The Day I Met The Queen

It was suggested to me that, as I originate from where I do originate (Surrey), it would be appropriate for me to be sporting a Union Jack tie as part of my own personal regalia to celebrate the Queen's Diamond Geezerdom. Coming from Surrey does not, I can assure you, mean that one is automatically a fervent royalist, and I am proof of the fact.

I had been aware of course that Her Madge was due a 60-year bash at some stage, but quite when it was to be I had no idea. Only on receiving an invitation to the Bulletin's drink-for-the-Queenathon at La Residencia did it dawn on me that the Jubilee party bags were due for an outing in early June. And so the Jubilee has duly arrived, and there appear to be several of them. I would have thought that the Jubilee would be one day, but it isn't. So many events are there that it appears to last for 60 days, one for every year of the reign.

Despite a general indifference towards the royals, I do have form when it comes to them, and not just the Queen. And that Surrey background explains why. But before getting to that, there is one very good reason why even I might wish to celebrate the Jubilee, and that is because the Queen has always been there. She was there before I was and she has remained there, a comforting piece of the national furniture sitting benignly in a corner of one's British psyche. There not being the Queen seems barely imaginable, as there has always been the Queen.

I was exposed to the Queen, or at least brief glimpses of her from behind a rear window of the royal Bentley, from an early age. The Queen used to make (she probably still makes but goes via the M3) an annual trek down the A30 to the military academy at Sandhurst for the passing-out. Consequently, schools along the route, and my primary school was, would disgorge their pupils and we would head off to a roadside speck next to the A30 where we could wave small paper Union Jacks held aloft on lolly sticks on which we had spent the previous week in earnest manufacture.

It all lasted a matter of seconds, even if the Bentley was only moving at suitably slow regal pace, and so the paper Union Jacks would be put away for the following year or more likely filed in the dustbin and all the mothers who had also lined the route in lavishly floral frocks and wide-brimmed hats would head home, put the frocks and hats back in the wardrobe and put their curlers back in.

It was some years later when, having left school, I ended up working in royal inner sanctums. This came about thanks to Surrey being able to boast the UK and European headquarters of S.C. Johnson, i.e. Johnson Wax. My association with Johnson came about through my post-A Level, gap year (before gap years were invented) employment with the temp agency Manpower. I got the delightful job of toilet cleaner at the Johnson factory and offices.

So efficient was I at maintaining the hygiene and cleanliness of the male lavatories and rest rooms that the supervisor, a splendidly military sort with a small, clipped moustache by the name of Bill Cullen, would specifically request me for special jobs, and these special jobs involved the royal palaces. Not the lavs, unfortunately with hindsight, but all manner of floors. Johnson was polisher by royal appointment, and the appointments meant Kensington Palace and Buck House.

Margaret and Snowdon's gaff was the first of the two, and I can reveal that all the talk of Margaret being a total lush was absolutely true. Drunk? Is the Queen an Anglican?

After the Kensington Palace gig, we moved on to Buckingham Palace and to its Grand Hall which formed the main part of the polishing job. During one particular rest period, I decided to indulge in a spot of exploration and came across a corridor with offices. On their doors were the names of the occupants: the Prince of Wales, who, not of course having any gainful employment, still lived with his parents; the Duke of Edinburgh; and the Queen.

It was while on this exploration that the door to one office opened and out stepped Her Majesty and some secretary type. I was rooted to the spot, firstly because I suspected I shouldn't have been where I was, and secondly because, blimey, it was the Queen. The exchange, and there was one, went something along the lines of: "Can I help you?" (the secretary type); "Er, er, bluh, bluh" (me); "Are you with the polishers?" (the secretary type); "Er, er, yes." "The polishers, ma'am. Johnson." "Oh yes, of course. The polishers." (the Queen).

And that was about that. Off went the Queen to wherever she was going, leaving behind a startled and tongue-tied seventeen-year-old who was to later receive regular ribbings from his mates who were, like the seventeen-year-old, avowedly anti-monarchist. But anti-monarchist or not, suddenly put the Queen in front of you, and you go gooey. Happy Jubilee, your Madge, and thanks for always having been there.


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