It was the road leading up to Ascot rather than...
the racecourse itself, where the royal family used to stop in their carriages for a few minutes before carrying on. I'm not sure why, just one of those snooty 'changing of the guard' ceremonies where nobody knows what the hell's going on.

Aaaaaanyways, I'd wangled a day off school for being a snotty nosed little mummy's boy and I had dressed rather splendidly in my favourite pirate outfit and a top hat out of my Paul Daniels magic set (top hat's being the thing to wear at the races, of course).

Now this was the year that Fergie had been caught scoffing a man's toes (in between sniffing for truffels) and she was banned from the whole event by M'am. But as I was generallly being a little boy, running along the roadside flicking bogies, I caught sight of a Rolls and made a bee-line for the window. To my surprise I was confronted by a beaming Duchess Ferguson waving at me and pointing out how cute I was to her toffo chums!

Not knowing the true significance of the previous Saturday's Daily Mirror expose, I proceeded to sit on the floor and pull my foot to my face while feining a lick/suck action, in mockery of her foot-fettish-foolery.

To her credit, Fergie burst out laughing and I returned triumphantly to the crowd awaiting the 'real' Royals.

Since then I've always loved our Royal rogues - Harry, Fergie etc.

Apologies for length and girth. How about a royal rumble?
(Party Sausage, Mon 7 Aug 2006, 17:27, Reply)