We are perhaps less use in Europe because European countries are more attuned to seeing each other's Ministers. But in the Middle East and certainly in the commonwealth there are affinities. We have our uses and our days where we can be very useful". What about the media criticism, I ask. Surely it must irritate you? "Doesn't matter" he immediately snaps: "the profile for me is not the point. The media are interested in human interest stories not the actual mechanisms of trade. In fact, there are occasions when it's positively unhelpful to have the media around because giving that indication to the media might unbalance the bid process against you by alerting your competitors".

By now the plane is descending steeply and my eardrums feel like they are being drilled. The entourage start clearing their papers and moving back to the seats. Andrew glances at the altitude display: "you're ok, seven thousand feet, time for one more question". I ask him if he misses the Navy. "Well, we still have naval traditions. We don't say yes or no on paper – we say WMP or MRU – With Much Pleasure or Much Regret Unable. But I'm just delighted to do something concrete and useful" Does he feel, unlike other Royals that he has a real job? "Well I look at life in a different way to perhaps some others". He looks preoccupied and chooses his words with care: "I've been in the Navy for 22 years. I perhaps have a different view of job ethic. So therefore if I'm asked to do something then I will do it, regardless of whether there is any compensation or any criticism. My personal opinion is irrelevant. I can understand that and work to that. My job is not to pontificate". With that, we just have time to fling ourselves into our seats before touchdown. As we taxi to a halt, Andrew's black Jaguar arrives on the tarmac so that he can drive himself back to Royal Lodge. After a final Gilbert and Sullivan bow from the valet in which his head seems to touch the tarmac, a hand-shake for the crew and a distant look, he disappears. Next week he'll be in Oxfordshire to visit the next factory, unveil the next plaque and leave uneaten the next stultifying lunch.

Two weeks later I call some of the British firms that we visited to see how useful they found the visit. Firstly, I try the exhibitors at the environmental trade fair in Hungary where Andrew visited their stands. "Well his was well briefed" said one "But did it do us any good? That's an interesting question. Can I have a moment to think about it?". Another said: "We got a picture of him on our stand, which has gone in a trade magazine that went round Europe. Who knows whether it has helped?". Predictably, the story from Katarina Stryckova, the Press Officer in the British Embassy in Bratislava, is more positive: "It's hard to get press here for Britain. For Eastern Europeans the monarchy is extremely important and so we only have the opportunity to promote the UK's lines on transport or industry when there's a visit like this. We managed to get the main business paper to carry an extract of the Duke's speech on corporate social responsibility".

One of the guests at the Ambassador's reception in Bratislava, John Barton from Bae Systems, is convinced that the visit helped: "The visit got more coverage here than the French Foreign Minister did. Most travelling Ministers come en route to Prague. It really went down well that he came and spent the night in Slovakia. We had Bush and Putin on a joint stand in Bratislava last year – which was a mega-political event. We haven't had the Prime Minister out here at all so it's been really important that the Duke's here to prove that Britain takes its relationship with Slovakia seriously". For sectors, like Defence, heavily dependent on British government support, these visits are useful PR: "A key aim for me was to show that I was respected by the Prince in front of the Deputy Slovak Foreign Minister. I was one of the first people he talked to during the evening – and that shows the Slovak Government that I'm supported fully by the Embassy and that I have their confidence and trust. You are after the acknowledgement: "he's part of the system". That's noticeable".

I repeatedly try to speak to Friends Provident to find out how fondly they remember their encounter with a cantankerous Duke, but no one wants to get back to me. Even now, it would seem that few businesses would risk saying anything less than positive about Royalty – on or off the record. But I check some of the companies that the Palace had boasted about helping. Sir Martin Sweeting from Surrey Satellites tells me "The Duke visited our factory when we were bidding for a second satellite contract with Algeria. Our rival bidders in other countries have had far stronger political support – which has even included Prime Ministers ringing up to lobby. When the Duke heard about this, he offered to write to the Algerian Prime Minister. Though letters of support were also sent by the Trade Secretary and Lord Sainsbury, the Algerians considered the Duke's letter a more heavyweight endorsement. For us, it was at least as good as getting a supportive letter from Tony Blair"

Of course, it is difficult to judge in the will o the wisp world of PR and the secretive bidding process for contracts what makes a difference. I ask Gary Campkin of the CBI whether the Duke has made any difference: "He has done a good job. But you don't see any immediate payback. His role is about long-term relationship building and general atmospherics not particular deals" When the CBI held a dinner in Russia: "there were several oligarchs who wouldn't necessarily have attended if he hadn't been there"

