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!

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…