The Old Blazer and the Snowman

As you know, the Old Blazer loves his organic crops. Many are the days I’ll breeze over to Highgrove and find him in the greenhouse, knee deep in the compost as he gees on the earthworms to greater industry.

‘One can’t help but feel that they respond to a few words of encouragement,’ he will say. ‘In that respect, the common earthworm reminds one very much of the working men of Dagenham…’

Yet, about a month ago, I noticed a distinctive lack of enthusiasm creeping into our conversations. He has been spending less time encouraging and taking more time moping, looking out of the window and sighing a lot. Eventually, I knew there’d be an outburst. Little did I expect the cause to be something so mundane.

‘It’s the snowman,’ cried the Old Blazer, standing in his office and looking out over Highgrove’s grounds. ‘I can’t help but feel like he’s watching me.’

‘What snowman?’ I asked.

‘That snowman there,’ said Papa Onion. ‘One’s staff made it.’

‘Bloody cheek!’ I said taking my position at his shoulder and looking out at the monstrosity. ‘I hope you’ve told them to pull it down. If the newspapers get wind of these pagan rites they’ll compare you with Russell Grant again and you know how that ended up.’

‘That’s just it,’ said the Blazer. ‘One would look an absolute tyrant if one started to pull down snowmen, even if it is a monstrous carbuncle on the face of a much-loved and elegant vegetable patch.’

‘You know where I stand on these matters,’ I said. ‘I’d happily pull it down for you. My reputation couldn’t get any lower, unless, of course, they started to compare me with Russell Grant, which would be an outrage. I’ve always seen myself more of a Russell Brand or perhaps even Russell Crow.’

‘Russell Hobbes would be closer to the truth,’ sniped my father who can be a touch sharp when the occasion warrants. ‘However, that’s a very kind gesture, Harry. But it would simply be the wrong thing to do.’ He looked at the snowman again. ‘Besides, over the last few weeks, one has become quite captivated by it. I have the distinctive feeling that it’s looking at me. I know this will sound odd, Harry, but I’m sure I’ve seen it somewhere before.’

‘It’s a snowman,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’ve seen it many times before.’

‘No, no,’ said the Old Blazer. ‘But there is something quite specific about this particular snowman. One can’t put one’s finger on it…’

I looked at the snowman but more carefully this time. I looked at the lime green scarf wrapping the oversized head, punctuated by a carrot nose and a couple of lumps of eyes. The hat on the head cast a shadow across the face at the point where the mouth was clamping hold of a briar pipe. That’s when it hit me.

‘It’s the pipe!’ I said.

‘By jove,’ gasped the Old Blazer. ‘You’re right. I never spotted it before! The slope of the shoulders, the penetrating stare. It looks just like Camilla!’

‘Those swines have stolen her pipe,’ I said. ‘It’s an outrage.’
Ten minutes later, we had brought Camilla to the window to identify her pipe.

‘That was my old pipe,’ she laughed in her usual baritone low C. ‘I threw it away last week. Good to know it’s getting some use. My old scarf and hat too I see.’

‘You aren’t slightly dismayed,’ I said, ‘that the staff have recreated you in the form of a snowman?’

‘Touching,’ said Camilla, lighting her calabash. She sucked it into life and then blew a smoke ring. ‘In fact, I’d even go so far as to say that it’s better than being poked with a stick.’

Camilla is always comparing everything to being poked with a stick since she was indeed poked with a stick the other week by those rioters. When the cook under-boiled the sprouts the other night, Camilla wolfed them down whilst assuring us that they were still better than being poked with a stick. When we had yet more snow the other day, that too was better than being poked with a stick and I overheard her telling the American ambassador that not being mentioned in Wikileaks was infinitely preferable than being poked with a stick.

Her indifference was the last straw and I was not having any of it. I ran around to the back door and went out, snatched the pipe from the snowman’s lips, removed the hat and scarf, and began to dismantle the snowman with the toe end of my boot. Then I ate its carrot.

‘Perhaps you can dispose of these in a way that means they don’t end up mocking you from the garden,’ I said, as I came back in doors and handed Camilla her belongings.
Like I said, that was about a month ago.

This morning I sat down to watch H.M’s Christmas broadcast. We always get an early look of her review of the year, even if I had places I’d have preferred to be.

Anyway, I was thumbing through the Radio Times, Wills was standing in the corner of the room whispering sweet somethings to the Lovely Bruntette, Camilla was sitting in her favourite chair cleaning her pipe, and Papa Onion was at my side on the sofa, commenting on the show.

‘No, no,’ I heard him mutter. ‘No, no. That’s not right.’

I looked up. ‘What’s wrong, Papa?’ I asked.

‘That Somali Warlord,’ he said, tugging at the lobe of his right unmentionable. ‘One has the distinctive impression that I know him from somewhere.’

