Proud to bear the same name as prince
FOR most of us, and our loved ones, death – while inevitable – is rarely planned. Members of the Royal Family, by contrast, know that while their longevity is ardently hoped for, their passing and all the ramifications that go with it, are being organised well in advance, down to the tiniest detail.
So the death of the Duke of Edinburgh last Friday, at the age of 99, had been the subject of regular planning meetings well before he passed away, under the heading ‘Operation Forth Bridge’. For many, knowing that regular weekly meetings were being held to plan for your death might be a little creepy; like walking through a graveyard and catching sight of your own gravestone.
The Duke of Edinburgh, however, was famously unsentimental and not at all squeamish. He was surely unfazed by the fact that the Lord Chamberlain had been working for several years on a master plan for his funeral; or that a carefully orchestrated programme of events will now be put into action. In fact, we are told Philip helped draw up the details himself and was determined there should be a minimum of fuss. Given the restrictions imposed by the coronavirus pandemic, that wish will almost certainly be granted.
But if I and other journalists are unlikely to be given a front row funeral seat to help mark the Duke’s death – probably to his great relief – I can report that he played a modest part at the time of my birth.
In fact, my mother had to deny, again and again, that I was named after Prince Philip. It’s true, I was
not. But today, as he is revered for his sense of duty, his huge contribution to the life of the nation and for some – me included – for his sense of fun, I rather wish I had been.
The reason for the confusion is linked to my father’s military service. Around a year before I was born, my Mum and Dad were living on the Isle of Wight, where my Dad was serving in the military band of the Wiltshire Regiment. His role, as first clarinet, was particularly important in the summer of ’59 – because the band had a major role to play at a ceremony on the island to mark the creation of a new regiment, amalgamating two county regiments, the Wilts, where my Dad had been serving since the early ’50s, and the Berkshires.
The new regiment was, you guessed it, the Duke of Edinburgh’s Royal Regiment, and the Duke was, of course, in attendance. The regiment has since been amalgamated again and is now part of The Rifles.
Fast forward a year from that summer ceremony and my folks are back in married quarters in Wiltshire and I am about to be born in a military hospital. The Duke of Edinburgh is now my Dad’s Colonel in Chief, a ceremonial role and one of several he held during his long life.
After my arrival the nurses, the other mothers on the ward and – the way my mother tells it – pretty much everyone passing the end of her bed, inquired of my name and then exclaimed... “Oooh, how lovely – named after the Colonel in Chief...”
She could only protest that she was not so wrapped up in regimental life that she had named her first born after the Royal consort but had simply chosen the name, quite popular at the time apparently, because she and my Dad liked it.
It’s a story that has followed me through life. Until last Friday and the Duke’s death, I had not given it a great deal of thought beyond agreeing with my Mum that to have chosen to name me after Prince Philip would have been both a bit naff and could have looked too much like she and Dad were trying to win regimental brownie points, something I am pretty sure neither were that bothered about.
Now, however, I would like to change the story and perhaps even persuade my Mum and Dad – who I caught up with again last week, in the first socially distanced ‘garden meeting’ for around six months – that they DID have the Duke’s moniker in mind when they came to chose my name.
I think we’re in for a bit of a resurgence in interest in and respect for Prince Philip, and not before time. And I’d quite like some of that to rub off on me, his namesake.