Tag: #republic

The King and I

I’ll be honest – I wasn’t looking forward to it.  But as the weeks peeled away from the calendar and the arrival date edged ever-closer, I steeled myself for the inevitable imposition that was to come.  It wouldn’t be easy.  I’d need to prepare myself for the disruption to my routine and the burden that is making people feel comfortable, although not so comfortable that they forget to leave.  I’ve never been fond of house guests.

I do my best to be a good host.  But if I’m being honest, the entire time they’re here, I’ll be thinking about how relieved I’m going to feel when they finally call an Uber and head out to Tullamarine.  That moment can’t come soon enough.  If it sounds like I’m lacking generosity towards my guests, it’s not as though I asked to be put in this position.  These people weren’t invited.  Rather, they have been imposed upon me.  Truth is, I hardly know Charles and Camilla at all.

It’s the fault of a ridiculous loophole.  Back when Melbourne hosted the Olympics in 1956, a large billeting program was proposed by which ordinary Melburnians would open their doors to international athletes and visitors.  The people of Melbourne, a somewhat suspicious lot, resisted the invitation.  This resulted in the ‘Home Billet (Olympics) Act’ of 1956, which saw international interlopers imposed on locals against their will.  The anger associated with the program was largely forgotten in the Olympic afterglow but, as it turns out, the ‘Billet Act’ was never revoked and it remains the case that any one can be required to play host with fourteen days’ notice. 

 When I was told that I’d need to clear out the spare room for the King and Queen of England, I felt royally put out.  The spare room is the one I use to dry my laundry and I’m not inclined to pack up the clothes horse just to make them feel more comfortable.  Indeed, the guests should make themselves useful and pair the socks.

I gave the lawn a quick mow and the floor a vacuum – which I understand is more or less expected when you’re hosting royalty.  When the doorbell rang, my heart sank.  As I pulled back the door, there they were, all smiles.  Charles had already made the most of the retail opportunities at the airport and was wearing a Ken Done koala t-shirt.  Camilla had bought a box of spicy wings from the KFC drive-through.  She tipped the box in my direction by way of a greeting, but I declined.

I bundled them inside before the neighbours could see and put the kettle on.  They were, naturally enough, tired from the journey.  They had a lot of baggage – both physical and emotional – and I’ll admit that I tuned out when Charles told me how worried he was about one of his kids.

I moved the bags into the spare room.  It was a tight fit – so much so that the Royal couple had to crawl over their own suitcases to get to the bed.  I almost felt bad for not moving the clothes horse into another room.  Almost.  For a moment, I feared Camilla might drop her box of spicy wings but she soon steadied and propped herself on the bed.  I can’t say I was thrilled to see her getting crumbs on the doona and I made my point by offering to her a plate, a serviette and a mop and bucket, but there was nothing I could to deter her.

It’s been a rough couple of days since.  I’ve lost control of the television.  Charles, as it turns out, is a big fan of ‘Are You Being Served?’  It’s ruining my algorithm on Netflix.  I tried to persuade him to give ‘Kath and Kim’ a go, but he told me sternly that he didn’t like documentaries.

I took them for a counter meal at the pub.  Camilla was intrigued by the idea of a ‘chicken shnitty’ and, on arrival, she immediately put her name down for the darts tournament.  We were having a great time until the conversation took an unexpectedly dark turn.  I made the mistake of asking them why they’d come to Australia and the atmosphere turned instantly chilly.  Charles leaned in, bearing his teeth and said, ‘Why do you ask?  Don’t you want us here?’  In retrospect, shrugging my shoulders may not have been the best response.  As they reeled from the impact of my indifference, I made things worse by asking Camilla whether she was going to eat her chips to which she responded by covered them with her hands and turning slightly away.  It was super awkward.

Things still felt tense when I dropped them off at the airport shuttle bus.  Although I was relieved to see them leave, I’ll admit that I (mostly) enjoyed their visit.  But that said, I wouldn’t want them to stay.  I’d never get my washing dried if they did.  As the bus pulled away and the faces of Charles and Camilla were pressed against the glass of the rear window, it occurred to me that the way I felt about them as houseguests is how I feel about them more generally.  It’s nice to see them, but I don’t need to see them all the time.  It is, perhaps, time for us to have the house to ourselves. 

