That Ruddy Coin

I hate the wallpaper in my room up here in Sandringham. It resembles a sneezing fit in a lepidopterist’s study with dead moths stuck to all the walls. A lepidopterist, for those of you not in the know, is a moth collector. Or so the Old Blazer tells me. He’s quite the one for using big words.

Me, I’m a guy who loves a good abbreviation. For instance, if I were to say that I also hate the furniture in my room, I’d add that it consists of nothing but knobbly elbows that always connect with your nuts when you get up in the middle of the night to relieve the weight of bladder on the ale. Only, that’s not how the Old Blazer would describe it. It would be ornamental bosses impacting testicles, which, if you ask the humble opinion of this Red Tuft, doesn't adequately convey the situation I’d be trying to describe. That situation is best summed up as: two weeks of solid boredom as we royals come to Norfolk to celebrate Christmas.

Then there’s the view from my room. I used to have a nice angle on Zippy Phillip's boudoir but I think she grew suspicious of the way my curtains kept twitching at night and I’ve been moved around to the other wing where I now overlook the farm. From where I’m typing this, I can watch manure steam.

And that’s the real problem with Sandringham: it’s no better than living on a farm. It’s also too crowded. We all get under each other’s feet, which wouldn’t be so bad except Uncle Eddie has to put anti-fungal powder between his toes and we all end up spending the holidays smelling like mustard.

So, if you detect a note of misery in the old Red Tuft today it’s because I’m not at home...

And while I'm complaining, I should add that I’m also damn exhausted.

I thought Christmas this year would mean escaping London and taking some R&R. Only I now find myself in the middle of this mini-crisis over these souvenir coins commemorating next year's Royal Wedding. I refuse to take the blame, of course, and I’ve spent my morning firmly pointing my finger at the Old Blazer who lies at the heart of the spectacular cock up.

It all began when Will asked me to provide a design for the coin. He knows that I enjoy doodling and his plan was that my design would be sent to the Royal Mint where one of their top illustrators would take on the commission, copy my design but fill in the faces with some lifelike resemblances. You know: steely glances, soft pouts, and the usual amateur dramatics in gilt form.

Now, I’m no great shakes as an artist. I hold up my hands to that one. And I certainly find it difficult drawing a likeness when I’ve not got the original sitting in front of me, preferably still and even more preferably buxom and naked. The buxom part certainly makes the artistic juices flow.

Only both Will and the Lovely Brunette were unavailable to sit for me but that was not going to be a problem. The Royal Academy type down at the Royal Mint would sort out the noses from mouths. I needed to only think about the design of the coin so, naturally, I employed a couple of models to stand in for the happy couple.

Nelly Duffy is in charge of the Old Blazer’s washing over at Clarence House. She is a lovely woman who was only too willing to help, but I’m sure she won’t mind mentioning that she has a slightly lazy eye. Young Bill is the window cleaner and general odd job man. He’s the son of Old Bill who did the same job for the past fifty years, and even Older Bill who did it before him. He too was up for a little modelling. Of course, neither Young Bill nor Nelly Duffy look anything like Will and the Lovely Brunette but they had the right shape of heads for the purpose of my design so I slipped them a couple of fivers and had then sit in the corner of my pad for the afternoon as I pencilled them into my plans.

Things when awry once I’d finished designing my coin. I forwarded my sketch to the Old Blazer only for the Old Blazer to perform his duties with his usual indifference to the whole project. Before you know it, he'd passed them on to the Royal Mint with instructions to have them made. Now there are twenty thousand coins depicting Clarence House’s cross-eyed washerwoman and a man who spends most of his time up a ladder cursing London pigeons.

I’m only telling you this so you don’t believe any of the accusations you read in the papers, especially if any of those accusations are directed towards my easel. You should also get in there and buy a coin before the stocks run low. There’s already talk of recalling them in the New Year – or, at least, producing no more when the current stocks run low – so this will be a much more collectable commemorative coin than any other. Not only were they designed by me but they are the only coin minted to celebrate minor members of the royal household.

To my credit, people tell me that I’ve captured Nelly and Bill’s likenesses to perfection. I hope you agree.

Regius Gingiber!

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.

The Humanitarian Award

This is the last I'll say about the extremely important award I picked up in Germany for my charity work. I’m far too humble to boast about such a distinguished gong presented by such an important body of people. The fact is that I’m often asked to pick up awards for my charity work but I’m always loath to go public about all the good I do, especially when the picking-up of awards gets in the way of doing even more good work. It’s a delicate balance to strike. Do you stop serving soup to the homeless in favour of eating soup with people that own not just one home but several? The answer is, of course, that you do attend the event but you also bring back some soup for the poor, along with a few crusty rolls and whatever else you can squeeze into your pockets. (My tip: empty your pockets before you leave the hotel.)

Anyway, to answer a question which is often posed to me after these events, here is a list of my top ten humanitarians (not including family or friends).

1. Angelina Jolie
2. Madonna
3. Joanna Lumley (circa the green Lycra leotard she wore in ‘The New Avengers’)
4. Liz Hurley (does charity work on behalf of orthodontists)
5. Pamela Anderson (very much anti-lice)
6. Kelly Brook
7. Adriana Lima (Victoria’s Secrets)
8. Bono
9. Ghandi
10. Mother Teresa

Regius Gingiber!