“Hrrrmmm”

Four years ago yesterday, I had an audience with the Queen.

She was touring the Canadian Broadcasting Centre to mark CBC-TV’s 50th anniversary, a stop on her 2002 Golden Jubilee tour. The royal “visit” consisted of a blitzkrieg through the lobby and atrium – in one door and out the other, with a bit of puttering in between.

CBC.ca was to be the last stop of the 30-minute tour (next: a concert at Roy Thompson Hall.) The powers that be decided the CBC Archives was a fitting site to demonstrate for the occasion, and they needed a couple of bodies to man the display.

We were supposed to represent the future, the next generation of CBC. My boss had selflessly decided that his follicly-challenged, middle-aged self didn’t fit the bill, so the honour fell to myself and fellow writer Sabrina Saccoccio.

A few days before the event, we were given a whole package of preparatory material: what to say, what to do, what to wear. There’s a rather complicated list of protocol: bow with the head, not the body; speak only if spoken to; call the Queen “Your Majesty” on first reference and “Ma’am” after that; call her husband “Your Royal Highness” and then “Sir.”

(For more interesting arcanery, check out the Canadian government’s Guidance Notes for meeting The Sovereign and Members of the Royal Family.)

Despite all the preparations, Sabrina and I were told to expect the royal party to simply breeze past us after chitchatting with the more important types in the atrium (white-haired former CBC stars, all wearing their Orders of Canada.) On the off chance that they stopped to speak to us, we were give a short written script to memorize, which had passed through 14 levels of management before it reached us. It went something like this:

“This is the CBC Archives website, Your Majesty. It features thousands of radio and television clips going back almost 70 years, in both English and French.”

If Her Majesty asked a question, we were given a second line and a few suggested things to mention.

I think my family was more excited about the whole business than I was. My mother, a British ex-pat, was of course thrilled; without asking, my mother-in-law ironed my shirt and my father-in-law shined my shoes.

The night of the event was a bit of a blur. Sabrina and I went out for a very large nerve-calming beer, then returned to stand around and watch the security sweep – big, muscled guys in flak jackets running around with German shepherds and beeping electronics.

Then, showtime! The Queen, Prince Phillip and then-CBC chair Carol Taylor wandered through the atrium, then headed for our hallway and the door. But the Queen spotted the giant (and borrowed) plasma screen we used to show the clip of the royal couple at the 1959 Calgary Stampede (perhaps it was the ridiculously large white Stetson on her husband’s head) and the party stopped.

The Queen extended her hand. I shook it. She said:

“Hrrrrmm.”

Just like that. Just the way they make fun of her on Air Farce, actually.

That left me with a conundrum – was that a word? Had I been spoken to, and could therefore recite my line?

I decided “Hrrrrmm” counted as a word, and delivered my line. She nodded, and then repeated, “In both English and French?” A few more seconds, and that was that. She disappeared out the John Street exit into a fog of camera lights.

That’s about it. The thing I remember most was the Queen’s brilliant green eyes. That, and the delightful fact that she was wearing a little tiara crown thing – as a child, my sister had been miffed to discovered the Queen didn’t always wear the crown jewels.

I dredge this up now because there was a bizarre story about it in the Globe & Mail a few days ago. I discussed it in a piece I did for Inside the CBC, but figured it was worthy of expansion.

One thing I didn’t mention there – and this may be CBC paranoia speaking – was the raw deal our site got in terms of window dressing. Nine of the 10 paragraphs were about CBC, with one about the BBC. Yet the print edition features a BBC screengrab that’s twice the size of the CBC one. And the online edition features a link to the BBC site, but the CBC URL is typed but not linked. Ah well.

So, there’s my best “brush with fame” story. I fear it may be the first of yet another rambling series of anecdotes written to prove that I once did interesting things. (See Signage, Bad Jobs.) Anyone interested in hearing how Prince Charles nearly ran me over… or how I nearly ran over Russell Crowe?

Posted by: Paul Gorbould | 10-11-2006 | 12:10 PM
Posted in: Brushes with fame