A Spin Doctor writes...

MR Mick Jagger. Just saying that makes me sick to my stomach.

Mister? Mister Mick Jagger? It's Sir Paul McCartney.

It's Sir Elton John. It's Sir Richard Branson and it's bloody Sir Stanley Kalms. But it's Mister Mick Jagger. Christ, that makes me so angry. What is it about this country?

Why are we so obsessed with envy and tall-poppy syndrome?

What new humiliation will the petty jackanapes snickering in some office in Buckingham Palace heap on the head of this great Briton? A Companion of Honour for Jarvis Cocker, perhaps?

MBEs for So Solid Crew? And nothing, nothing, for Mick?

Dear, dear Mick, who has shown his commitment to this country time and time again by personally arranging for video tapes of Test matches to be sent to him while he's on tour.

I was with the Prince of Wales at Highgrove this weekend when he discovered the extent of this scandalous omission. He was in the garden trowelling merrily away, tending to some lovely Michaelmas daisies, while I read aloud from his Prince's Trust schedule for the following day.

"9.30am," I read, "Tour around a Watford facility for tattoo removal.

10.45am. Visit a Hitchin facility for anger management through t'ai chi.

12.30pm. Make a presentation at a Garston facility for teaching violent young offenders to use mixing decks."

At this last entry, His Royal Highness managed a strange, melancholy smile, the sort of expression that most of us might display if we were testing an aching tooth with our tongue. "I expect Sir Mick Jagger will be there," he said, "leader of the popular singing ensemble the Rolling Stones."

"Mr Jagger has no decoration of any kind," I said, and with that His Royal Highness gave a great, deafening whoop of horror and disbelief, bringing his gloved hands up to his face. Sadly, he still had hold of the trowelling fork in one of them.

"No," I continued sadly. "Not a single bauble for poor Mick." The Prince was speechless. He just toppled sideways, in a crumpled heap, sobbing uncontrollably.

"It really is a shame," I said sadly.

"Mick has truly done his bit for UK plc." Charles was still unable to speak, howling with grief, and catching his breath in great gulps like a beaten child.

"Yes," I continued, "undoubtedly it is a terrible blow for Mick, but I'm sure he would want you to be brave about it, Sir." "I have stabbed myself in the ****ing eye with this ****ing **** of a trowel!" Charles shouted, and stomped into the house.

Well, there was no mistaking Charles's strong feeling on this subject.

AND it is this feeling that I am going to try to get across to the public in the documentary I have produced on Channel Four tonight, Being Mick.

For the past 12 months we have been following him around, getting to grips with the man and the legend that is Mick.

As I wandered into the breakfast room of his sumptuous south London home yesterday, with the film

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