Strange goings-on at “mummy’s” party
SO there I was walking through the forecourt of Buckingham Palace thinking to myself this is all a bit strange.
The gravel crunched under my slip-ons as I popped through the archway under the famous balcony and into the courtyard to be handed a hamper full of goodies.
It was, of course, the picnic in the palace and I, as a gentleman of the press, had a ticket.
Directed into the palace itself I overheard an open-mouthed chap from Newcastle – or thereabouts – tell his lady wife that The Queen’s hall was somewhat different to their front room, presumably in case she hadn’t realised.
Out through the other side of the palace and I found myself in the massive garden where I spent the next 20 minutes looking for the bar and then a bench, which I eventually found near a huge urn which I didn’t sit near in case it toppled over and crushed my ego.
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Anyway, it was on this bench that I munched my way through the Diamond Jubilee hamper – which unnecessarily, I thought, included sticks of carrot and celery – and phoned my mum as I had no one to talk to.
I looked for the Queen as I headed to the concert after the picnic but I didn’t spot her – I suspect she was probably running around with a Ewbank what with all that Jubilee traffic over her carpets.
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The night got stranger when Cliff Richard popped up in pastels jigging around like a teenager and Grace Jones popped herself into a black and red bustier and got out her hula hoop.
The most poignant part was the speech made by the Prince of Wales who called his mother “Mummy” and for some reason got a round of applause for it.
I particularly liked the fireworks and, I have to admit, I was rather pleased with myself that I knew the first line at least of the second verse of the national anthem.
Then, all of a sudden, it was all over and the police were making everybody walk to Victoria Station, assuming, I presume, that everyone wanted to go to Gatwick for a cheap flight and an expensive sandwich.
Anyway, I hope the Queen enjoyed it – though with her it’s admittedly hard to tell sometimes.
Meanwhile it’s all been rather eventful in Felixstowe where my theatrical friend Dean – known to many as a regular performer in the town’s pantomimes – got run over on Saturday morning.
He said he was on the pavement when the incident happened with a 54-plate Peugeot.
“I looked down and my foot was under the wheel, then the pain hit,” he said.
Suffering a rather nasty flesh wound, inevitable shock, some bruising, a ruined espadrille and a smudge of grease on his slacks, Dean said it was nothing to do with the shared space scheme – knowing we journalists might make a fuss – as it happened outside Fabric 8 and not the other end of town where confusion reigns.
I was glad to get back to work for a slice of normality only to discover the sports desk – where I have what is known as a hot desk – were talking about Euro 2012 and England’s chances.
I happened to mention that much depended on our exposure to Spanish banks and Italy isn’t looking too healthy either when I realised they were discussing football and not the sovereign debt crisis.
It is it me or is the world that’s strange?