Jubilee Bonus Post - The Guffer

Half my first day was spent signing NDAs before they even told me what the job entailed.

The pay isn't spectacular, they said, but such service is a privilege.

Plus, you get to wear nice clothes, and have your fill from expensive buffets, which saves on groceries.

My life was a procession of functions which felt too posh for me.

Meet and greets and luncheons, engagements and charity do's, where patrons mingled with ambassadors and presidents.

I wouldn't know how to speak to these people, but I didn't have to.

My role was to secretly shadow Her Majesty the Queen, and if she ever let one off, I would shoulder the blame.

“I'm terribly sorry,” I'd say, careful not to overplay it.

They'd made me watch an induction video.

“Don't be pantomime. You are not Benny Hill. You are not trying to 'get a laugh'.”

You had to put yourself in her place. What if you had farted in a gazebo full of baronets and Sirs? How would you feel?

A waft of the hand, an embarrassed look.

Perhaps a coy giggle.

You had to read the room.

The silent, stinking ones required a more subtle performance.

Hand over your mouth, a whispered “oh no,” your eyes at the floor in shame like a dog who ruined the carpet.

But if the Royal arse audibly parped, you needed something bigger.

“These egg canapés have gone straight through me!”

In a voice far too loud.

A nudge to the ribs of a gin-nosed old colonel, if needed.

“Who invited them?” they might think; “dashed animal...”

But they wouldn't be thinking “the Queen's blown a hole in her dress, dirty old mare.”

My official title, kept off the books, was The Guffer.

Guffers have existed for hundreds of years, a secret yet crucial cornerstone of the monarchy.

Like Jericho's trumpets, one cheek-rippler would bring everything crashing down.

37 generations of regal grace.

A single pump – all gone.

Even a little squeaky one.

They told me that if I ever felt embarrassed, to just imagine the headlines.

THE QE-POO

A mocked-up picture of an air freshener in a golden carriage.

Ian Hislop basking in laughter on Friday night after a gag about sitting on the throne.

It didn't bear thinking about.

One particular event saw big Liz in a foul mood, and she spent an afternoon farting her way round the Buck Palace ballroom.

I swear, you could see the redness in her face from squeezing them out.

She'd catch my gaze with a look that said “that's for you.”

“One has blown orf.”

By the end, I'd almost lost my voice.

Endlessly apologising to brave children and their parents.

A boy with a glass eye who'd been mauled by a dog. An eight-year-old girl who called an ambulance when her neighbour was electrocuted by his own lawnmower.

They all thought I was doing it deliberately.

Someone tried to have me removed, but a beefeater stepped in and made excuses.

Pardon the expression, but I was let go about a month after that.

Then I suffered the most prolonged and debilitating constipation of my life.