Why I Won’t Be Going to the Royal Wedding — by Kathy Hersh

Carl and Kathy Hersh on a “Remote”

I’ve only told a few close friends, but I am excited about the upcoming wedding of Prince William and the commoner, Kate Middleton. I’ve managed to keep my enthusiasm under wraps because it’s not cool to be a royal watcher, even if it’s just from the grocery store check out aisles, eyes roving the magazine racks for the latest on Will and Kate.
My chances of being “in” with the royal family and getting invited to the big event were dashed by my husband many years ago aboard the royal yacht Britannia. This is a true story.

I was a correspondent, covering the visit of Queen Elizabeth to Mexico for the BBC. Martin Bell was the Beeb’s man in Washington in those days but he was on assignment elsewhere. So being based in Mexico and having worked often for the BBC, my cameraman husband, Carl Hersh, and I were assigned to the story in Acapulco.

In the days before she had to give up the ship, the Queen had a custom of inviting the press of whatever country she was officially visiting onto the yacht for a small reception before lifting anchor, a nice parting p.r. gesture.

Although it was billed as “informal,” we did receive invitations embossed with the royal seal. I spent an inordinate amount of time deciding what to wear, while internally debating whether or not to curtsy. Although she is not my sovereign, Carl and I did live in England for four years and love British customs. For reasons I have never been able to explain, I used to have dreams about driving through the English countryside in a convertible with the Queen and stopping for a pint at a quaint pub. In another dream, Princess Ann and Prince Charles and I went “slumming” to not-so- bright nightspots around London.

When the moment came to board Britannia, I was coiffed, perfumed and on my best behavior. I should have spent more time coaching my husband. But even if I had, I could never have anticipated his complete breach of decorum.

After going through the receiving line, bowing my head respectfully as I shook the famous gloved hand, we members of the press were given glasses of orange squash and something to nibble.

The Queen then visited each cluster of the press. Since Carl and I were taping for the BBC, we were, I expect, given some deference and chatted for several minutes with the Queen, accompanied only by her head of household. The Falklands War had just ended. Carl had covered it and since we had been living in Latin America for five years, the Queen was eager to discuss the geopolitical ramifications. She was exceedingly well-informed and attentive. We were able to give some insight into why post-colonial Latin America did not have the same view as post-empire Great Britain about their rights to a few obscure islands so far from home and so close to Argentina.

Graciously, the Queen decided to get slightly more personal. “It must have been very exciting for you,” she asked my husband. Known for being very direct, Carl said, “Actually, it was very boring. It all took place at sea and I was stuck on the beach at Comodoro Rivadavia waiting for daily press briefings.”

Perhaps the Queen was processing the information but in the pause that followed, my husband filled the airspace with a more positive, distinctly lighter, footnote. “The most interesting thing that happened to me was coming face to face with a penguin on the beach one day.” The Queen stared blankly. “You know, a penguin,” my husband expounded, realizing that in the seriousness of our earlier discussion, this was a rather abrupt shift in tone. He then slapped his stiffened arms on the sides of his thighs, in an impromptu imitation of a penguin.

I wish I could describe the expression on the Queen’s face because, naturally, that is the first question anyone hearing the story asks. But my journalistic ethic for telling the truth overrides my storyteller’s instinct. I did not see the Queen’s face because I was staring at my shoes, wishing, like Dorothy, to be back in Kansas or anywhere else, for that matter.

That is how our conversation with the Queen ended. She abruptly moved on, so as not to neglect her other guests. No follow up invitation to dinner at the Palace next time we’re in London, leading to a long-lasting correspondence and a place, even near the bottom, of the royal guest list.

After feeling frozen to the spot for a few moments of reflected infamy, I left the royal yacht feeling very American. How fitting that my past dreams of hobnobbing with royalty should come to this: I met Queen Elizabeth and my husband imitated a penguin for her amusement. Recently, we (I am still married to the man) went to see “The King’s Speech.” There’s a beautiful little scene where King George V, gets down on his knees in front of his little girls, the future Queen Elizabeth and Princess Margaret, and, astonishingly, does a penguin imitation.

I gave my husband an elbow in his ribs. “I guess yours was not the first penguin imitation she’d ever seen,” I whispered. I must say I preferred Colin Firth’s version. He was much better dressed for the occasion.