The Queen's Jubilee and Me - A Knight's Tale

When I think or write or speak with a British accent, I do so these days as Sir Harold of Troubles. You will learn why later in this blog. But for now let’s just say it is a made-up moniker that emerged naturally over my many years as an aloud, proud, somewhat belligerent Anglophile and imagined Queen’s court jester, a veritable imitator of all lines Monty Python; of all innocent dialogue turned stoner-tweak between Bill & Ben, the Flowerpot Men; and of course countless hours spent watching and/or reading and/or discussing the comparative merits of British authors, British music, British sports cars.

British women, not so much. But there are exceptions, one of whom is Queen Elizabeth II, who, today, begins a joyous four-day celebration of her 60-year reign.

And really, what kind of fan of the Queen or the Queen’s land would I properly be without beginning such an august occasion with that most unhealthy of ways to start a lay-about Saturday, the Full English Breakfast, complete with lukewarm tea and cold toast, bland beans, awful black pudding, fried sausages of dubious origin, a rasher of fried bacon, a dollop of fried mushrooms, a blackened/grilled tomato, and hard-fried eggs?

Just kidding about the Full English Breakfast. Haven’t had one of those in some time, although I can still draw on memories from breakfasts past, including those mornings spent with the students at Oxford, Cambridge, York, London, Dublin, Edinburgh, and more than a few B&Bs throughout the UK. Today, however, I began my day with the Sir Harold special: a bowl of honey nut Cheerios topped with fresh strawberries.

Ah, yes. Just so. Yet all is not forgotten. I still have cold toast. Please pass the orange marmalade and the lemon curd, won’t you?

After all, this post is just for fun …

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I was born in 1952, the year of the accession of Her Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth of York to the throne, although her coronation as Queen would not occur until 1953. So it is only fitting given my fondness for all things UK to take this weekend’s high celebration – the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee – as a way of taking stock of our largely unshared 60 years.

Unshared. Yes, we have lived during the same historical era. But differently. Quite differently in ways that call into question how “shared” our respective and collective journey has been. For one thing, she was reared to rule and has; I was reared to serve and have. And then of course there is the money.

Beyond the Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle and the Royal Collection and the Crown jewels and the Crown Estate as well as other whatnot, a report from CNBC last year put the Queen’s annual income in these terms: 

The U.K. government still hands the queen income from the smaller of the two property portfolios. Last year she received $21.8 million from the Duchy of Lancaster.

Taxpayers also give Elizabeth an annual allowance of $23.3 million for performing 360 engagements a year as Head of State. The Palace says she spends 70% of that on servants and entertaining 50,000 guests, mostly feeding them afternoon tea in the garden of Buckingham Palace.

Taxpayers also pay the Queen $25.9 million in expenses to maintain her palaces; $6.4 million toward the Royal Train, helicopters and jets; and an additional $6.4 million toward other costs, like State Visits.

In total, each year the queen gets $83.8 million from government. 

It's widely assumed Elizabeth also receives a multimillion dollar income stream from her private portfolio of stocks and bonds. 

If you’re buying, I’ll have that pint now.  Please.

***

The Queen and I share nothing much and yet almost everything in common. By “nothing much” I mean anything personal, which would be “nothing at all” except for the one odd thing, that “Sir” title in front of my Christian first name. 

We share “almost everything” if you include in that formulation our ways of being in the world by participating in a common language and culture, as well as the fact that both of us are narratively derived from the Western side of the Larger Aesthetic known as world history. Despite being faux-christened since childhood as “Sir Harold,” I am not even a Royalist, although it costs me nothing either way. I do find some of the high cultural trappings, the old histories, and the fancy dress-up traditions worthy of at least a nod and a smile. 

I have also wondered what the UK (and the fifteen other realms she oversees) would be without Her Majesty the Queen? Something would be missing from that storyline and I fear nothing much would be gained from losing it. 

I find such talk makes me thirsty. Another pint, mate?

***

Well, you asked.

Sir Harold of Troubles. Ancient history, but mine. Once upon a time my mother, father, and I lived in England, more precisely in London. It was from 1957 – 1959. Perhaps this early residence has something to do with why I feel such an affinity for the UK and also why, oddly, as an adult I still have no difficulty navigating the city, much to the surprise of San. Back in the fifties we lived for a brief time in Golder’s Green, then in St. John’s Wood. I attended St. Dunstan’s and then The American School in London. My father worked at the American Embassy. We had a black dog my mother named Troubles. 

Sir Harold of Troubles. Now you know the Troubles part. The Sir Harold part is coming right up.

Short version: I was once introduced to Her Majesty. But having said that I have to grin. Can you imagine how many blokes are saying the same exact words in countless pubs worldwide? It is our collective attempt to individualize a relationship that I’m quite sure the Queen would not remember, or if she did remember, would rather forget. Cheers!

