Countdown to the royal wedding - Part 8

Following all the nonsense about C&C not meeting the parents in private, I was happy to attend the beginning of the little private lunch that they had last week.

I saw the twinkle in Liz’s eye, and knew that we were in for some fun, so I joined in by introducing them to each other. “And what do you do?” Liz asked Camilla, in that silly voice that she adopts for meeting the common folk. Poor Philip has lost all sense of irony in his old age, and is often not privy to the subtle undertones. “You silly bugger, it’s that hideous Camelia person, are you bloody blind? And as to what she does or what good she is, we’d all bloody like to know that, I’m sure.” Charles allowed himself a nervous smile, he is still intimidated by Phil, but is unable to exact any revenge, apart from occasionally taking a sneaky pee in the gin decanter.

“Have you come far?” continued Liz. “I should bloody say so,” interjected Phil, “from ‘thicky of the year’ at school to queen-in-waiting is a bloody long way, in my book”. “Watch it, granddad” said Camilla, “you’re a fine one to talk, you could have been running a kebab shop in Dulwich with your brother, if Liz wasn’t so short-sighted.”

I left the happy party to the echoes of Charles’ sobbing.

A few days to go, and still getting bad publicity. I am trying to arrange for them to appear on Ant and Dec’s television programme the following day, in order to introduce a little dignity.

Interesting things that happened yesterday

A lady who I was visiting, (she is English and aged over 90) recited 'Humpty Dumpty' to me, in Urdu.
Unfortunately, I did not write it down, nor do I remember it, so please do not ask for a rendition.

Countdown to the royal wedding - Part 7

A regular reader (a Mrs Trellis of North Island) has expressed concern that my absence from the wedding may lead to no one being on hand to prevent disasters happening on the day. While I admit, with some modesty, that the current high esteem that the British royal family commands worldwide is due in no small part to me, I cannot be on call all of the time to all of them.

I will outline some of the steps upon which I insisted to prevent unfortunate results.

Originally, there were plans to have a full traditional ceremony at St Paul’s. I quietly persuaded Charles to move to the private ceremony in Windsor. The plans, including having Kylie Minogue as a bridesmaid, and the ridiculous involvement of Dale Winton were getting much too bizarre. Further, Camilla’s repeated threat to reply ‘Not chuffing likely’ instead of ‘I will’ could not be taken lightly. She constantly fails to see that what some view as a robust sense of humour is regarded by others as pure bad taste. Additionally, Edward, poor boy, has this strange fixation about the current Archbishop of Canterbury. He is convinced that Dr Williams is Celtic warlord, whose mission is to overthrow the foreign monarchy, and faints every time that he meets him.

Charles will not be having the stag night that his irresponsible brother, Andrew, had planned. I suggested that a quiet night in with a few trusted friends, a pizza, a limited amount of alcohol and a ‘Police Academy’ DVD would be an appropriate kind of evening. Fortunately, I did not have to be explicit about this and remind him of my rescuing him from being found naked in the zebra enclosure at Whipsnade during the early hours of the morning the last time he got married.

Security is a concern. That is another reason why Philip will not be attending. He seems to think he has some feudal right to assault anyone whose face he takes exception to. At his advanced age, the days when he could lift Jim Callaghan over his head and slam him down three places away are gone, but he can still do some damage with an unexpected kick to the shins, as dame Vera Lynn will attest.

So, what more can I do? I have carefully assessed all of the risks. At least we no longer have to contend with the dear old queen mother’s endearing habit of yelling out “Piss off, yo-yo knickers” every time she saw Camilla.

Countdown to the royal wedding - Part 6

As the great day approaches, despite my constant protests that I will not be attending the damn silly event, people, many through the medium of this journal, keep pestering me for tickets. I think that I should point out at this stage that it behoves me not to press your cases too hard. As a friend, I would suggest you are better off not going, although I have tried.

Just to see how the land lies, I approached Dave Linley, who has been given the job of looking after the spare tickets. Now, you may think from the publicity that he gets that he is one of the more down-to-earth members of the clan - works for a living, keeps his head down, and so forth. That is not my impression. I have yet to meet a chippie who has the full complement of brain cells, and he sadly fits that stereotype. I once ordered a customised mahogany tripod from him, so that I could take my own seat to the bloody garden parties at Buck house, and he asked me how many legs I wanted on it. I didn't have high expectations, and this proved to be the case. "Listen," I said with more than a little authority, "Zed wants to come. You know that she is European Bloggie of the Year, don't you?". "Euro-pissing-pean?" he riposted, "you think that lot mean anything to me?"

He has a point. Liz is not too fond of the continental cousins, particularly the Belgs. "Albert and his missus are conjoined twins, you know," she confides in me (this is borne out by the attached picture), "and who in their right mind is called Bert in our circles? Mum used to call Dad 'Bertie' just to get on his tits, because what with his stammer, he could never say it in less than 15 minutes."

So, there you have it. I will be happy to get you invitations to the royal enclosure at Ascot for the appropriate sum, I can get you on the honours list, but I consider it beneath me to beg for invites to what promises to be a right cock-up.

I shall be videoing the television coverage, and may even tune in if rain stops play in the Sri Lanka test match, but shan't give it much thought. I have to go to the castle in the evening, I usually smuggle in Liz's Friday takeaway from the Chinese in Datchet, and she doesn't like to offend the kitchen staff by having food delivered, so relies on my discretion. I won't be mingling with the guests though. Most of them will be out of their heads on Wincarnis or crack, and the remainder forced into playing fart lighting with Philip.

