In this most historic of Jubilee weeks, it’s fair to say I am more fed up than a republican at a Royal Garden Party. For several reasons on which I shall now elaborate.
Last Friday mother swept onto the yard at lunchtime with the stressed air of someone who had much on their mind. Mind you with mother’s brain being so small, it doesn’t take much to over-tax it: she couldn’t guess which way an escalator is going with two attempts…
After she expertly reversed more rapidly than a Downing Street policy writer and hooked the trailer on, it was clear one of us was going somewhere. As a preened, primped and plaited palomino pain-in-the-ass was led out of the barn it swiftly became clear that someone wasn’t me – again – and I watched them head off with the distinct impression I might be missing something as unless they’ve invented a real “Honey I shrunk the Kids” machine then the mothership mounting Teddy would lead to the Welsh Wuss turning Swedish: he’d be flat packed…
Hours later I was to discover that he had been taken to mini-mother’s school where, dressed as The Queen, she had ridden him at the front of a Jubilee pageant in front of the entire school. There was apparently a band, and flags, and lots of peoples and small peoples and he hadn’t put a hoof out of line. I haven’t been so horrified since Herman the German Needleman stuck on a rubber glove and disappeared into one of my orifices to a depth only rivalled by the Mariana Trench.
First off meeting and greeting adoring fans is MY gig and I’m a total pro at it – mini mother could have taken me, but instead chose to take Sir Ponce-a-lot, who not only got lots of cooing kids but also got a RED CARPET. I have never had a red carpet – the closest I’ve got is when I had to have a bit of off-cut across the drive when my foot was bad and that was a mucky cream reject from someone’s downstairs loo. For years I have been attending events and perfecting my skills and then at the 11th hour I am upsurped by blonde bijou barbie boy, who is praised because he didn’t flatten anyone or poop himself over a band.
Can I just point out that when I was invited to Windsor there was a full-on marching band two metres away and my manly refrain from leaping my paltry 1m high fence and cavorting around Her Majesty’s front lawn didn’t even warrant a mention in dispatches. At times I feel my incredible nature is about as taken for granted as mother’s knicker elastic – and look what would happen if both of those things were to fail, the consequences don’t bear thinking about…
I did, however, hold on to a faint hope that there would be one person who hadn’t overlooked me – an incredible lady for whom we celebrate her incredible 70 years on the throne. A lady who had, after all, invited me to her back garden a few years ago. A lady who appreciates charity workers and philanthropists of my mould, and is moreover a connoisseur of fine horse flesh. So, all week I have waited, and waited and waited; 250 horses in the trooping of the colour and not one of them could have done it the way I could.
Alas it seems yet again there seems to have been an “issue” with the mail (I do again ponder the influence of Karen the Killjoy) and no invite has arrived. As result the closest I am getting to proceedings is watching the Red Sparrows fly-by overhead on their way to the party, whilst I am stuck in a field listening to the ginger whinger tell the surrounding area about his fearlessness facing down a five-year-old flutist.
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I tell you my life is going down the toilet faster than a greased rat.
So Your Majesty, I extend to you my warmest congratulations for your incredible reign, which in length is only rivalled by the number of years that will have to pass before I will forgive mini-mother for her betrayal. I’m away to semaphore the fly-by to see if the Red Sparrows want a feathered mascot.
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