Another thread has reminded me that about three or four threads ago, I promised to post an amusing anecdote from David Attenborough’s autobiography of one occasion when he was the producer of the Queen’s Christmas Message. I had copied it from his book, and it’s a bit long, so I’ll post it in two parts. It’s not a sensational “behind the scenes” thing, just a little gentle reminiscence.
Part 1:
I went to see Bill Heseltine, the Queen’s Private Secretary, to discuss treatments. My view was that it was a mistake to try and get a chatty, domestic, I’m-just-an-ordinary-person kind of feel. The whole point of having Royalty is that the Sovereign is not the same as other people. Wars were fought about that issue in the eighteenth century, and the nation still likes to believe to some degree in the divine right of kings. Equally, we ought to be a little more imaginative than simply to ask Her Majesty to sit behind an ormolu-decorated desk. What we needed was an occasion when the Queen could be properly queenly. After all, she had had some practice at doing that. Was there an event around Christmas time where she could deliver the message to a flesh and blood audience and at the same time address the world on television?
“There’s a Christmas party in the Royal Mews she always gives for the children of the Palace staff where she hands out presents and wishes everyone a Happy Christmas,” said Bill.
The relevance of a stable to the Christmas story was not lost on me.
“Perfect,” I said.
There were a number of practical problems to be solved. The Master of the Horse pointed out that if the Queen walked down through the royal stables in the way I was imagining, all the horses would be facing away from her with their heads in the mangers. It would hardly do to have her approach down an avenue of equine buttocks. However, he said, that could be fixed. “We’ll turn the horses around so that they are facing her. It will look pretty silly to anyone who knows anything about stables, but I don’t suppose that will matter too much.”
Come the night, there was a promise of snow which would make it all marvellously Christmassy. In the event, it proved to be drizzle but one couldn’t have everything. The Queen walked towards the camera between the lines of horses’ heads, and was presented with a posy by one of the children. She smiled charmingly, advanced onto her marks, looked at the teleprompter and delivered her message perfectly. Overcome with relief, I started to tell her how splendidly she had spoken when the cameraman, Philip Bonham Carter, started plucking at my sleeve. I brushed him off and continued with my compliments. When he did so a third time, I thought I had better discover what his problem was.
“Tell her to go again,” he said.
“What’s the matter. It was perfect.”
“Tell you later,” he hissed.
My thanks gurned to grovels.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. A small technical problem. May I ask for a repeat performance.”
She was surprisingly good about it and did it a second time, though perhaps not quite as well as the first. Then she went on to greet more of the children.
As soon as she had gone, I turned to Philip.
“What on earth was the matter? Not a technical problem for heaven’s sake.”
“No,” said Philip, “but just as she started to speak, the big black horse peering over her left shoulder got that funny tickle of its upper lip that horses often get and started to waggle it. It looked as though he was doing the talking.”