King Nicholas and the Copeman Empire: the caravan monarch

TRIBUTE TO SAINT RICHARD

Both Baby Face and I were totally gutted by the news that Richard Whiteley has passed away. Baby Face wanted to pay tibute with a poem, and has come up with the following, loosely based on that one in Four Weddings and a Funeral. It doesn't rhyme perfectly, or scan quite right, but it does sum up how we will be feeling, every afternoon at a quarter past three, for some time to come...

Stop the giant clock, keep the letters on their shelves,
Leave Dictionary Corner to themselves;
Silence the buzzers, savour one last pun,
For you are gone, our conundrum.

Let past contestants circle overhead,
Scribbling on their pads the message He Is Dead,
Put a stripy blazer round the shoulders of his chair,
Let Carol wear black gloves, now he's not there.

You were our vowel, our consonant, our numbers round,
Our gentle joke, our soothing sound,
Our afternoon pleasure, with tea and cake,
Our chirpy quip before the break.

The scores are not wanted now: cancel every one;
Hide bright ties, our weekdays are gone;
Pour away the water, put the cards in their box.
No nine-letter word can describe our loss.

CONSORT REQUIRED, URGENTLY

After over twenty years without any romance in his life, Andrew Waters has finally managed to get himself a girlfriend - Sophie Blake, who works in the Co-op. I suppose I should have been nice and congratulated him, maybe even bought him a beer or something, but for some reason I actually found myself getting quite jealous. Not that I fancy 'Slow-eyed Sophie' at all, just that I can't stand the smug way he keeps going on about his 'relationship' with her. And it seems every time I go round to his flat to play Fifa on the X-Box these days, she's there cooing over him and feeding him chips.

Last night I snapped, and told him I couldn't see what all the fuss was about - I've had loads of girlfriends over the years - in fact I've got one on the go at the moment - a real stunner - just I don't feel the need to flaunt her about in front of my mates, especially when I'm trying to concentrate on the games console.

Quite why I made this rash outburst, I don't know. Andrew has known me since I was seven, and knows full well that I have only ever had one girlfriend - Jenny Higgins - and that she only lasted for one afternoon - I was eight at the time.

He couldn't stop sniggering about it all evening and has now challenged me to bring what he calls my 'imaginary girlfriend' along on a double date to the Dormy House Hotel Carvery this Saturday, with him and Sophie.

I'm determined to fill the seat one way or another, and have spent all morning e-mailing the local escort agencies, trying to find a suitable match. It might end up costing me an arm and a leg, but it'll be worth it to wipe the smile off his face.

YOUR MAJESTY, YOUR CARRIAGE AWAITS

Up until now, my experience of caravaning has been purely static. But that could all be about to change because, earlier today, without even consulting me, Baby Face withdrew a hundred and ten quid from our King's Trust account, and spent it on this heap of junk.

He says he plans to transform it into an ornate royal state coach, by reshaping it with plaster and MDF, spraying it all gold, and then painting elaborate scenes from Sheringham on the doors. By the end, he reckons he'll have it looking just like this.

I'm totally unconvinced, and more than a bit miffed that he's squandered so much of our funds on yet another of his hairbrain schemes. But he seems to have his heart set on entering us into the Sheringham Carnival, and is now trying to convince me that we should also head off on a Royal Tour in it, later this summer.