His Majesty had murmured the words “bugger Bognor,” turned his face to the wall, and expired.

From Trying to Please by John Julius Norwich.  Page 32.

The summer holidays and most summer weekends, we spent at Bognor, in West Sussex. Since in fact we lived about four miles away, beyond the little village of Aldwick, why we always called it “Bognor” is something of a mystery. The word is, to say the least, unmelodious, the town architecturally undistinguished. King George v had recuperated from a grave illness there a year or two before I was born, and in gratitude had suffixed the word Regis; but even Bognor Regis was never considered a top-drawer resort like Brighton or Bournemouth or Eastbourne, and its prestige had not been increased by the popular legend that when, during her husband’s last illness, Queen Mary had said consolingly “Cheer up my dear, in no time we shall have you back at Bognor again,” His Majesty had murmured the words “bugger Bognor,” turned his face to the wall, and expired. Our house, however, was a little gem of white pebble-dash in vaguely Georgian Gothic, utterly unassuming and extremely pretty. It was approached by a short drive, curving so sharply that visitors did not see the building itself until they were perhaps thirty yards away. On the far side was “was a medium sized garden on two levels, separated by a hedge of rosemary; beyond it was a wicket gate which led straight out on to the shingle of the beach.