The empire strikes back

Amidst the hysteria surrounding the grave security lapse which saw a lookalike of the world’s most wanted man gatecrashing Prince William’s 21st birthday party, little or no attention was given to what I, Sam Snort. would regard as a much more serious oversight on the part of the organisers of the royal bash – I refer, of course, to their failure to hire the Black And White Minstrels to provide the post-prandial entertainment.

For younger readers and indeed older readers of a sensitive disposition, it is worth explaining that back in the days when my old buddy Jimi Hendrix was the only black person alive on this planet (or on any other he happened to visit at the time), prime-time telly was in something of a quandary about how best to bring black entertainment to the white masses. Jimi strangling the ‘Star Spangled Banner’ was all well and good for hairy bastards out of their heads on the brown acid at Woodstock, but this really wasn’t what you could put out on the box of a Sunday evening after Songs Of Praise and before Mastermind.

Fortunately, someone came up with the wizard idea of getting a bunch of white song and dance folk to don blackface, white lipstick, gaudy outfits and top-hats, and trained them to give it plenty of the old Al Jolson on the likes of ‘Swanee’, ‘Mammy’ and ‘Summer In Dublin’. (Sure about that last one, Sam? – Ed). Thus, The Black And White Minstrels, one of television’s best-loved and most successful shows of the late ’60s and early ’70s. Seriously, kiddies. I jest not.

Scullery maids

Times change, however, and sadly the B&WM fell out of fashion, not so much bypassed by taste as drowned in a raging sea of political correctness and the rise of new names like Ali, Elijah and, er, X. With the raised black-gloved clenched fist the new symbol of the day, it was frankly hard for a man with spotless white gloves, a big painted grin and a banjo to make much of an impact.

Still, throughout the wilderness years, I always consoled myself with the thought that, even if nowhere else in the world, there was surely always a home for the Minstrels in the various houses of Windsor. Indeed, one could hardly conceive of a Christmas do chez Liz without picturing the grandma stonked on gin, sister Maggie chain-smoking Woodbines, Big Phil ramrodding the scullery maids - and a well-worn video of the Black And White Minstrels bathing the whole ghastly scene in a baleful glow.

So when I learned that the theme of Willie’s coming of age bash would be ‘Out Of Africa’ I was optimistic. And when I saw TV pictures of guests arriving in leopard-skin and beads, their noble equine faces all shiny with black boot polish as they removed their spears from the back of the Range Rover, I was as sure as a man could be that inside in the Great Hall, the early arrivals were already doing the conga to the crazy beat of the rejuvenated Minstrels.
But sadly not a bit of it. Instead, we have since learned that in the course of his foreign travels young Willie was so taken with the world music thang, that he had a group of singers from Botswana specially flown in for the party.

One can only imagine how pleased those lads must have been when they took the stage and first clapped eyes on what appeared to be an audience composed entirely of whinnying, horse-faced Masai tribes people. And Osama Bin Laden. A very memorable scene, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Sadly, I wasn’t able to attend myself. No-one is closer to the Windsors than myself – apart from BP Fallon, obviously – but ever since the royal court bouncers found me in Liz’s bedroom back in ’82, the bastard securocrats have ensured that my invitations always go astray in the post. (Let me clarify that Sam’s nocturnal mission of 21 years ago was at the express request of Big Liz. For, as she put it herself: “One has simply longed to set eyes on the real crown jewels, Samuel”. Of course, the bastard securocrats couldn’t let that one get out, so a completely daft cover story was spun about a mad Paddy called Fagin, who apparently ambled in for a rap with the Queen of England in the middle of the night. As you would. Amazingly, the press and public bought this shite).

Topless portraits

Anyway, it’s not as if I really want to mingle with the world’s most dysfunctional family these days. Since Di went off to meet the Mainman, Fergie quit sucking toes for a living and the Queen Mum hung up her artificial hip for good, there isn’t much left to detain a man of Sam Snort’s interests.

Happily, though, there’s a few bob still to be made out of them. Coming soon to a bookshop near you: a full and frank account of how myself and well-known royal photographer Randolph “Ratso” Streeb-Greebling secured some tasteful, intimate and indeed topless portraits of Lady

Di on a beach in Musquat, from aboard an inflatable raft, at a distance of one mile, in
heavy seas, whilst coming under fire from a patrol boat. The title of this loving memorial to an inspirational young woman will be See Nipples And Di.

Order your copy in advance. For, as my old mate Myles used to say, it’s not enough to order it. You must order it, in advance.

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort esq