Well, what a week! I started it by namedropping about telling the Prime Minister about the damage the cuts are doing to umbrellas and I ended the week namedropping about Her Maj whacking me in the bollocks at my investiture.
The day started off with a slight hitch when I got to the gates of Windsor Castle. My bald patch was gleaming but I was told that Hawaiian shirts are not allowed.
I have to admit I was a little more nervous talking to my Sovereign than I was to her Prime Minister! (Did I honestly just type that?). In fact I was desperate for a slash as soon as I got inside but didn't dare visit a toilet to splash the Royal Doulton after my recent experience at Amnesty and I didn't want to risk using one of the many convenient vases dotted around the castle.
I expected there to be some food available, indeed I had phoned ahead and ordered couscous but apparently Prince Philip had eaten it all.
And I also requested that instead of a sword Her Maj use a ceremonial umbrella.
The rehearsal was amusing. When I say amusing I mean pointless. I didn't get where I am today without knowing how to kneel before someone to get what I want.
Suddenly it was time for the real thing. I decided to live tweet the experience. Some jobsworth told me to stop using my Blackberry but I just ignored them.
Then it was my turn. Before the dubbing there was some idle chit chat (just get on with it, I was thinking, before someone changes their mind).
HM asked about BUBB and said to me umbrellas seemed to be having a hard time. Like she'd know - she may have had a long rain but has not wanted for someone to hold a gamp over her privileged crowned bonce if the need has arisen. Probably never actually handled a real brolly in her life (as later events would prove).
I told her that our chief executives were indeed having a difficult time and she just tutted and said "fuck me, sunshine, you should try being chief executive of this bloody dysfunctional family, matey." She also asked me what her Boggname would be when I inevitably wrote about the day's events in a pompous fashion in my blog. Cheeky cow. You've got to earn a Bogg name.
Then it was time. I think my Twitter feed in real time best illustrates how the drama unfolded:
My turn. I am starting to kneel down
She is mumbling my name. She looks thoroughly bored
She's lifted the mighty umbrella
She's lowering it...
OH NO, DISASTER. She's been blinded by the light reflecting off my bald patch and has whacked me in the bollocks
She's commanded me to "arise Sir Robin" but I can't. I am in agony and cannot move. Will this count?
I've been carried out the room and slung into the garden. I assume I am "invested" even though it was chaotic
Right. That's that then. Off to the pub
And here for your delectation are the photos. On second thoughts, why would anyone want to see pictures of me and the Queen engaged in anachronistic pomp and ceremony? Especially at a time when I am loudly going on about how the cuts will affect the poorest members of society and generating a fair bit of personal media coverage and attention thank you very much - the sort that gets you a Knighthood in the first place.
It might seem a little hypocritical to be swanning around a castle in my posh frock and stockings partaking in a charade that merely underlines the deep inequality in our society, especially when it was attacking the consequences of that very divide that got me the K.
You'll just have to imagine the scene for yourselves. Tell you what, get yourself a first class stamp and an umbrella and go from there.