The general view from Business seems to be that the Duke adds celebrity firepower and, as a Royal, a Unique Selling Point with which other countries can't compete. But they don't mention the reputational cost of reinforcing a perception of Britain as hidebound and class-ridden. As Mark Leonard wrote in his report Britain TM, when the British Council commissioned opinion polls abroad to gauge perceptions of Britain, "Big Ben, beefeaters, the changing of the guard and Lady Thatcher" were prominently mentioned. Worryingly for high-tech industries, only 3% of those canvassed admired Britain's creativity and innovation. The increasing reluctance of industry to be associated with the Queen's Awards For Innovation – the number of companies entering is falling every year – suggests that in some markets, Royal connections could be counterproductive.

In the end, apart from the odd moment of childishness, Andrew seems well suited for the amorphous role that has been thrust upon him. Though part of a feudal institution, it's not hard to imagine him on an office away day paintballing, playing a day of corporate golf, or, as a Falklands veteran, giving motivational pep talks to city bankers. His army technospeak is mixed with clichés that sound as if they belong on a team-building exercise. ("It's all down to communication" and "I'm nothing without my team" are two of his favoured David Brentisms).

He seems to crave usefulness. One company who he lobbied for abroad told me: "during the protocol he looked a bit bored. But he was very proactive when we presented him with a real problem. He said "ok, you've got a problem I'll solve it" and he was effective with senior officials – diplomatic but straight". And it's this utilitarian rather than mystic attitude towards monarchy that is his main strength. He unashamedly acknowledges that he's in the PR industry, is aware of the limits of his role, and carries out his duties with interest, sharpness and a complete absence of self-pity. Prince Charles once reportedly described him as a "fizzy drink that has been shaken off and had the top taken off". In reality, he's a conventional character, a creature of routine, who, though occasionally delighting in court-jester ebullience, is far from the "Duke of Yob" tabloid stereotype. His dependability, like that of his mother, is the kind of quality that monarchy must have if it is to survive. Former US Ambassador Sir Christopher Meyer writes in his memoirs that Prince Andrew stepped into the breach after Prince Charles pulled out of a trade promotion event in New York immediately after 9/11. The name of the show "UK in New York" was changed to "UK with New York" and Andrew "bathed in the appreciation of New Yorkers". Meyer believes that at the time "Charles was supposedly shooting at Balmoral".

Some of Andrew's royal duties undoubtedly help British business some of the time. The real question is whether the 75 000 pound hotel bill and three hundred thousand pound flight costs would be better spent on other forms of trade promotion. Certainly, he seems better value than the Invest UK branded pencils, sports bags, and rubber brains that their marketing department spew out. "The Duke is kept going by the very, very positive feedback from the business community" Sam tells me as I call to check over a few facts. Fine, but if he's in the business of international PR, then he can't continue to be a PR disaster at home. The finest service the Press Office could give him would be to book him on Easy Jet and GNER more often and to publicly break his golf clubs in two.

With the red and green Laura Ashley curtains, the gilt mirrors and the deep-pile carpets that absorb all sound apart from the somnolent tick of a grandfather clock, I could be in the chintzy reception of a mid-range country hotel. In the scattered armchairs, an etiolated aristocrat, a shaven-headed naval officer and a well-fed diplomatic delegation from Canada wait their turn to be seen. Everyone sits bolt upright. A man in a scarlet tunic - indistinguishable from a London doorman - hovers expertly. The only clue that we're in the seat of the British monarchy is a brace of unread copies of Royal Insight, the free magazine that promises "news, stories and pictures from the latest Royal events". On the cover is a tanned and grinning Duke of York - or, as he is still better known, Prince Andrew who, it says, has been Britain's "Special Representative for International Trade and Investment" for the past four years.

He is the reason I am in Buckingham Palace's waiting room. After years of avoiding interviews, the royal press office has invited the FT Magazine to follow him on one of his trade promotion trips. These have been a source of ridicule for the tabloids. Andrew Albert Christian Edward Mountbatten-Windsor or, as the Daily Mail prefers, "Air Miles Andy", stands accused of using them to visit the world's best golf courses and chartering RAF executive jets as if they were taxis. Royalists, of course, claim that these trips help win orders for British exports - though they never exactly explain how a minor royal with no working knowledge of business can persuade hard-bitten foreign businessmen to buy British. And while it is plausible that the Windsor fairydust helps to sell umbrellas, scotch whisky, shortbread and Fortnum & Mason hampers, doesn't having a royal representing British products also reinforce perceptions that we are class-bound, old-fashioned and unfit for the modern world?

We are due to leave on the Royal Trip to Hungary and Slovakia tomorrow and I have been told to come to the palace for "etiquette lessons". Even now, I'm still not sure whether that was a joke. I am met by the duke's press officer, no drawling courtier, but rather an energetic Australian twentysomething called Samantha Cohen. "It's quite yellow here isn't it?" I say. She laughs. "I know. It's like working in your granny's front-room."

Inside her office, a china tea set and a plate of Duchy Original biscuits in front of us, I meet Bradley Jones, the duke's assistant private secretary. He is the archetypal English civil servant - short, bespectacled, phlegmatic, an indeterminate age between 30 and 40, wearing his intelligence lightly. His skin looks pale with jet-leg - not surprising since he has to carry out a reconnaissance mission to every destination a month before the duke arrives - as well as accompany him on the actual visit.

While I'm fumbling in my bag for a notebook, Samantha begins a high-speed sales patter. "First, let's go through the funding. Everyone gets this wrong." I manage to grasp amid the volley that since the Civil List was pruned in response to the mid-1990s backlash against royalty, Prince Andrew hasn't received a salary directly from the taxpayer, apart from his £20,000 naval pension. The Queen provides a £249,000 annual stipend out of her own funds to "run the duke" - which pays for his office staff, his valet, the upkeep of his residence Royal Lodge at Windsor and, presumably, the odd golf jaunt. Bradley is on loan from the Foreign Office, and a military equerry - who co-ordinates his "regimental" duties - is on loan from the Ministry of Defence. His travel bill is picked up, like that of all royals, by the palace via the Department of Transport. Handily, UK Trade and Investment - the government organisation that he works under - only has to pay his hotel bills, which came to about £75,000 last financial year.

The duke's "special representative for international trade and investment" webpage lists his 250 domestic and five overseas trips - mostly visits to small companies which, the palace claims, find the publicity useful. They hardly evoke glamour: Standard Chartered lunch in London, Rolls-Royce Fuel Cell Systems, Loughborough; the Royal Norfolk Agricultural Association Show; Pipeline Industries Guild Exhibition; and the intriguingly entitled "Briefing on the Northern Way" in North Yorkshire do not sound as if they afford much opportunity for a round of golf. But what does all this actually achieve? For all his global celebrity at the time of his marriage to Sarah Ferguson in the mid-1980s, what kind of cachet does the second son of a British monarch now have among the new member countries of the European Union?

I'm even more confused when Samantha presents me with an itinerary for our trip. I'd assumed that we would take a contingent of British businessmen selling their wares or, at least, investigating investment opportunities. But on the typed list I see only my name, the private secretary, the press officer and the royal protection officers. Why aren't we taking any business representatives with us?

"We found that when we did that the commercial bang for buck was not high enough for companies to merit flying out," says Bradley. "They were a hassle, the companies involved got a limited amount of face time, and often, because of security considerations and itinerary changes, companies didn't even know if they were going until the last minute. Now we have a more targeted approach."

Our trip is envisaged more as a geopolitical expedition - to play soothing political mood music to Slovakia and Hungary, two countries that have been overlooked by British business and government as attention has focused on their larger neighbours.

Samantha hands me a sheaf of positive articles on the Royal Family from The Times. The hard sell stops. As I get up to leave, she sighs: "You know, he's very straightforward, he's very honest, he's not pretending to be something he's not." On a quick guided tour of his office we are introduced. The duke extends a hand and maintains a military level of eye contact: "Oh, you're the journalist are you?" he says, slightly ironically. Without waiting for an answer, he turns his back and disappears.

A digital indicator on the wall shows we are at 27,000ft.

The RAF fleet of 20-year-old BAE 146 jets - reserved for ferrying royals and the prime minister around - is showing its age. Alarming plumes of white steam flood from the air-con. During the ascent, the engines are making such a roar that we give up on conversation. Prince Andrew is sequestered behind a curtain reading a fat ring-binder file of briefing notes on Hungary and Slovakia and he is sending e-mails via his BlackBerry. He's also possibly eating the Kit Kat Chunky that the RAF crew leave next to him on every flight.

As I'm drifting off to sleep, he pokes his head around the curtain. "Anyone know what "mental furniture" is?" he asks. "It's in my briefing and I thought it could be a spelling mistake. Should it say metal furniture?" I start on an incoherent explanation about it meaning areas of knowledge. With an exaggerated "Oh… I seeeee," he darts back into his territory. Later, without looking at me, he points to my frayed brogues and sing-songs the words "brown shoes" as he passes. I've obviously committed a crime of royal etiquette.

In the flesh, Prince Andrew still looks like he would be most at home wearing epaulettes and scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars. He is bulky and greying but still looks as if he could manage 200 press-ups on the deck at dawn. The two valets he has brought along for this trip (one is apparently undergoing training) are obviously under orders to maintain military standards of pressing and polishing. While his bearing is martial, his mannerisms are far more like those of his older brother. He clasps his hands behind his back, plays with his cuffs and has the same breathy, modulated speaking voice. But where Charles's face stretches into agonised folds, Prince Andrew is more likely to throw his head back and guffaw in a manner more suited to the officers' mess.

Prince Andrew famously hates the press. However, every morning he is brought a copy of "that lovely funny-coloured newspaper" as he likes to call the FT, so we seem to be on safe ground. He has disliked the media ever since an incident in his adolescence when he covered a group of photographers in spray-paint and they failed to see the joke. Nowadays, when he's written about at all, he's usually presented as a sybaritic oaf. The tabloids lapped up pictures of him lounging on the deck of a luxury catamaran, surrounded by topless beauties. But the national newspapers tend to ignore him on his royal duties. The royal correspondents, once so obsessed with Andrew, Fergie, Charles and Diana, are now on permanent Wills and Harry watch.

We're lined up behind Prince Andrew in the aircraft, waiting while the Slovakian ground crew tortuously unfurl the red carpet into place. He fixes a smile - just in case the aircraft door opens unexpectedly - for the handful of local press that have turned up. "Stop pissing around and let me off," he mutters through his teeth to no one in particular. As he shakes hands with the ambassador on the tarmac, we run for the revving people-carrier and dive in. Within seconds, we're moving as part of a convoy - sirens blaring - along a new dual carriageway that takes us away from the outskirts of the capital, Bratislava. On some distant hills we can just make out the ruins of medieval castles. This romantic scene is interrupted every few minutes by huge Tesco billboards in deserted fields. "There's a maxim," says one of our entourage, "the smaller the country, the larger the motorcade and the more aggressively they drive." The Slovakian police have provided us with three escort cars, five outriders and an ambulance. I think the ambulance might be needed as the escort vehicles seem intent on driving any car that comes near us off the road.

Half an hour later, feeling sick from the motorcade's swoops and swerves, we arrive to open a huge new warehouse for Tesco - Slovakia's biggest employer - in the middle of nowhere. We're bundled into a boardroom decked out with Union Jacks and intricately arranged fruit baskets. We're treated to a presentation full of retail industry cliches - ("one of the most competitive markets in Europe… " "in order to improve customer satisfaction… " "we pride ourselves on our pricing policy… ") - and hear about Tesco's plans to increase their market share and beat Lidl, their main competitor. We're shown a map of Tesco branches throughout Slovakia - plotted like a second world war battle plan with pins. "And what's the significance of the blue pins?" asks Prince Andrew. There is a pause. "We ran out of red ones."

We clamber over crates of lettuce. Prince Andrew takes a closer look at a tray of ginger. British ambassador Judith Macgregor, the duke and the head of Tesco Slovakia spend a minute in a huddle discussing its healing properties. Prince Andrew keeps firing questions: "What's the logic behind having 1,200 square feet?" "How do you tell what the customers want?" He's trying hard but it's clear he's one of the few people in Britain not acquainted with shopping in a supermarket.

We step outside where a throng of bored-looking Slovakian workers are gathered around a podium. Prince Andrew steps up and gives a five-minute speech on the virtues of Slovakia for British business. He does affable ceremonial well - embroidering the blandishments typed out for him by the embassy with the odd joke. As the smattering of weak applause dies, a man on a mixing desk next to the stage wears a look of deep concentration. An ear-splitting Bontempi organ fanfare sounds - as if we're in a pantomime. Prince Andrew tugs on the curtain next to him, reveals a brass plaque, steps back, proof-reads it, nods and strides briskly over to the car.

We're driven back into Bratislava to the ambassador's residence overlooking the capital. Royals, including minor members of the Windsor clan, use British embassies as hotels on their visits. As guests are escorted on to the veranda, Prince Andrew disappears for a briefing with the ambassador. The guests all greet each other with a familial ex-pat intimacy: it seems to be the regular crowd of British businessmen and friendly Slovaks who are on the embassy's mailing list. We sit down to eat. The ambassador talks about what a great privilege and pleasure it is for the Duke of York to be here; he replies what a privilege and pleasure it is for him to be here. Like a politician, he has a regular pay-off line: "When there's an investment opportunity there's a Brit there first. Or more accurately, there's usually a Scotsman there first. Followed closely by a Welshman."

Afterwards, as the guests are leaving, I ask the ambassador what a trip like this achieves: "We requested a royal visit because Britain needed some senior representation. In the 1990s there was a reluctance to look towards Britain - other countries like France were nearer and more focused. Who runs the trains and trams in Bratislava is a key investment decision. British companies have a lot of expertise here with public-private partnerships. They're also looking for a regeneration strategy - which Britain can help with too."

The next day we are at the Bratislava offices of Provident Financial, the financial services group. The boardroom is festooned with more Union Jacks and small bottles of mineral water. They have stationed smiling and impeccably dressed employees on each of the five floors we have to ascend. But something's not quite right with the duke. Perhaps he's tired after a euphoric reception at a school earlier in the morning. But he has a hangdog expression, leans on the table with his elbows and clasps his cheek with his right hand.

The nervous senior manager attempts to interest him in "a PowerPoint presentation that we have prepared". "Oh don't worry about that," he snaps, "just tell me about yourselves. Are you leading edge?" No one is sure whether he is being sarcastic. The manager hesitantly continues with the corporate spiel in a Newcastle accent: "We have 90 per cent customer satisfaction - twice what it normally is in the banking sector here… The business lends small amounts - the equivalent of £400 or £500 a time." Prince Andrew interrupts: "So, you encourage people to get into debt do you?" There is some nervous laughter. "No we don't - we encourage responsible lending," replies the manager. He's now reddening and dry mouthed. His hands are shaking. "And what's your interest rate?" "It's 15 per cent, Sir". "FIFTEEN per cent!?" Prince Andrew rolls every syllable around his mouth. "That's a bit steep isn't it?" If he's joking, there is no sign of it on his face.

Then there follows an exchange of Samuel Beckett-esque farce. "Why are you called Provident Financial?" asks Prince Andrew.

"Well in England we've rebranded as Provident because our title is a bit too much of a mouthful, Sir."

"What, Provident Financial, too much of a mouthful?"

"No, Provident Personal Credit was too much a mouthful, Sir".

"So what does Provident mean, then?"

"I don't know, Sir". He looks at the ranks of senior management. They shrug. One of them quietly says: "It's just a title, like."

These are flashes of the slightly grating Windsor humour - famously honed into an art form by his father - which is perhaps a form of defence against the tear-inducing boredom of endless ceremony. He likes ritualised jokes (every time he saw me with my notebooks he'd say: "Got enough paper have you this morning? Do you want me to lend you some?") and enjoys pedantry and mock pomposity. Because they're constantly meeting people who are reluctant to challenge them, they are uniquely able to wind people up. A senior executive at Orange Slovakia told me that at the ambassador's reception Prince Andrew pretended for a full poker-faced 10 minutes to have never heard of Orange, before he burst out laughing.

After a short hop on the plane we're in Hungary for the second half of the visit. The motorcade maxim holds true. In large, self-confident Hungary - courted by old Europe and unfazed by a long acquaintance with royalty - there is no police escort. We visit an environmental exhibition with British companies that are, among other things, manufacturing biological agents that break up chicken fat in drains; generating electricity out of compost; and pioneering solar-powered traffic lights. Prince Andrew is in his element here: it combines his patrician environmentalism with a love of gizmos and gadgetry. "I've recently moved house - and the removal men didn't want their cardboard boxes back," he moans to a recycling company.

At lunch in another anonymous hotel we meet Hungarian ministers and British entrepreneurs who are seeking their fortune in Hungary. Prince Andrew chairs the conversation as if it's a seminar. He begins with his usual disclaimer: "I am by no means expert in any of it - I am not here to transmit - I am here to listen." The businessmen (all 20 around the table are male) have the usual gripes about the growing pains of EU accession. There are complaints about foreign companies poaching Hungarian labour: British builders are identifying the best builders to take home with them by spying on building sites with binoculars. A Chelsea landscape gardener with crisp Edwardian vowels complains that he can't get skilled staff in Hungary ("they don't take gardening seriously - they think it's a lower-class profession").

On the plane back home, an hour from RAF Northolt, I face Prince Andrew across the aisle. Slightly disconcertingly, the rest of the entourage watch my interview, apart from a slumped and snoring royal protection officer. Prince Andrew is trying to define his role: "I can't personally generate inward investment. I might meet somebody, as I did in Chicago last year, who wants to invest in the UK and I say 'That's absolutely wonderful - these are the people you should go and see.' And I'm forever getting short-notice requests to write letters, or to see people in London. In my case I'm often sent in at the vinegar strokes of a deal - right at the end, if you see what I mean."

So can he claim any successes? He speaks slowly. "Everyone is just a small cog. And you cannot claim much responsibility. We probably could claim some success getting British pig exports into China. The exporters came to us with what was a straightforward bureaucratic muddle between Defra [the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs] and the Chinese authorities. We said, 'No trouble… we'll talk to Defra.' Both sides were being slow and we managed to sort it out. Occasionally one is used to try and convince large companies to come - one writes the odd letter or two. More often though, visits are part of a strategic programme to improve political relations."

And what is the logic in having a hereditary scion promote Britain in countries with no great attachment to the British monarchy? He admits: "There are some emerging markets that one looks at carefully and says, 'Really, can one be of assistance?' We are perhaps less use in Europe because European countries are more attuned to seeing each other's ministers. But in the Middle East and certainly in the Commonwealth there are affinities. We have our uses and our days where we can be very useful."

After a last question, we just have time to fling ourselves into our seats before touchdown. As we taxi to a halt, Prince Andrew's black Jaguar arrives on the tarmac so that he can drive himself back to Royal Lodge. After a final Gilbert and Sullivan bow from the valet in which his head seems to touch the tarmac, a hand-shake for the crew and a distant look, he disappears. Next week he'll be in Oxfordshire to visit the next factory, unveil the next plaque and leave uneaten the next lunch.

Later I call some of the British companies that we visited to see how useful they found the visit. First, I try the exhibitors at the environmental trade fair in Hungary. "Well, he was well briefed," said one. "But did it do us any good? That's an interesting question. Can I have a moment to think about it?" Another said: "We got a picture of him on our stand, which has gone in a trade magazine that went round Europe. Who knows whether it has helped?"

One of the guests at the ambassador's reception in Bratislava, John Barter from BAE Systems, is convinced of the visit's benefits: "The visit got more coverage here than the French foreign minister did. Most travelling ministers come en route to Prague. It really went down well that he came and spent the night in Slovakia. We haven't had the prime minister out here at all so it's been really important that the duke's here to prove that Britain takes its relationship with Slovakia seriously."

For sectors such as defence these visits are useful PR: "A key aim for me was to show that I was respected by the prince in front of the deputy Slovak foreign minister," says Barter. "I was one of the first people he talked to during the evening - and that shows the Slovak government that I'm supported fully by the embassy and that I have their confidence and trust."

I repeatedly try to speak to Provident Financial to find out how fondly they remember their encounter with a cantankerous duke, but no one gets back to me.

In the end, it is the utilitarian function rather than mystic attitude towards monarchy that is Prince Andrew's main strength. He unashamedly acknowledges that he's in the PR industry, is aware of the limits of his role, and carries out his duties with interest, sharpness and a complete absence of self-pity; a creature of routine who, though occasionally delighting in court-jester ebullience, is far from the "Duke of Yob" tabloid stereotype.

Thus, some of Prince Andrew's royal duties certainly seem to help British business some of the time. But would the annual £75,000 hotel bill and £320,000 flight costs be better spent on other forms of trade promotion? "The duke is kept going by the very, very positive feedback from the business community," Samantha tells me as I call to check a few facts. Fine, but if he's in the business of international PR, then he can't continue to be a PR disaster at home. The finest service the press office could give him would be to book him on easyJet and GNER more often and publicly to snap his golf clubs in half.