I looked at the screen. It was recent footage from the front line against the war on terror and a heavily armed militia leader was staring into the screen. I looked at the lime green scarf wrapping the oversized head, punctuated by a scarred nose and a couple of eyes as cold and hard as lumps of coal. The hat on the head cast a shadow across the face at the point where the mouth was clamping hold of a briar pipe. That’s when it hit me. I nearly said something but then I shook my head.

‘He has a passing resemblance to Denzel Washington,’ I told him.

‘Ah,’ said the Blazer, visibly relaxing. ‘That must be it.’

I looked across the room and smiled at Camilla. The fact she’d donated her old clothes and pipe to Oxfam was to be commended. It was just unfortunate they’d made their way to a world hotspot, fallen under the gaze of a BBC camera, and made the final cut of The Queen’s Christmas Message. However, all things considered, it could have been worse. As I’m sure she would agree, it was better in fact than being poked with a stick.

A New Member of the Family

I’d like to add my early-morning husky cheer to the chorus of well-wishers celebrating the news that my cousin, Zippy Phillips, is to marry her boyfriend, Mike Tindall. Of course, the term ‘boyfriend’ applies loosely to a man who would more accurately be described as a ‘man-friend build like a walnut workbench’. I love rugby players as well as the next season ticket holder to Twickenham but I can’t help but think that Zippy is marrying Bob Hoskin’s bigger and more mangled brother.

But that’s Zippy for you: a woman of independent spirit. She reminds me of my aunt, her mother. Aunty Anne is another independent spirit. Ideally, she would have been born two hundred years ago on the American frontier. Put her in a log cabin located in some remote spot deep inside Indian territory with only a sharp stick to protect her and she’d have been in her element trapping and skinning wild beasts, living off the land, wrestling mountain lions...

I have to say that it always amuses me to read the newspaper reports that say that ‘The Queen and Duke of Edinburgh are said to be "delighted" by the news.’ I happen to know that H.M. barely looked up from the Racing Post and that my grandfather is still confused enough to think that Mike Tindall made a fool of himself by appearing in ‘Strictly Come Dancing’.

However, never let it be said that the old Red Tuft is completely against marriage (for more about that, please see my reasonably priced book), especially when it brings new blood into the family. We’ve been crying out for serious muscle able to cripple a journalist with a shoulder barge since Fergie was given the boot. I’d like to wish them much happiness together and if they could put their heads together to create some strange union of horse jumping and rugby, they’d find me a more-than-willing participant.

Horse rugby. Now there’s a thought…

Going Postal

I don’t know about you but foreign ownership of your own grandmother’s head was not something I voted for at the last election. Not that I voted, you understand. Democracy is not written into my constitution, plus I was rather busy on the day of the General Election. I didn’t climb from under the Page 3 girls topping my duvet until well after the polls had closed and, by then, all the damage had been done.

My distinct lack of interest in politics is rather inconvenient now that I want to complain to the government. No sooner had I got back from this weekend’s celebration of general red tuftedness over on the Rhine than I saw the news reports that some foreign types plan to ditch H.M.’s head from the non-denominated. Well, it’s a bloody outrage and you can quote me on that, though, naturally, having a key role in the British monarchy means that I’m unable to voice my concerns publicly so I would prefer it if you didn’t quote me on that. Or, at least, not until my speech writer has had a good look over it…

‘Don’t play politics’ is one of the first lessons we’re taught, along with ‘never compliment a scullery maid about her shins’ and ‘never talk about your Uncle Andrew’s party trick of potting a pink without a billiard stick’.

I’m meant to keep a low profile when it comes to dealing with H.M. Gov. types but that never stops me from jumping on the back of a butler and spiking my down to Whitehall to see the toff in charge. I’m always discreet about the whole business.

‘Who’s the bloody Tommy Rotter who wants to behead my grandmother?’ I cried as I burst into the Department for Business, Innovation and Skills this Monday morning. That might be a long-winded title for a minor department but you have to remember that they have the same model of civil service coffee machine as any other department. Never forget that when they start feeding you the greased porridge.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but the minister isn’t available at the moment,’ said the skirt in charge. Distinctly not a looker, you understand. Resembled a fly half who’d met the prop forwards a few too many times.

‘Not available!’ I cried, lashing my riding crop into a potted creeper in the corner of the room. The creeper gave a yelp and began to snivel. ‘I bet the minister would be available if I dragged Joanna Lumley in here. Is that what you want? You want me drag in the Lumley to sort out this trouble?’

‘I don’t think that will be necessary, sir,’ said the skirt, not reacting to the Lumley threat the way that I’d hoped. But that’s the problem with the Lumley Option. It works less often than it should. ‘The minister is currently chairing important meetings. Perhaps you could arrange this through your office…’

They always say things like that. If I were to follow their advice, I’d do very little in life and I’d have to check with my office every time I wanted to lick salt before my tequila. I’ve found that it’s best to barge right through their objections and present them with the heart of the matter.

