I am not a royalist and most definitely not a fan of the stiff upper lip English clan. When Charles and Diana got married, we were on holiday in Hibberdene.
While my mother and sister spent the day glued to the TV, I was fishing. I was 12 at the time and couldn’t understand why anybody would give up a day on the beach to watch a wedding. By the time Diana died, I was working as a sub at a daily. The news of the decade, it dominated the papers for weeks.
For me, it was torture. But newspaper sales spiked and we flogged that horse way past its expiry date. Other royal weddings, funerals and events have occurred regularly, but I have not watched a single one – and I don’t intend starting now.
The queen’s death, however, has reminded me of one of the best parties of my life – attended by the biggest queen I ever had the privilege of calling friend. My wife and I held a party of royal proportions to celebrate our second anniversary.
I’ll never forget the arrival of Mr T. He was a big man.
Originally from the kingdom of Klerksdorp, he looked more like a mechanic than the great journalist he was. But there he stood, dressed in a frock, high-heels and stockings, complete with a tiara – and a moustache to match.
Hands on swaggering hips, he made a grand entrance, greeting everyone with a royal wave and demanding drinks and attention in equal share. He was the belle of the ball.
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Somewhere during the night, the queen lost a heel, laddered his stockings, spilled brandy and coke on his frock and came very close to setting his wig alight. He also sang and danced and entertained like only a queen can.
Fortunately, he flashed his pink g-string only after my mother had left. To this day, we remember that party with great fondness. Mr T, like Elizabeth, is no longer with us. I was very fortunate that we were friends for a number of decades and, every so often, I miss him terribly.
The queen might be dead, but long live the queens…
