I went up to London to visit the Queen…
The invite announced that we would “celebrate the forthcoming jubilee”. But this is no ordinary “invite”. From the word go, there’s a kind of assumption that you’re going to accept.
For starters, although you’re not ordered to come to Buckingham Palace, it’s clear some official or other there has been “commanded by Her Majesty” to invite you.
Whatever one’s personal feelings are about the monarchy, you feel you’d be dropping some nameless official in it if you didn’t accept. And anyway, as a journo, surely natural inquisitiveness takes over? There’s no point pretending an invite to the palace is an everyday occurrence, so might as well go along so, at the very least, you can write a piece like this.
Ice cracked, not broken
So, the palace can feel fairly relaxed that most people accept an invite like this. Even with the RSVP-embossed card comes instructions about who to write to if you want to thank HRH for that lovely night you haven’t yet had.
And they’re not that green over at BH. Driving there for 6pm on a weekday is plainly only for the infirm of mind – but they send you a big fat lick ‘n’ stick sign. Stick that on the windscreen and you’re waved through, under the front arch, to the central car park.
It was the Tube for me (they do tell you the nearest stations), then one wave of my green invitation card with my name and I was at the outer gate. There, the nice kind policeman did ask for some ID – but I sensed the card would’ve got me in.
So, under the front arch and across the courtyard where all the WPs were parked up. A bloke in a kilt with – remarkably – a Scots accent, murmured: “Good evening, Sir. Up the stairs. Cloakroom straight ahead. Then up the left-hand stairs to the Throne Room.”
“Cloakroom” turns out to be about eight black-uniformed palace officials waiting, silently, as you pad towards them across the hushed red deep-pile. It’s a tad off-putting. So I tried a joke:
“Wow – I’m expecting to be asked where I see myself in 10 years!” Polite titter. Ice slightly cracked. Not, I sense, broken.
No tipping required
There is no receptacle for tipping the cloakroom staff. You are not, you understand, in commercial premises. Up the wide, shallow stairs and across a couple more hectares of crimson Royal carpet, another flash of the green card, and suddenly you get a white one to go with it.
One side says: “Reception Buckingham Palace. Members of The Royal Family attending.” They’re precise about capital letters around here.
And they’ve all come out, pretty much: Liz, Phil, William, Kate and the Duke of Gloucester and Princess Michael of Kent – Dukey and Mike, for all I know. And how come she’s a Michael anyway? Dickie Arbiter ought to know – or Sir Dickie as he now is. Suddenly I’m having the champagne (which I’ve already bought via HMRC) with Dickie.
“You’ll be funnelled through shortly,” he said, then, weirdly, winked at me. Dickie wasn’t done: “Don’t worry,” he said, “They’ll take your champagne away. But the funny thing is, I’ve seen captains of industry wilt at this point. It’s amazing. Some even try to curtsey!”
Dickie paused, emptied his flute prior to inevitable confiscation, turned slightly and said: “Ah good, we’re being funnelled.”
‘And what do you do?’
And we were, seamlessly, into a queue, snaking out of the Throne Room to another better-lit Very Important State Room. Staff on the right to take your glass. Through the double doors and a man takes your green card and says, apparently to nobody in particular: “Alex Thomson. Channel 4.” At this point I suddenly see I appear to be in front of the Queen: Long, navy-blue satin glove is proffered. By her, not me. I feel someone ought to say something and sense she’s not going to start the party: “Pleased to meet you,” I say, with what could be either inane grin or winning smile.
“And what do you do at Channel 4?” says she, utterly neutral. I should point out at this stage that I don’t know why I was invited – other than perhaps because I once sent Prince Charles one of my films from Afghanistan because I knew he was interested. I don’t say that. I say: “I’m the tall bloke on the news.”
She looks back at me. She’s not wholly unsympathetic, to me, to tallness or possibly even to Channel 4. But she says nothing. She has good skin. She’s permed to within an inch of her life. She’s very small. Or I’m very big. Or something.
Phil’s a bit of a relief: smoother, warmer. A rather benign smile, handshake and it’s move on and out. Back to the Throne Room to mingle and try and relocate confiscated champagne. At this point I notice some key information. We can tweet! Yes – there’s a Royal Tweet Suite, no less. They call it that. On the white card.
“Oh yes,” giggles a breathless palace staffer “Here you are – and don’t forget the hashtag.” And she and friends stand there area in the East Gallery at the top of the Grand Staircase, and, well, watch and laugh a lot at myself and Faisal Islam tweeting away. Really, the Tweet Suite was just a cordoned-off area. An ornate red-carpet corridor with oil paintings and mirrors – just a place to stand really. But its very existence gives us some clues as to how the palace is looking at modernising its communications ahead of the big event next year.
#diamondjubilee
It seems to be a step in the right direction – if not entirely flaw-proof. Because, unfortunately, few could actually tweet. Depressingly, asked to deposit their mobile phones, almost the entire fourth estate have meekly complied. Not Channel 4 News, I hasten to say – though, pathetically, my battery died (with sheer giddiness of it all) and I’m reliant on Faisal Islam, charged and ready. I tweeted about my exchange with the Queen. Back in the party the family are out. Circulating. I know this because someone’s pressing their arm into the small of my back. Sensing I’m about to be ejected I turn.
What I presume to be a lady-in-waiting is in fact the lady-now-shoving, pushing me back due to the Queen who is walking by, three feet away: “You’re very good at that,” I say, peering down at the royal doorwoman who is at least three feet shorter: “Oh yes – years of practice,” she smiles back, releasing the pressure of her forearm in my pelvis not one iota.
“I like your brooch,” says Faisal to the bouncer-in-waiting. First (and last) time I’ve ever heard our economics editor passing judgement on passing brooches. This is getting odder by the minute. This being Britain, of course, there’s a hierarchy. A class system. Some lapel badges have different coloured spots. If you have a spot, you get told to see certain staffers skilled in the art of steering spotted plebs to royalty, as they are skilled at elbowing non-spots out of the way.
Need you ask? I am a non-spot. There’s a group of other journalists and commentators. Nicholas Witchell of the BBC, for example. Prince Charles famously didn’t like him – but here he is and deserves a major spot in my book, for rising above such stuff. And then, just as I’m considering another daring blast in the royal Tweet Suite it is all over.
Another funnelling operation’s underway. And the family are gone. And I crunch out across the gravel to The Mall, reflecting on the event. It’s true that we didn’t learn a huge amount more about the Diamond Jubilee – but now we know what the hashtag will be (#diamondjubilee), indeed we know that there will be a hashtag. Which is perhaps a hint at the steps being taken to connect the public with this anniversary.
There were some flaws in the Royal Family’s first foray into the Twitterverse for a jubilee. But there’s time. We watch and wait. Only now does it occur to me that I walked from the streets of London, into Buckingham Palace, and allowed the Queen to have a brief personal audience with me. So far as I am aware neither of us was ever frisked at any point, which is either wonderfully civilised and laid-back, or a cause for concern.
After all – she could’ve been anyone – no name tag and definitely no spot.
Outside Buckingham Palace Alex Thomson regularly tweets via @Alextomo