It was early in February, 1983, but the exact date is beyond my recall. If I were just a little bit older, I would probably be have been listening to Kajagoogoo, but I was barely grown out of Patsy Biscoe. In any case, Walkmans were most definitely not permitted on the bus today, and especially not where we were going. In our light blue uniform T-shirts, and navy Stubbies, we lined up in rows to wait patiently amongst a cast of thousands of cherubic young Anglo-Saxons at Albury Airport. For whom? For the arrival of Her Royal Highness The Princess Charles Philip Arthur George, Princess of Wales and Countess of Chester, Duchess of Cornwall, Duchess of Rothesay, Countess of Carrick, Baroness of Renfrew, Lady of the Isles, Princess of Scotland, no less. Yep, everybody’s favourite royal duo, Di and Charlie, were touring, and while Charles was elsewhere (probably sneaking off to make dodgy phonecalls to Camilla, for all I know), we were to give the kind of ecstatic welcome for Diana only a horde of schoolchildren avoiding actually attending school can provide.
The El Nino of 1982-83 had all but completely denuded the agricultural areas of south-eastern Australia of vegetation, and had rendered the forested areas tinder-dry - as the Melbourne dust storm and the Ash Wednesday bushfires respectively were about to demonstrate. The north wind was also rendering that horde of schoolchildren similarly tinder-dry, unfortunately, as they stood on the apron, Aussie flags and wilting flowers in hand. And waited. And waited. How this didn’t result in ambulances full of heatstruck kiddies I’ll never know, but somehow Mrs Butler and the other teachers managed to keep a hot, thirsty, and bored bunch in line. Perhaps, in this diehard conservative part of the world (even today, Sophie Mirabella-nee-Panopoulos got 66% of the two-party-preferred vote in the last federal election), some of my fellow schoolkids had been imbibing the Queen and country stuff at the dinner table from parents who remember their own ecstatic experience with the 1953 royal tour. Maybe - not that different to the 1953 crowds, perhaps - they were just intrigued at the possibility of seeing somebody who’d been on television - and not just the guy who reads the regional news bulletin.
In any case, the heat-induced delirium turned to celebrity-induced delirium when the clapped out old 707 arrived, and pulled up at the appointed spot. Snot was hastily wiped off children in the front row. Flags were waved with increasing enthusiasm. Proud parents took photographs from a discreet distance. A white Ford LTD appeared and rolled up to the end of the carpet. More flag waving. More waiting. Gee, I hope she comes out and collects the flowers like she always does on the telly. I’ll get to tell her how I’m the best in my class at the times table races! That’d almost be worth this interminable wait! On second thoughts, maybe I didn’t use the word interminable at age six and a half.
And, finally, the bloody door opens, and, as one, hordes of schoolchildren stand on their tiptoes to try and get a better view of the mythical creature. And it’s a young woman in a nice white suit and a hat. She waves. Then she wanders down the stairs, down the red carpet, hops in the LTD and disappears off to parts unknown. She’s been visible for all of two minutes, and hasn’t bothered to accept a single droopy flower or chat to a single breathless little child.
And then we all got back on the bus and went to the local trout farm.
And, a year or so later, I decided not to join Cubs because it meant pledging allegiance to God and the Queen.
On this Queen’s Birthday, anybody else got some royal tour related memories they’d like to share?
Haha, oh wow. Full-stregth cringebinge, that one.
Hopefully when the ARM get their shit together they can sweeten the deal by making Republic Day (3/12, of course) a holiday.
And to humour the thread, I remember where I was when Diana carked it: in the car, waiting for mum to bung on the lippie. I went to change radio stations but she objected, despite being fiercely republican herself.
When I lived in Canberra it seemed that every time Liz came to town, her cavalcade would make a point of tracking me me down and crossing my path several times a day. Honestly, I think she had it in for me - this wasn’t just traffic congestion but a malicious dose of traffic TB.
Twenty years earlier, 1963, I was lined up outside our (Catholic) school to see the Head of the Church of England go by, and the Rolls just drove past and nobody saw a thing. I did not become embittered however, Robert. We knew our place.
But a decade later when I was working in a medical centre the Queen visited, and we were all lined up - not roped off or anything - and she walked along and beamed and spoke to people. Such a little, silvery woman! And everybody was really happy - touched by something slightly magical. The whole place felt sort of elevated for an afternoon, and we all felt silly for feeling that way. I suppose nearly all of us could remember standing up at the pictures before the movie started, while God Save the Queen was played, and there up on the screen was the young beautiful Queen sitting on her horse in front of all the guards. Our wonderful British heritage!
I don’t suppose there can be any similar experience today.
We were also taken en masse to see Charles & Diana. All the preps from my school (which was named after an Irish saint) held hands with a Grade 6, and we trooped up Racecourse Rd to watch them going to the races.
I remember walking there, I remember the name of ‘my’ grade 6 boy (Jethro, who I had never met before or since), that he was wearing a North Melbourne jumper, and I remember wondering why we were being walked so far to wave at people in a car.
I don’t remember actually seeing them or waving.
I do remember meeting Joan Kirner & Marilyn Quayle (wife of then US Vice President Dan) when they brought the secret service to my other primary school 5 years later. I remember a similar feeling of confusion about why we were opening car doors for people (they’re adults, surely they can open their own?!) and why we were supposed to be excited. I remember the Secret Service on the roof of our school with big guns. Mrs Quayle planted a tree, which the children of Ascot Vale diligently destroyed within a week, and life went on.
I can’t remember whether this young English migrant kiddie who described Diana’s father as “that ars*hole” gave them the two finger salute, poked my tongue out or just stood indifferently as several black cars passed by down Bridge Road, Para Hills.
I’m still annoyed that Brisbane Girls’ Grammar forfeited their debate against us in year nine so they could stay home and watch the Royal Wedding!