Tea with Ma’am, Mum

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My Royalist-Jamaican mother must have been smiling down at me from her seat on the right-hand side of God as the taxi arrived to pick me up to meet the Queen at Buckingham Palace some three weeks ago now. Since today would have been her seventy-third birthday, I hope she’ll still be smiling down at me as I add this little missive from my diary in her memory.

A taxi had been booked since morning. The idiot Eastern European driver parks his car at a bus stop two hundred metres from my flat, so I am forced to stride up to him suited and booted with dreadlocks flowing in the cold evening wind. He looks straight through as I reach the stationary Mercedes and starts the engine to pull out into the street. I quickly knock on his window and manage to open the passenger door as he steps on the brakes.

“Are you the car for Buckingham Palace?”
“Hurry up and get in, man,” he shouts back at me, “I’m parked in a bus lane. It’s a fifty pound fine!”
“I didn’t tell anyone to ask you to park here. I told your controller exactly where I live.”
“I was looking at Beaufort Mansions.”
“That’s your problem, mate, that’s not where I live.”
“My problem?” he says with a snarl. “If I had known there was a problem parking, I would not have accepted this job.”

Well, f**k-off then, I wanted to tell him but I didn’t want to be late to meet Her Maj, so I got in the car and bit my tongue.

“Just drive on, will you!”

He turned to look at me then and slaps me in the face with a breath so foul that I immediately have to open the window. I tried breathing through my mouth but the disease blowing out of his lungs was making me feel sick. I almost wanted to thank him when he looked away and kept his eyes on the road.

“Damn!” said I.
“What?” he replied.
“Nothing,” I lied, “But I’ll be needing a cash-point on the way.”

Had he been a little more friendly, I might even have offered him one of the mints in my pocket, but even the chill in the air couldn’t kill the stench. By the time we reach our destination, however, guided through the main gates of Buckingham Palace by security police, he has completely changed his attitude.

“Are you a little nervous about meeting the Queen?”
“I am a little.”
“Don’t worry, my friend, you won’t be alone.”

My friend now, is it? - I thought - you must be gearing up to charge me that little bit extra now that you think I’ve got friends in high places. He was, and he does, £20 from Chelsea to just down the road at Buckingham Palace, and I couldn’t even be bothered to argue with him.

“Will your driver be returning to fetch you afterwards?” a policeman opening my door wants to know.
“No,” I said. “He can go.” And I smiled to myself at the absurdity of it.

Guests had been specially selected to attend a Reception at Buckingham Palace to reflect their work and associations with commonwealth African countries prior to a State Visit to Uganda by The Queen and The Duke of Edinburgh later in November, which would be followed by the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting in Kampala, and so palace staff it seemed were all smiles.

We are welcomed to the Palace and ushered upstairs into The Picture Gallery, a long top lit room about 50 metres deep, which serves as a corridor linking a series of smaller state rooms. I’m certainly amongst good company here. There are people I’ve known and worked with in the past like Dr. Max Sesay and the effervescent Linda Bellos, plus some others I’ve only read about or seen on television, including newsreader Sir Trevor McDonald; Booker Prize-winning author Ben Okri (making an entry armed with an ornate Zulu walking cane); fashion designer Oswald Boateng along with his following; and many more recognisable faces whose names escape me.

While others are furiously networking, what strikes me most about this central area is not the imminent guest list but its gallery hung with classic works of art. There are paintings by Rembrandt, van Dyck, Rubens, Vermeer, and other multi-million pound masterpieces by painters I’ve never heard of before. Leading from here are the Throne Room and the Green Drawing Room in which I can just about glimpse paintings of various royal ancestors because we are not allowed too much wandering around just yet. It is in these very formal rooms - used only for ceremonial and official purposes - in which we will be entertained on Champagne and canopies for the rest of the evening.

