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IF Prince Charles spent less time nattering to rhododendrons and more chatting to the great unwashed, he might have known who Dita Von Teese was.

And he would have saved himself from the undignified ­pickle of accidentally booking an erotic dancer for his own son’s birthday bunfight in September.

The generously-eared royal met the gothic flasher at the toff-infested Cartier International Polo Tournament at the Guards Club in Windsor, London.

Charmed by her alabaster assets, he asked what she did for a living and Dita, 35, replied: “I’m a dancer.”

This vague job description failed to convey that her act involves giving a rhythmic biology lesson in a giant martini glass and doing the sort of things to a massive olive which are illegal in most countries.

Perhaps buoyed by the sun and Pimms and presuming her performance involved a cheeky Charleston, Chazza invited her to perform at Prince Harry’s 24th birthday.

Our man said: “Poor Charles was so embarrassed when he realised what he’d done. He genuinely had no idea about her raunchy stage act.“

She was stunned when he suggested the idea, explaining that his son loved a good dance.“

But he gnawed his fist to within an inch of its knuckle when his aides explained what sort of dancing she did for a living.”

We’re sure Prince Harry will forgive his old man when the burlesque performer toasts his big day with a giant glass of champagne garnished with her own breasties.