Growing Up In Republic

In the end, I didn’t go.  Not for want of being invited but for a devastating lack of interest.  To quote Evan Dando of indie-rock cuddle toys, ‘The Lemonheads’, ‘what if something’s on TV and it’s never shown again?’  Ultimately, I didn’t need the hassle of travelling to Britain and back all for the sake of being bored witless.  It’s been said that the winter solstice is the longest night of the year, but anyone who thinks that has never seen a coronation.  Sorry, your Majesty, I simply can’t be bothered.

Luckily, I’m not the only one.  In fact, I join a fairly salubrious list of people to issue a polite but firm ‘no’ to the King.  Singers are steering clear, considering the event to be the poor cousin of the MET Gala.  Ed Sheeran, Adele, the Wiggles and what’s left of the Bay City Rollers have all decided to ‘fresh air’ the Monarchy.  I wouldn’t be surprised if Ted Nugent was the only one left. 

I can imagine Ted, bare-chest glistening in the sun and standing astride the steeple of Westminster Abbey whilst performing a thirty minute rendition of ‘Rule Britannia’ at maximum volume, having moments earlier hunted down a wild boar in Hyde Park with nothing but his hands and teeth.  It would, I feel, set the tone for the event.  Probably F-sharp.  But you never can tell with Ted – he’s unpredictable.   

The Palace was desperate for me to play.  So desperate, in fact, they said I could play anything I wanted for however long I liked.  I’ll admit I was incredulous.  To test their enthusiasm, I proposed a selection of Nickelback songs, starting with a rendition of ‘Photograph’ performed on nothing but coconut husks and an empty jam jar and they agreed with such unbridled eagerness that I thought I’d been misheard.  Only when I repeated myself and their fervour was wholly undiminished did I realize how much trouble they were in.

Whilst I’m sure I was at the top of their list, the cavalcade of refusals means they’ve had to invite people who’d otherwise never get a look in.  Still, it was a surprise to learn that our Prime Minister was invited.  Perhaps less surprisingly, he accepted.  Given that he’d just taken up an invite to attend Kyle Sandilands’ wedding, it’s clear that his threshold for accepting a free feed is not especially high.  That said, I believe our Prime Minister has been denied the opportunity to perform a ceremonial role, despite his generous offer to oversee the valet parking service and drive one of the complimentary shuttle buses.

I, on the other hand, had been pegged to play a far more significant role.  The job of official ‘Crown- cobbler’ is pivotal.  Although the title sounds a lot like a potential dessert, the ‘Crown-cobbler’ is solely responsible for making sure the King’s shoes are in good working order with fresh laces.  It was a job created following the disastrous crowning of George the Third after he turned up for his big day wearing a pair of Velcro Hush Puppies.

But I had to let Charles (or, as I call him, ‘Chuckles’) down.  Truth be told, I wasn’t just disinterested; I was hurt.  We’d been pals ever since ‘Rocking with the Royals’ at Hamer Hall in 1985.  He and his then-wife attended as honoured guests and I was there in my capacity as choirboy back up singer for ‘Kids in the Kitchen’.  It was inevitable that we’d bump into each other.  Although I was only a teenager at the time, I found his Majesty crying in a bathroom cubicle trying to figure out how to get the Velcro on his Hush Puppies to stick.  In that moment of crisis, I came to his aid and we’d been fast-friends ever since.

But sometimes, in the best interests of everyone, a friendship must come to an end.  Ours unraveled when I told Chuckles that I’d be wearing my gold coronation cape.  I’ve had it forever and I only wear for special events like the coronation of a major monarch or the Hastings Day Parade.  When Charles told me that he too was wearing a gold coronation cape and that I’d be shot on sight if I wore mine, I instantly decided that the time had come to cut him loose.

But it wasn’t just the cape that soured things.  He mumbled something about ‘swearing allegiance’ that I mistook as a reference to a guy in my under-11s football team, Lee Gent, whose entire vocabulary seemed to consist of profanities and is now a vacuum salesman living in the western suburbs of Melbourne.  Why the King of England was interested in swearing Lee Gent’s Hoover Caroline Springs was beyond me.  But then it hit me – with all the force of gold coronation cape – he wanted me to swear allegiance to the King.  After all we’d been through together, I felt insulted.

I refused to watch the telecast.  More than that, I’ve vowed to avoid using cash ever again in the hope of not having to set eyes on that cape-wearing, thunder-stealing, Hush Puppy-loving ingrate.  Now that I think about it, the entire thing seems kind of, well, faintly ridiculous.  The very idea of a king of anything is an outrageous notion from another age.  Enough is enough.  Monarch my words, if this doesn’t propel us headlong towards a Republic, nothing will.