We don’t know quite why but for some reason the room falls strangely quiet as guests starts to form a queue leading into one of the stately side rooms. I’m chatting to a former Miss Universe contestant, the ex-Miss Zimbabwe, when we too decide to get in line. In front of us is a blonde from the Foreign Office who suddenly starts to hyperventilate the minute we draw closer to what seems to be the focal point of everyone’s attention. “Oh my God…Oh my God! It’s her - she’s there. You go first,” she says. From where I’m standing I can see the Queen alongside the Duke of Edinburgh through a crack in the door ahead. “Calm down, woman,” I try to tell the Foreign Office blonde. “It’s only Her Maj. Ladies before gentlemen,” but my own heart is racing now ten to the dozen.

“What do you say to the Queen?”

“I couldn’t tell you, but I’ve heard you wait for The Queen to say something to you.”

“I thought they’d made a mistake when I got the gold-embossed invitation,” she says. I wanted to scan it and put it on my Facebook profile, but my friends would only accuse me of being attention seeking.”

“I had the same thought too,” I told her, then, “but I’ve gone one better. I’m gonna have mine framed and strategically placed in the bathroom, so that when I’m sitting on my throne, I can think back to when I met The Queen who sits on the throne of England.”

The young blonde woman laughs out loud but in the course of events, the Queen passes her by with a quick handshake, and then it was my turn. From what seemed like a great distance away but was in fact less than two metres, a man in a silly looking uniform announced, “Mister Paul Boakye, ma’am.”

I had half expected him to pronounce my name incorrectly, so when I walked towards the Queen and she extended her hand, I took it, and shook it, and said off the top of my head, “Your majesty, ma’am, I’m delighted to meet you.” As I did so, I bowed, and my dreadlocks swept forward. The Queen instinctively pulled back her head and eyed me with a sidewards glance.

“Oh!” - she said in that peculiarly high-pitched tone - “And what do you do here?”

That’s when I started to stutter. I had understood each word the Queen said but I was having difficulty computing the question.

“I was born here. I live here. I don’t work here at the palace, ma’am,” I wanted to say. “So what exactly do you mean?” But in the end I simply answered, “I…I…I…I’m a writer, ma’am,” just like it said on my gold-embossed name tag pinned to my jacket.

“Oh, really,” the Queen replied.

That then was my cue to move along. I was now standing before the Duke of Edinburgh, who despite his fearsome reputation was a far less daunting prospect.

“Good evening, Your Royal Highness,” I said.
“So what kind of things do you write?”
“I am originally a playwright but these days I’ll write just about anything I’m paid to do.” I was getting the hang of it now.
“Do you have anything on at the moment?”
“Not at the moment, but I am currently writing my first novel.”
“Very good,” he says, and turns towards the ex-Miss Zimbabwe standing behind me. “So do you write with him?”
“Oh, No!” she replies, indignantly. “I’m a model.”
“Right you are,” says the Duke.

The rest I cannot hear because I am being directed back into The Gallery Room where we are now able to get up close and personal with the various paintings on display. By the time I reach a seat next to Oswald Boateng in the central area, the former Miss Zimbabwe is already entering the room from pressing the flesh with Royalty, and so I introduce her to the fashion designer since she claims to want to be a supermodel.

It all happened so quickly back there that I am still feeling a little bit giddy. Everything around me looks slightly surreal, as if I have just fallen down the rabbit hole like Alice in Wonderland. Not a drop of alcohol had I touched so far but now I needed a drink if only to get things in perspective.

What would you like, sir? A glass of Champagne or some freshly squeezed Sandringham orange juice?
You have your own orchards?
Yes, sir. Only the best for the Queen.
I’ll try a mix of both, may I?
Certainly. Thank you, sir.
Thank you.

How the blued-blooded idle rich live, huh? You’d think that they would surround themselves exclusively with others just like them but the Royal family seem to be making a concerted effort to break away from mistakes of the past and straight into modernity.

Earlier I had a great conversation with one of the Ladies in Waiting who talked very eloquently about living in Washington DC and the poverty and racism she witnessed there. Then the very charming Edward Griffiths talked extensively to me about how they selected the guests for this evening’s event. The Royal Household apparently have a team of researchers who go out of their way to look for people of merit from all walks of life (arts, sports, music, science, etc) to attend these types of functions. He himself had been a highflyer in the hotel and catering industry before being hand-picked to head the hospitalities team to bring a new commercialism to the job of entertaining Royal guests. Talking to him and some of the other members of staff on duty who were also not to the manor born, I was suitably impressed.

