Why Must Royals Take A Bough In My Backyard?
The Sunday Age
Sunday April 5, 1998
WORKING for the media is not all it's cracked up to be. True, we are feted and adored, and yes, people do name their children after us and mimic our hairstyles. The downside is we are never truly alone. We cannot venture out in public without parrying impertinent demands for autographs and locks of our hair. The simple pleasures of simple folk, like perusing new releases in the the video store or going to the TAB, are denied us. Worse, we tend to attract the attention of some very peculiar people. I have particularly suffered from the unpleasant ordeal of being stalked by Royalty.
Before elaborating on this, I have a confession to make - I like wandering about in the backyard in my underpants, an act that gives me a sense of freedom in an increasingly claustrophobic world. Until recently I was reasonably confident I could conduct this mild perversion in private. Until the day, that is, that my beloved, who was hanging out the washing at the time, muttered from the corner of her mouth: "Don't look now, but Princess Caroline is up the fig tree."
A quick glance confirmed that the House of Monaco's chatelaine was indeed up there, cooly pressing the shutter button of her motorised solid gold Leica. Whistling nonchalantly, I looked furtively down at my GeneriCorp boxer shorts, $10 for a pack of seven, one for every day of the week. I blushed. I fled indoors, whimpering.
The worst thing about being stalked by royals is the enormous strain it places on your wardrobe. To avoid social embarrassment, I felt I had to convince the princess I possessed a wide range of fashionable underpants, from madras cotton breakfastwear to cocktail-hour silk. This required cunning, and in low-light situations I'd attempt to pass off ancient board shorts as modest waist-to-knee numbers. When invention failed I'd improvise a sarong from a tablecloth. The princess's
motor drive would chatter like a machine gun as she shouted encouragement in her coarse Monacan accent - "That's the way, darling! Garn, put your hands behind your head! Larvly!"
Looking back, I believe we established an understanding with the princess, if not an actual rapport. At dusk we would place an open tin of Beluga caviar on the lawn. She would eye us suspiciously, head on one side, refusing to leave her perch. But next morning the tin would always be empty.
This tolerable enough situation became a nightmare when the rellies moved in. First the Windsors, who occupied the top boughs, squabbling wildly. Next the minor Europeans, who fell on our ripe figs and made messes everywhere. Finally a rabble of dispossessed Hohenzollern cousins and decrepit Jacobite pretenders settled the outer branches. The noise was incredible, a cacophony of high nasal whines and clicking camera shutters.
I have often wondered why the crowned heads of Europe refuse to respect my privacy. Is it because I am glamorous, if a bit overweight, or because I have a certain doomstruck quality, especially in the early morning? This cannot be so, for there are plenty of fellows more doomstruck and glamorous than me. I can only guess that royalty are secretly entranced by the ancient mystique of the Media and are drawn to me irresistibly, like moths to a candle in the wind.
While this interest is touching, I can only appeal to these people to put themselves in my shoes. How would they like to endure this constant humiliation? Have I ever shown a prurient interest in them? Have I ever demanded to see the Queen Mother in her underpants?
Why can't they just leave me alone?
© 1998 The Sunday Age
