I’ve had my share of royally cringeworthy moments
Theresa May’s been at it again, executing the aggressively low curtsy – the only thing about her that has the nation enthralled. This time, she was caught stooping in front of poor Prince William at the commemorations for the Battle of Amiens, her fawning plunge transforming her into what unkind commentators have referred to as a “human swastika”.
May’s athletic gawkiness was first noted in her floorsweeping collapse before the Queen on being appointed Prime Minister, the smiles of those around her suggesting either delight or open scoffing. More recently, she has cringed before the artist formerly known as Kate Middleton, despite Debrett’s decree that “Low sweeping curtsies… are best reserved for the amateur dramatic stage and can be the subject of some amusement in royal circles.”
Being a grammar school scumbag from Birmingham, fatally neglectful of Hello!,i boast two curtsying anecdotes – both of them inglorious.
A few years ago, I found myself having lunch at a rather nice house. The floor was highly polished and I noticed with disdain other female guests slipping drunkenly about, steadied by the host, who was a tall and
extremely charming chap.
“Where do you live?” he asked. “Pimlico, I declared. “How about you?” “Kensington Palace,” he replied. “Goodness,” I remarked, “how do you get to do that?” – the peppercorn rents paid by courtiers having recently been in the news. “Er, I suppose it comes with the job,” he answered. “And what do you do?” I demanded. “Well, I suppose I’m head of the Lifeboat Institution,” he faltered. “Fantastic,” I cried, “and how do you get to do that?” “Er, I suppose I was in the Navy?” Sometime later, I discovered that I had been addressing the Duke of Kent, whose more clued-up guests had been busy bobbing.
Flash-forward a couple of years, and I ran across his brother at a party, recognisable by his dashing Romanov looks. A courtier approached and asked whether he could introduce us. “Right, Betts,” I thought, “now’s your moment,” dipping into a textbook gesture that left Prince Michael speechless.
As we exited, I discovered my faux pas. Late arriving, as ever, I had been forced to run, during which time my nipples had surfaced above my ritzy sheer blouse. I fear this is a career unlikely to end in an OBE.