I am now determine to get around the three adjoining rooms to see all of the paintings up-close without being interrupted and engaged in conversation when up walks Prince Michael of Kent.

“Good to see a Rastafarian here this evening.”

My immediate thought is “Still reeling at the Benjamin Zephaniah refusal of on OBE, are we?” But what I actually say is “I wouldn’t exactly call myself a Rastafarian.”

“No?”

“Not at all. I’m just a humble writer with a hairstyle that I like. I may have certain sympathies, but in my mind, even you could grow some dreadlocks.”

“Not with my hairline,” he beams.

“I never thought I’d still have hair at my age. But more importantly,” I say, changing the subject, “I’ve just been admiring these amazing paintings on your walls. It has to be great to wake up each morning and come down to see these in natural daylight.”

“You must be one of about five people in this room who have taken any notice of the art.”

“I can’t think why.”

“Are you an artist?”

“Not in the sense that I paint or sketch, but I’m a great admirer of beauty in all it’s forms.”

“My wife is a great admirer of art.”

“So I’ve heard. Is she here tonight?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Oh, what a shame, I’ve always thought her a very handsome woman.” Then just as I thought I’d said too much, I changed tracks again. “You know, it’s funny, I’m currently writing a book based partly on my mother’s diaries, and it’s amazing just how much people of her generation knew about your family. I’m amazed because I know so little about the royal line.”

“How far have you got with your book?”

“Not as far as I’d like but it’s coming along.”

“Well, keep at it. I’m sure it will be just great.”

“Thank you. Can I put that as a quote from you on the back sleeve when we publish?”

“It’s been nice talking to you,” he smiles with lowered eyes. “Enjoy the rest of the evening.”

“And you too, Prince Michael. It’s been a pleasure.”

What a nice and pleasant man I thought. He actually even looks regal. Shame to be married to Princess Pushy of the “get back to the colonies” race row fame. No wonder she is not here tonight, and they are so rarely seen in public by all accounts.

As he saunters off into the middle of the room where the Queen is surrounded by her well-wishers and various sycophantic admirers, I’m feeling it’s time for me to head home. The formal introductions have obviously come to an end and it’s now possible to make general chit-chat with the monarch as she expertly works the room, but I’m busy looking for the exit, thinking: My God, that woman does a lot of work for her age, I suppose after all, she has to watch her billions.

Good night, sir?
A good night, thank you. Goodnight.
Goodnight, sir!

The British Royal Family is clearly on a massive PR offensive right now that generally seems to be working just fine. I entered Buckingham Palace an anti-royalist and came out pleasantly surprised at having enjoyed the experience of meeting The Queen and some lesser royals. Back in the world of reality, my handmade Thai-silk suit from Bangkok is far too thin without a coat on this cold autumn night. I’m beginning to stress about whether I’ll manage to get a taxi quickly when a friendly police offer points me to the perfect spot just outside the palace from where I can hail a traditional black cab. The first one that comes along stops, and I jump in.

The young white English driver behind the wheel with the strong South London accent turns off his on-duty light and waits for me to sit down before pulling off.

“Whereabouts in Chelsea, mate?”
“Towards Battersea Bridge, please.”
“Did you enjoy your meeting with the Queen?”
“Yes, thanks. It was surreal.”
“I was only joking! Did you really meet her?”
“I know you were but I’m not.”
“What’s she like then?”
“Short with strong calves and good skin for her age.”
“She’s probably Botoxed.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you feel comfortable up there?”
“Yeah. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Cos I fucking hate the lot of ‘em,” he spits out. “Why does anybody need to be that rich? Have you read that book The AntiChrist and a Cup of Tea about Prince Charles and the monarchy’s attempts to create a New World Order? They’re just like those bastards the Rothschilds and the rest of ‘em!”

For the rest of the journey he barks on about conspiracy theories and clandestine politics. So, there you have it, mum. I’ve been to the palace and visited The Queen and came out smiling. Now here’s a real anti royalist Englishman who just goes to show that you can’t please everyone.

Happy seventy-third birthday! Miss you madly.

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