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.