“…and all the Queen’s men lived happily ever after.”


 

The House Of Windsor is a curiosity that will reign over their Australian subjects for a few more decades. Eventually, one of them will be naughty, we’ll get sanctimonious and adopt holier than thou attitudes, and say the firm must go. The common man’s power trip! Providing the Tudors don’t regain control of the axe or that the constituency be obliged to lay prostrate before them, they should stay on the A-list for their amusement value, real live, moving museum pieces assisting their country’s economy. A little gentle eccentricity is a valuable treasure. Must check what social errors were elaborated on to get George 111 a bad press.

Today’s royalty is much more interesting and preferable to the base, out-of-touch, thin-lipped restricted thinking of Australian yobs who are gradually selling their liberty, bit by bit to gain the favor and the questionable protection of megalomaniacs. The infestation of Queensland Public Housing precincts by dimwits who converse through closed lips lest their cock-breath lingers after decades of neglect and desperate men shuffle curtains as they take furtive looks at fellow zombies.

When the defender of the faith made her 1954 visit, I was an apprentice who sought permission from the foreman to take a peep as the Queen progressed along her regal route. My workplace was in Nardoo Street, a short cul-de-sac, diagonally opposite the Valley Police Station and the factory abutted the Light Street bus depot. The depot became an up-market apartment precinct, but the factory closed in 1970 with rebuilding costs prohibitive. The rabid Scotsman propelled by memories of Robert the Bruce reckoned only a demented English dick-head would enjoy such pain and my participation in the excitement was knocked-back.

Sam Kamp, the boss was a man’s man, small of stature but big of heart, overturned the decision. It was rumored at the time that his was the image that inspired an up-dated Castlemaine Perkins Mr.XXXX beer logo. I reckon Sam just grew into the image. A no-nonsense punter and popular among the turf set of the day, Sam never forgot to ask after my mother; bit like the WW1 General who would flit through the trenches asking of each man he passed, “How’s your father?” until on his return, one soldier replied, “Still dead Sir.” Outside hundreds, thousands perhaps of huge pots with Bangalow palms and assorted garden beds lined the roads, brought in for a fleeting moment, but what the devil, I did but see the young Queen “passing by.”

Amusing royal snippets were once the order of the day. At a top-level British function the Queen Mum and Noel Coward, good mates, were ascending a grand staircase when a horny page caught Coward’s attention and he broke rank to chat-up the young fellow. “Now now Noel, “gently chided the Queen Mother, “there will be plenty of time for that later on.” Many people admitted to dreaming they shared afternoon tea and a chat with the Queen. I was one of them and I care not who knows.

Advertisements

Tags: ,

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s


%d bloggers like this: