If disaster’s to be found, old Uncle Andy will find it – he needs to stay away from the royals this Christmas

CHRISTMAS chez Bucky P: one giant turkey, or two?

Prince Andrew will swerve Sandringham on Christmas Day, but when it comes to the even bigger bash at the ­Palace on Thursday, pals are ruling ­nothing out.

And you wouldn’t put it past him to galumph his way around the Yuletide table — forcing the Royal Family to ­publicly face what so many British ­families endure privately: the annoying, handsy, bumbling uncle.

Caught up in yet another scandal — this one a threat to national security, no less — the monarchy’s PR team have been in overdrive, briefing their desire for this problematic chap to, well, f*** off at Christmas.

Because nothing says goodwill to all men like wall-to-wall coverage on the front pages of yesterday’s newspapers suggesting Andrew stay well away.

But Andy, being what a psychiatrist might term “your classic narcissist”, has only taken half the hint so far.

The gas-guzzling 4×4 to the ­Palace on Thursday remains poised to rumble into action.

The Duke of York certainly has form for attending high-stakes dinners.

In December 2010, he turned up in the US to “break up” with convicted billionaire paedophile Jeffrey Epstein — ­America’s answer to Jimmy Savile — following the latter’s release from prison.

“I felt that doing it over the telephone was the chicken’s way of doing it,” Andy said in his sleigh-crash of a ­Newsnight interview.

“I had to go and see him and talk to him.”

Doubtless the Prince — that person who insists on pulling all the crackers and fighting to the death for miniature-screwdriver- triumph over young Prince Louis — feels he’s been thrown under another bus.

That’s the only reason why, crushed by the royal ­equivalent of the C10 from London’s Docklands to ­Victoria, he is stepping aside from the ­Sandringham estate wave-by on ­Christmas Day.

But his Chinese “spy” pal, yesterday ­identified as Yang Tengbo, previously interacted with other top-level politicians including ­former PMs Theresa May and David Cameron.

In other words, lots of high-profile ­citizens have been very careless about who they hang around with.

But only Andrew invited Tengbo to visit Buckingham Palace. Twice.

(Andrew also invited his sex trafficker pal Ghislaine Maxwell to sit on a throne and pose for ­pictures at the Palace. . . so perhaps ­President Xi Jinping, as I type, is flicking through similar snaps of his alleged super-spy Yang sprawled across a royal ­banquet or ­wearing a snazzy crown).

Back to Andrew.

Sweating furiously

No need to play “guess the identity of H6” charades any more, but equally one can imagine Andrew snidely commentating on big brother Charlie’s Christmas Day speech, albeit from afar.

Obvs, despite little intellectual pull to speak of, he could have done better.

One saving grace is that he won’t be sweating furiously in his novelty Amazon Xmas jumper, an itchy polyester number emblazoned with Cupid’s lesser-known reindeery brother, Stupid.

To some extent, it’s hard not to feel sorry for pantomime villain Andrew.

If disaster is to be found, the Duke unwittingly or otherwise sniffs it out.

And lapses of judgment aside, he isn’t a bad man — so even he will be hopeful of a festive stocking come December 25.

But perhaps the time has come for him to open it at home, alone.

NO SURGERY JOCELYN? YOU’RE TALKING A LOAD OF OLD BOTOX

OUT and about in gay Paree, here’s a reminder of Swiss socialite Jocelyn Wildenstein’s most recent comments regarding her baby-smooth (if babies went to London’s Harley Street) ­visage.

“I haven’t had plastic surgery. I am scared of what can happen and I don’t like to have something heavy – sometimes it is a bit heavy and terrible.”

Bless ’er, just a smidgeon of Botox then.

RATHER A PAW EXCUSE

ON Sunday, I joined a thousand other sausage dog owners for the annual fancy dress dachshund walkabout.

One very stylish doggie named Alan, dressed in a Santa costume, joined Dora and me, and about 998 long-bodied, barrel-legged badger-hunters around London’s Hyde Park, culminating at Kensington Palace.

While the dogs came in all shapes and sizes – mini, midi, standard, fat, thin, long-haired, dappled, English cream etc – there was but one interloper. Treacle.

Said Treacle’s owner of the very obviously white Yorkie: “She identifies as a miniature dachshund.”

And, in today’s world, there’s really no arguing with that.

Welcome, Treacle.

HAVE you seen Meghan and Harry’s widely hyped, multi-million pound new Netflix series, Polo, yet?

Me neither.

To paraphrase Taylor Swift, looks like this ­grifting duo are officially entering their “flop era”.

IAN THE WARS . . .

IF you see poor ol’ Ian Hislop on the National Express, get off.

First the Private Eye editor was caught up in a bizarre taxi accident, one involving the police.

Now he’s been knocked over by a pesky e-bike, and left with nasty head injuries.

Avoid like the plague.

LAST week Radio 2 gave a first play of The ­Wombats’ new ­single, Sorry I’m Late, I Didn’t Want To Come.

Never has a song ­spoken to me more.

LET ME UNWRAP CANDY

MULTI-billionaire Nick Candy has been appointed Treasurer of the Reform Party.

And what an astute signing by unlikely Gen Z pin-up Nigel Farage.

Speaking from personal experience, Reform will be serious parliamentary players in no time under canny Nick’s penny-pinching austerity.

Fourteen years ago, when I was a relatively junior reporter at another newspaper, Nick’s male publicist got in touch to say Nick – married to ex-Neighbours pin-up Holly Valance – would love to take me out for dinner.

So off the three of us duly trotted to London’s Mandarin Oriental for dinner and cocktails.

It was v. nice.

The bill, however, was less nice – more than twice my then-weekly rent. Still, what a mid-week treat, I thought.

The £400 bill then sat there, middle of the table, for an excruciating amount of time. No one moved.

Realisation slowly dawned.

I felt sick (and it wasn’t the honey-fried sea bass).

The two men looked at me expectantly before Nick smiled benignly . . .  nodding in my direction for the waitress to take my debit card.

Like the scene from Ghost, where Whoopi Goldberg reluctantly hands over a cheque for $4million to a bunch of nuns.

Readers: with shaking hand, I paid.

CHRISTMAS CORNER

PROOF that the big fella in the sky has a dark sense of humour.

Amid a series of “shrinkflation” stories at Christmas – Quality Street tins deflating, selection boxes crunched down and Pinot G getting weaker – one thing is bigger and better than ever before . . . sprouts.

Yep, the divisive green will be 25 per cent larger thanks to a bumper crop this year.

Ah, hark the blessed angels sing.

FUN fact for the ­Christmas table this year – the Greek name for ­mistletoe is “oak sperm”.

Enjoy that vodka Coke-fuelled office party snog, guys. xxx