I’ve mentioned before that our brats are pukkah Brits. This is good, seeing they live here. They do not hanker for big skies and wild places like I do.
In modern times, that is a blessing.
But the one brat had an experience last weekend that was so authentically English even he was blown away. It was, he says, the best evening of his life. And for an 18 year-old, that’s a major admission.
Basically it boils down to having a chat with Prince Phillip.
It happened like this. There’s an elite association of cricketers here called The Forty Club whose sole function is to check that cricket is being promoted properly in schools. They do it in the most hands-on way possible – they play matches against school first teams.
Most of them are former top players and initially a pre-requisite was that you had to be over 40. It’s now been lowered to 35 due to the strength of schoolboy cricket.
Anyway, when they played the brats’ school Bearwood last year, our quick-bowler twin took four wickets for nine runs in five overs. As a result he was one of six schoolboys from throughout the country nominated for the prestigious Forty Club trophy.
I thought nothing of it until a gold-embossed card arrived inviting him to the Forty Club annual dinner and to meet Prince Phillip. Master of Ceremonies was former England captain Mike Gatting. So it was quite a big deal all round.
Management immediately yelled, ‘you’re going to meet the duck’, referring to when the Queen and Prince Phillip visited South Africa and a SABC newsreader misread Duke and called Phillip the ‘Duck of Edinburgh’.
The function was at Lords cricket ground and as the brat arrived in his tuxedo and white socks (he inherited his dress sense from me) he was handed a glass of champagne by a splendidly dressed waiter. He was then led to a table near Royalty.
There were 400 guests, but only the six finalists were to be introduced to Prince Phillip. We were told the Duke never misses this dinner as he reckons he’s meeting the cream of English youth.
While waiting for the duck … er, Duke to arrive, one finalist asked ‘where do you get a beer around here’, expecting to be shown to the bar.
‘No problem sir,’ came a reply. A minute later beers in tall frosted glasses arrived with napkins on a silver tray. The brat reached in his pocket to pay, but the look of horror on the waiter’s face stopped him. (I was proud of him; at least he doesn’t expect freebies.)
The meal started with a toast to the Queen and then the food arrived. Management asked what the menu was and the brat vaguely replied, ‘some seafood stuff, then tiny bits of steak, then some hot ice-cream.’ (In other words, scallops; medallions of beef; and baked Alaska). This was followed by coffee and port – which impressed the brat no end.
He didn’t win the trophy. It was awarded to a Yorkshire lad, but the fact that he was a national finalist was pretty good.
Then the Duke came to the finalists’ table. They had received prior instructions not to be eating or drinking when he spoke and to bow from the neck down.
‘He was awesome,’ the brat later enthused. ‘He’s a lot shorter than I expected, but was real fun.’
‘What did he say?’ I asked.
‘Well…’ the brat paused. ‘Basically he said that I should shave.’
Okaaay … the brat has designer stubble at the moment, and the Prince must have been a maestro to mention that with tact. And to get the brat really to like him at the same time – well, that is awesome.
‘Everyone at our table said what a fantastic guy, and how politically incorrect he is,’ he said. ‘The entire hall loved him.’
Indeed. I later remarked that the brat had experienced a slice of traditional England – a tradition that made this country great, and a tradition that hopefully will never die despite the current effete political class.
The brat agreed. And no, he still hasn’t shaved off his beard.
