To champagne socialists who long to abolish the Monarchy: Walk one mile in the Queen’s shoes, then say she’s pointless
IMAKE no bones about it. I am a Royalist. I love and respect Queen Elizabeth more than any other world figure. To those who want a republic, wish we were headed by one of the cast of Love Island and fail to see the irony of having a head of state who changes every four years from bluff man in flat cap to toff in trews and sends Katie Price or James Corden to launch a ship, I say on your own crown be it.
There is a flashy, emerald-hued envy in the hearts of many republicans – the same envy that sparkled in the raised glasses of those who would bring down Rishi Sunak for the crime of marrying well.
When the revolution comes, does it bring better days, fairer times, fuller pockets? Should tsars and kings and their innocent families be murdered so that criminals such as Putin can govern life and death or Macron play the peacock, Viktor Orban suppress and impose in Hungary or China’s President Xi lock up and lockdown millions?
Our Queen has led by example. There are few words from her, or reprimands, or even oblique suggestions but just look at her. A mother for 73 years, a working wife and student of people of all classes and races. A traveller, a diligent administrator, a prodigious hostess, a giver of prizes, a knowledgeable observer of sports, the arts and science, world politics and progress.
One who has remained constant and alert through 14 Prime Ministers. Someone who is, of necessity, always on guard, preternaturally discreet, greeting partisan and populists and erstwhile terrorists, with calm. Although, if you study the choice of flowers in the background or the brooches and beads she wears, a careful student might discern her true leanings. There were blue and yellow flowers on the side table in her last broadcast during the terrible Ukraine war. She is never overtly political but she is truly a liberal.
Would she have wished for a normal life like the one she enjoyed before news of her father’s death brought her to that solemn day at Westminster Abbey in 1953? Did she regret leaving her children and missing their first steps while taking those slow, wavy parades in the colonies? Does she sometimes wish those red boxes would burst into flames, that her visit to the West Lothian Museum of Weft and Warp was cancelled by swine flu and that she could put her feet up with a corgi or three on the sofa with a box of NewBerry fruits, watching Kind Hearts And Coronets on the Talking Pictures channel?
The answers are probably Yes, Yes and Yes. But the routine is No, No and No. Every day for 70 years, barring church on Sundays, she who rules has let discipline and duty rule her.
I have watched her at lunches and dinners keeping conversations bubbling along while carefully pushing her food around her plate, small portions picked over because she must never put on weight. Besides, there will be a formulaic dinner in the evening with strangers on either side, whose CVs she must scan between changing her clothes, her hair, her jewellery and her points of reference.
Through how many migraines has she watched the Royal Variety Show? How many anxious brooding moments about her own children and their children has she stifled as a Prime Minister boomed on? How many speeches given in anachronistic state robes because tradition must be adhered to? How many conversations with people like me and Brownie leaders and incoherent dignitaries from improbable islands?
Her children and grandchildren clearly love her and share the burden but, otherwise, she stands alone, without the help and support of the consort she loved.
I love it that the Queen has her own way of surviving. I gather she rode her horse every day until very recently. Anecdotal evidence says she enjoys Coronation Street – although I would say that, wouldn’t I? She came to the set of Corrie last July and positively bounced out of the limousine to tour the cobbles.
‘How long has the dog been on the show?’ she asked of my character’s pet, a Saluki Cross called Cerberus. ‘He came with me, Ma’am,’ I replied. ‘And is he a good actor?’ ‘I host a fair amount of liver in my clothes, Ma’am,’ I admitted. As a dog-lover, she moved on, smiling that understanding smile.
It was oddly moving to see her walk through the famous Corrie railway arch as the band played not her anthem but the programme’s.
I pondered whether her feet in those tiny round-toed shoes would give her enough support for an arduous stop-start around the artificial backdrop of a Salford Street which began broadcasting when she was in the ninth year of her reign.
Her recent birthday photo, wearing a mackintosh and flanked by two enormous white horses, seemed to say: ‘Here is my most loyal support system, now that I have lost my soul mate.’ But that is what we do, isn’t it? We read thoughts and feelings into that most enigmatic and public of servants. Meanwhile she keeps her own counsel and reveals only what she must.
I remember a day in 2001 during the nine-month run of the National Theatre’s musical Oklahoma!, when a special rehearsal was announced. We were called into a 10.30am runthrough of the raising of the barn scene and the song The Farmer And The Cowman, led by me as Aunt Eller. As we’d been playing the show eight times a week for months, this was not a popular call but the rumour of royalty ran amok so we donned our corsets and stetsons and buckled down… and up.
The Queen had indeed been invited to watch us rehearse. (Unsurprisingly, the late Duke of Edinburgh got to visit another musical, Chicago, with its ladies in basques straddling chairs, instead.)
Afterwards, there was a small lunch in a private room at The Ivy restaurant, to which I was invited. I didn’t get to speak to Her Majesty but as I was leaving, she caught my eye and said: ‘I believe you are coming to the Palace quite soon?’ (I had been awarded a CBE.)
‘Yes Ma’am,’ I replied, ‘if I can find something to wear.’
The punch line – and it says much about the Monarch’s intelligence, memory and whimsy – is that as I
She came to Corrie and bounced out of her limo to tour the cobbles
Who wants to shake hands with a thousand babbling strangers?
took my little bob five months later at Buckingham Palace in grey linen Tomasz Starzewski, she said as she popped a medal on my coat: ‘Well, I see you found something to wear.’
It was pure relief for her loyal public when, earlier this month, she turned up trumps in duck-egg blue at the Platinum Jubilee Windsor horse show and plainly had a happy evening. Those of us who worried about two hours outside on a dank evening had to remember her love of a brisk Highland picnic on a crag, whatever the weather.
Is there anyone out there who would relish changing clothes three times a day and wearing a scratchy sash or tiara? How many of you want to wear kid gloves in a sizzling climate to shake hands with a thousand babbling strangers for an hour at a time?
Oh, you Corbynistas and Champagne Socialists yearning for the final days of Royalty’s privileges, why not walk a mile in her shoes? See how much you value your own freedom from duty and responsibility and how wearisome it is to be the guardian of the Church and all the traditions and heritages of an entire country and still be current and aware of every changing trend in a multicultural land.
When, recently, I appeared on ITV’s coverage of the forthcoming celebrations, I rather oddly enthused that the Her Majesty was a real ‘geezer’. In my defence, M’lud, the word is derived from the obsolete word ‘guiser’, meaning someone who walks around in disguise or a performer in a masquerade.
So, with the greatest of respect, I happily stand by that.