The New Murrey and Blue blog

By Susan Lamb

It was a bright Saturday morning and the Richard III Society was totally buzzing with excitement. It hadn’t seen this much excitement since Richard’s new wig in the museum.

But today was the launch of a brand‑new apple variety, grown right there in Leicester, named after our good king Richard III.

It was called…The Perky Plantagenet. It was sharp, fruity, excellent with cheese, and apparently was capable of making a crumble that brought TV chefs to the realms of ecstasy…

The Richard III Society was there at the launch of this flavourful fruit, and in its indomitable style had set up a long trestle table of:

Apple‑themed treats (medieval style), a giant, silver punchbowl, filled with some Perky Plantagenet apple punch, and a photo area with a cardboard cut-out of Richard III and a velvet murrey and blue backdrop.

Two women were gushing over the aforementioned cardboard cut-out.

“I wonder what they’ll do with it after today?” said a bemused Sarah, a member of the Society, with a mischievous smile. 

“Dunno…I’m going to ask ’em if I can have it!”

“Why, Moll? It’s only made of cardboard?”

“Not to me, he is my king, my hero, my…”

“Aw, now I’d take HIM home with me,” said Sarah, nodding towards the Society’s brand new mascot…Bertie.  

Now, Bertie lived on the farm where his favourite white, juicy, succulent apples were grown. He could often be found having a party under the apple trees when he absconded from his pen. He got away with it, though, because he was famous.

He was the face of the Richard III Society, and he was a sweet, chunky, little, white boar. Very rare too. Pink snout. Pearly white little tusks, pampered to perfection, with bright eyes, and an intelligent expression.

And Richard was instantly besotted. He drifted towards him.

Anne, however, narrowed her eyes. “Now, Richard. Do not feed him, I’m warning you. Remember what happened in 1484 when you fed strawberries to the donkey in the courtyard?”

“Well, yes Anne, but he was hungry and he was only little and…”

“He took up residence in the castle and made funny noises when you passed by him…Then that fellow, What’s his name? said strawberries made you bad tempered in the tower. Well, nobody realised they were for little Dinky the donkey!!”

Richard scoffed. “Oh, but Anne, he was a sweet little creature, and Bertie is a little darling too, aren’t you Bertie?”

Anne shook her head. Bertie snuffled at Richard’s ghostly boots, utterly enchanted.

Anne sighed. “Oh Richard…”

But the Society members were already cooing. One lady said: “Oh please, can I hold him?”

Her terrified mother backed away with an expression of sheer horror, and little Bertie was placed into her daughter’s arms, his expression, and hers, angelic, his little trotters resting on her shoulder. A photo was taken, and she was in lurrve.

Then the historian from the Society shouted: “Bring Bertie to the tomb of King Richard! Let’s get a photo of him sitting here guarding his master.He’s such a little darling!”

Bertie was lifted, squealing happily, and carried toward the tomb.

Richard beamed. “Oh look, he has the Plantagenet spirit, Anne.”

Anne gave him a funny look and muttered: “No, no, my dear, he has plans.”

Because dear little Bertie had spotted something interesting. Something quite shiny. Something enormous. Something filled with the favourite fruit he munches on as he charges at the tree on the farm to make the apples fall down:

The Perky Plantagenet Punchbowl.

The TV chef, lisping Jimmy Boliver was giving a speech for his Foodie Dude channel, standing beside the aforementioned punchbowl.

“I’m Jimmy Boliver, and I’m the Foodie Dude – here I am in Lethter cathedral to tell you all about thith wonderful new apple,” he declared. “Itth just thimply divine, now don’t be detheived by itth almost pure-white thkin, it is sharp, awomatic, fwooty, and a perfect healthy choith for children’th lunch boxes: they don’t want nathty crithps or catkits. 

“Thith apple is thimply divine, with a good—”

SPLAT. Suddenly he was splashed in the face, hit by a cider tsunami.

Bertie had launched himself out of the Society member’s arms, just like a cannonball, straight out of the battle of Bosworth. He landed in the punchbowl with a splashy plonk and a triumphant oink.

The punch erupted in a golden fountain. Apple slices flew everywhere like shrapnel. The TV chef, Boliver, screamed. The Society gasped. The vicar hid behind a pillar thanking the almighty he’d got his mug full of punch before Bertie’s impromptu bath.

The lady mayoress fainted into a tray of Bosworth Belter cheese samples.

Richard froze.

Anne said: “I told you.”

Richard said: “He is merely… a bit enthusiastic.”

Bertie began paddling and then rolling around. He was so happy, grunting and splashing, scoffing and squealing with delight at his own athleticism.

He was smacking his chops, burping and making other noises a little white Boar does with abandon, and without any shame whatsoever.

The punchbowl rocked dangerously. The table shook.

The TV chef, Jimmy Boliver, was shouting: “GET HIM OUT OF HERE, I CAN’T DEMONTHTRATE MY CWUMBLE!” when a rogue apple hit him squarely on the chin and he fell face down into the aforementioned apple crumble, topped with crême pattisière, his glasses embedded in the doomed dessert.

Richard, panicking, tried to coax Bertie out.

“Come on now, little friend—”

Anne grabbed his arm. “Richard. Did you feed him?”

Richard hesitated. “Err, well, Anne…”

Anne’s eyes widened. “Richard?”

Richard coughed. “Only a tiny slice.”

Anne groaned. “You fed a miniature boar a sharp, fruity apple, designed to invigorate the senses?”

Bertie squealed with renewed energy.

He leapt out of the punchbowl — dripping, sticky, smelling of cider and ambition, and charged through the cathedral like a tiny, determined comet.

He left hoofprints, apple pulp, and splashes of cider in his wake.

The Society members chased him.

“Oi! Matthew, that’s our new mascot!” said the Board member, with a mouthful of cheese. “Catch him!”

“Well, who do you think I am, Hussain Bolt?” said the historian. 

Jimmy Boliver chased after them. 

The vicar chased after the chef. 

A choirboy screamed and climbed a marble pillar.

Richard watched, horrified but proud.

Anne folded her arms. “Well. This all is your doing.”

Richard sighed. “He is just very spirited. I was very spirited…now I’m just a spirit.”

“He is absolute chaos.” said Anne

“He is… adorable,” said Richard.

Bertie returned, skidding to a stop at Richard’s feet, tail wagging, snout sticky with apple.

Richard melted. “Oh Anne! Look at him.”

Anne tried to resist Bertie’s charm.  

She failed.  

She smiled.

“Oh, but Richard, he is rather sweet.”

The vicar, panting, arrived. “WHO FED THE BOAR?”

Richard coughed. Anne pointed at Richard. Richard glared at her. Anne looked serenely innocent.

Bertie squealed, triumphantly.

The TV chef began to wipe apple pulp, custard and crumble off his face.

“Well,” he began. “At leatht he liked thothe appleth. I thought they were far too piquant and awomatic, they would lend themthelveth rather well to a fine pickle.”

Suddenly Bertie saw food going to waste and charged at Foodie Dude, Jimmy Boliver, who toppled over as Bertie began licking the custard off his face, slurping, as Boliver shouted: “HELP I’M BEING THAVAGED!”

Richard chortled.

Anne sighed and gave him a look.

Bertie carried on cleaning the TV chef’s face, grunting cheerily.

Richard chortled again, saying to a ‘pretending-not-to-be-amused-but-is’
Anne: “You’d think that Boliver would be grateful he’s getting a wash!”

And thus ended the first — and quite possibly the last — public appearance of Bertie, the white miniature boar, beloved mascot of the Richard III Society, and the catastrophic porcine ambassador of the Perky Plantagenet Apple variety.