‘I’ve come to complain about these plans you’ve hatched about my grandmother’s head,’ I began. ‘The old girl’s disgusted that you could think of ditching her after all these years of faithful service. Do you think it is easy getting to sleep at night knowing that a nation has tasted the back of your head? Well, I want to know what you have planned and I sincerely hope you don’t tell me it’s a re-branding exercise.’

‘I’m sure that’s not the case at all,’ said the woman calmly.

‘So,’ I asked, eyebrows narrowing until they formed a peach of a frown, ‘you don’t have a meerkat lined up to replace her?’

‘A meerkat?’

‘Oh, don’t deny it. They’re all over the place these days. There was a time when you’d only ever find them crapping on David Attenborough’s trilby. Now you can’t escape them.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, there’s nothing I can do. Perhaps you could have your office make an appointment...’

Well, a second suggestion that I should run this through my office was just too much. I’ve learned how to be diplomatic at the highest level but I’ve also learned how to be undiplomatic too.

‘Damn it all,’ I cried, looking for another creeper to lash but only spotting the water fountain. I thrashed it within an inch of its tap. ‘You civil servants are all the same. You don’t take a blind bit of notice unless there’s some yobbish son of Pink Floyd swinging from your balcony.’

‘I hardly think that’s true,’ said the woman in that way they have of telling you that they’re about to call security.

‘Oh, I’ve watched Sky News, especially when that blonde with the big lips is on. I saw the student riots and if that’s what it takes to get the attention of the minister in charge you can count me in.’

And with no further ado, I unlatched a nearby window and stepped onto the subsequent ledge.

A few pigeons were a little confused seeing a happy-go-lucky Ginger Tom appear in their midst but I gave it no mind. I have a head for heights. A head for pigeons too, though you might call that incidental detail. Soon I was digging the toes of my cavalryman boots into the cracks in the wall and I began shimmying up the outside of the building.

I’ve often watched those ‘Fathers For Justice’ lot and, though not a father myself, I admire their approach. If you want to get things done you must be willing to do the ordinary extraordinarily well or be quite ordinary at the extraordinary. I, as it happens, am extraordinary gifted when it comes to the extraordinary. The only thing I was missing was by inflatable Batman costume.

Not that I should have worried. I’d barely climbed the six floors to the roof on the north face of the building when I heard a door open nearby.

‘I was told you wanted to see me,’ said the Minister in Charge suddenly appearing on the roof. He was a touch out of breath and the snowflakes set off the red in his cheeks quite magnificently.

‘You’re just in time,’ I explained. ‘I was just about to stage a protest. I don’t like what you’ve got planned for my grandmother’s head. I find it a bit disrespectful.’

‘Ah,’ said the Minister in Charge. ‘Well, the plans are only provisional and we are still trying to reach an agreement about the issue of the monarch’s head.’

‘What do you think that lot down there will make of it?’ I asked, pointing a boot towards the street. ‘They love us, you know?’

‘Indeed they do, sir,’ said the M. in. C. ‘But it’s a matter of making the post office an attractive sale.’

‘Ah,’ I said, ‘well then, you’ve come to the right man. I can tell you how to make the post office an attractive sale.’

‘I really doubt that,’ he replied. ‘It’s a bloody mess if I’m honest. We can’t give it away.’

I clicked my teeth. ‘Well, there you go. You sound like you really do need my help and I have a cracking good idea for you.’

He looked at me in silence, clearly the patient type who is willing to wait for good news.

‘Sex it up!’ I said.

‘Sex it up?’ he repeated.

‘That’s right. Sex sells.’

‘Does it?’

‘Oh, it does!’ I assured him, warming to my subject. ‘The problem with the Post Office is that you’ve forgotten your basics. Here you have a totalitarian organisation famous for its uniforms. Only it’s gone the way of any half-arsed militia. Once you allowed them to stop wearing uniforms, you lost the public’s interest. You need to revitalise the service. Give them new uniforms, black in possible but leather is preferable. Thigh high boots and low cut tops. You want the nation to feel its pulses quicken when the post is due. With a proactive hiring policy, this could be a winner.’

‘A proactive hiring policy?’

‘Yes, pro-actively hiring the blonde female stunners with an eye for a postcode.’

‘I hadn’t thought about it like that,’ said the Minister. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

I nodded but, to be honest, thinking about post-women delivering the mail had put me in the mood for a sniff of hem down at the club. A jug of rum would be just the job after all this hanging around on cold ledges solving the problems of the Royal Mail.

‘Fancy a drink?’ I asked the Minister.

‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I’m on duty.’

‘Pah!’ I said, throwing my arm around his shoulder. ‘This is state business. Come with me. I’ll fill you in on my ideas for late-night parcel post.’

‘Late night? Wouldn’t that be a strange time to deliver parcels?’

‘It depends on how you deliver them,’ I told him as we walked into the building.

The rest, as they say, will appear when official documents are released in a hundred years or more. Alternatively, you can read them next week on Wikileaks.

Regius Gingiber!