Countdown to the royal wedding - Part 5

Liz has been very amused by the recent press speculation that she and Camilla don’t get on. What the press does not know is that Liz and Camilla are the best of friends, and actively seek out each other’s company. They have been meeting at least once a week for a night out at the ‘Festering Ferret’ just outside Staines for a number of years, and like to (metaphorically) let their hair down on these occasions.

I am often invited along, partly as advisor, but also as chaperone lest things get out of hand.

Liz is usually attired in a headscarf and dark glasses, resembling a latter day Greta Garbo, and, of course, and is never recognised. Who, after all, would expect to see the reigning monarch sitting in the snug of a suburban public house on a Wednesday evening, puffing on a Benson and Hedges, and quaffing from a pint of Guiness?

They were in fine form recently, acting out the roles so inaccurately given to them by the Daily Mail. “Oi, you slag”, said Liz, (imagine a slightly softer Bob Hoskins voice), “you ain’t good enough for my Charley, and you won’t never be.” Camilla, who, as I have mentioned before, tends to immaturity, tries to keep a straight face as she replies, “Shut it, you cow”, (not such a good mimic, I fear, imagine 1930’s film attempts at cockney), “or I’ll slice the bleeding umbilical cord now”. Unfortunately, she finds this so funny that she loses control, and guffaws uproariously (a sound that covers 5 octaves), and sprays rum and peppermint cordial out of her nostrils. I warn her not to attract too much attention to herself. It would be awful if the public and the press were to find out about these meetings. The publican has been very kind to us over the years, in providing anonymity, and it would be unfair to him to remove this source of income, not to mention the other customers who would desert should their privacy be threatened – I glance round at a well known bishop who had been enjoying a vodka and cocaine cocktail with his young companion, and think I detect a worried frown appear briefly.

Liz is far better at keeping a straight face. She has had years of practice, and is notorious for giving others the giggles. I remember the time that she called the president of Portugal ‘an ugly twat’ when being introduced to him. I barely managed to maintain my dignity, but poor Philip turned purple, wet himself, and had to withdraw. The great thing is that these utterances are so unexpected that the recipient and others within earshot always assume that they have misheard.

“Anyway, darling”, Liz continues, “I can’t possibly come to the wedding – I don’t have a thing to wear.”

Apart from Chelsea, obviously

Just in case my loyal readers (a Mrs Trelllis of North Wales) wonder why I seldom issue opinions about the human condition and so forth, I should inform them that I have a man who does it for me.

3 Interesting things that happened today

1) I had an email from someone whose name was an anagram of "Slovak gormandiser"
2) er...
3) that's it.

Today's Competition

Today, someone said "No one is as pedantic as me".
Can you guess my response?
First prize, a link to a website of your choice.

Maya

I understand intellectually that getting gratification from worldly pleasures is illusory and transient, but I have to confess that I always get a great buzz from turning on Radio 4 of a Friday evening and not hearing the words "Francis Wheen" when the contestants on the News Quiz are announced. Especially if the words "Janet Street Porter" are also absent.
The question for the mystics, philosophers and sages out there (a Mrs Tulsidas of North Wales), is whether the chief characteristic of Kaliyuga is the presence of Francis Wheen on a medium of popular entertainment, or the derivation of enjoyment by the populace created by his absence.

Shome mishtake, shurely?

My friends at the BBC have posted this picture with the caption:
Charles visited Alice Springs with Diana, Princess of Wales, in 1983
Now, I may not have 20/20 vision, but I am sure that it looks nothing like her.

Countdown to the royal wedding - Part 4

It is nice to see Liz back on form and making fun of some drug addled geriatrics:
http://uk.news.yahoo.com/050301/140/fdja8.html

Had they bothered to do their homework, these saps would know that she is an authority on rock music, and has a vast collection of CD’s, and a video of Jimi performing the UK national anthem at a garden party in 1969 where he not only set fire to his guitar, but also princess Anne’s hat. She has a particular fondness for The Who, and I well remember the occasion that she burst into song, doing a passable impersonation of Mr Daltrey, at a reception for the Slovakian ambassador, “I’m not trying to cause a big sensation, just talking ‘bout my loyal nation”. The ambassador told me that he was very impressed, and commended her decorum. King Harald of Norway’s party piece is to re-enact John Belushi’s canteen scene from ‘Animal House’, whereas the activities King Preah Baht Samdach Preah Norodom Sihanuk Varman of Cambodia are best left unmentioned here.

Philip leans more towards heavy metal and this is the reason for his padded room at the palace. I wanted to make this clear, as rumours have been spread in the media about strait jackets and such, all of which are quite unfair. He is as sharp and sane now as he has ever been.

Philip called me to discuss choosing music for the wedding. For some odd reason, this has been delegated to him. Not a wise decision I fear, it was only at the last minute that his choice for the bridal music for Sarah Ferguson – Acid Queen – was vetoed. I repeatedly tell him that I am not going, and it would be in everyone’s best interests not to cause any more controversy, but he was very insistent. “If it were left to Charles it would be the Three Degrees and fucking Cliff Richard” he tells me, in a very peeved manner, “at the very least we are going to have some Stones”. “Not ‘Bitch’”, I tell him quite sternly, “and if you value my advice at all, then I would avoid ‘Under My Thumb’ and ‘19^th Nervous Breakdown’ as well.”

Things are going to get out of hand, I fear. I have visions of Philip dressed as Lemmy leading the guests in a conga along the ramparts of the castle, shouting “Oi, you poxy peasants” at the general public, again.