In my own case I was rewarded as a schoolboy for reciting a passage from King Arthur, hence the “Sir Harold.” As is true in so many cases where even a passing glimpse of the Queen in her carriage counts as “having met her” or “was once introduced to her” by those gifted with an ability to traffic in strategically ambiguous exaggerations, those of us who have only and truly been temporarily in her Majesty’s presence and who profess not to care a whit about royalty, nevertheless carry the memory and Sir Harold story of it like a prized gold star.

*** 

Back story, or at least the part of it I can tell you. My father was a … er, a diplomat (and, buried deep inside these parentheses, a spy).

My father met the Queen before I did. When he presented his credentials to her, he in turn was presented with a document signed by Elizabeth R, granting him all sorts of powers and prerogatives, including the ability to command ships, transfer large sums of money, and to engage in whatever activities our governments authorized, etc.

We still have that document. The signature is real.

I don’t know what their second meeting was about. 

How did my glass get so empty? Bartender, another pint over here if you don’t mind …

*** 

There are other ways to story my non-personal relationship to the Queen, not the least of which is through our non-shared personal experiences over the past three-score years. 

My guess is that I’ve owned more British cars than the Queen has driven. It’s a safe bet, I know, because the Queen doesn’t drive although she “trained” as a driver during WWII. These days she rides in the backseat of a bulletproof Range Rover, but I wonder what she would have made out of my 1963 MGB?

Or the 1964 Triumph TR-4A?

Or the 1960 MGA? 

Or the 1966 MGB (what was I thinking – two of these models in one lifetime?).

Or the 1976 TR-6?

Or the ultimate in non-cost effective British over-the-top automotive unreliance, my gorgeous 1989 Jaguar XJS V-12? Sigh.

I know, I know. Today’s sleek new Jags and her truly cool Range Rovers are matches for the world’s best autos, but nothing – not all that Royal money, not even the Crown Jewels – will ever replace the personal memories I have of putting up the badly designed metal frame for the convertible top of those MGBs as a summer storm opened up the skies, or the agricultural grumble of, finally, a successful motor start-up after an hour or so of fiddling with SU carburetors, or the curious semblance I can still recall of the heater knobs on MGs to those same temperature knobs on my mother’s old British stove in Golder’s Green.

But I doubt the Queen shares any of those experiences, even without my company.

***

As I said earlier, we live quite different lives.

Here’s what Kenneth Burke would call “a representative anecdote” that bodies forth the nature of our difference: Two years ago, during a Summer Abroad excursion, we watched the Queen’s passing on her way to open a session of Parliament. 

Or I should more precisely say we watched the Queen’s carriage and the Queen’s Men parade down the street on the way to Parliament, just behind a keenly outfitted horse regiment and likewise well-dressed coterie of street-sweepers whose job it was to ensure that no trace of turd nor scent of shit reached the Queen’s nose or notice.

We did receive the Royal Wave from a small woman wearing a large hat. We waved back. 

As a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse, so too is a wave waved back to royalty as good as a wave from royalty aimed in our common direction. 

*** 

Another pint? Well, I don’t mind if I do. 

There are differences other than wealth, hats, and waves that stand between us and any hope of a personal relationship. Differences that share common cultural referents and expressed in the same language, to be sure, but that may only be understood (as Mark Twain put it) as a difference between choosing the right word from the almost right word, as in lightning from a lightning bug. 

The Queen, without once asking for my opinion, has nevertheless rightly knighted many of the pop stars from my youth – Sir Paul, Sir Elton, Sir Mick, etc. m Although I’m sure those after-parties were fun, I’d not trade them for my own memories of learning to play their songs, or the years of singing them (badly) throughout the days and nights of my life that have been so much a part of me, who I am, what I’ve become.

So too have the Queen and I probably read many of the same books over these many years. We just never chatted about them.

So too have we watched the same shows on television and films at various theatres, or at least some of them. Again, we’ve not had a single conversation about them.

And so on.

Sorry, I’m just a little drunk I think. What am I going on about?

Me and Her Majesty, that’s what! We’ve always been together, only apart, if you know what I mean? I’m sure we could just hang out, y’know? 

My shout? Are you sure? Are you sure?

*** 

I’m tempted to end this less-than-sober post with one of my favorite British-isms: “Bob’s Your Uncle!” For those of you not acquainted with the expression, it means “all is well” or “all is satisfactory,” but it is unlikely that the Queen would ever utter it. 

Instead, and given the gravity of this occasion, I’ll sign off in the official Royal manner with the old Loyalty Toast. I won’t tap my champagne glass (vulgar) but instead will lift my working-class schoolteacher pint and say, with all due respect: 

Her Majesty, Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith. … the Queen. 

You may then reply, “The Queen.”

And that’s all there is to it. 

Hey, where’s my beer?

***