I have to admit, I was fairly chuffed when I was told I would be going along to the Queen’s birthday party. While not a big fan of monarchs in general, I was sure that the opulent splendour with which the British love to mark their ceremonies would make it a birthday bash worth seeing. Unfortunately, it was a bit of a disappointment on that score.
The first big letdown came when I learned that Liz herself would not be turning up to blow out her candles. I then discovered that there wouldn’t be any candles to blow out, because it wasn’t even her birthday! As it turns out, Edward VII decided to move his birthday celebrations to June in the hope of getting decent weather – and the tradition just sort of stuck.
But despite these initial setbacks, I decided to go along to see how exactly our English immigrants and their Irish friends would go about throwing this bizarre bash. The fact that Christopher Ewart-Biggs, the then-British ambassador to Ireland, was blown up in Dublin in 1976 came to mind as myself, my editor and a friend of his ambled past the gathered mobs of uniformed gardaí, special branch detectives and private security men with nothing beyond a cheery ‘Hullo’ to bar our path into the current ambassador’s stunning south Dublin residence.
The oddness inherent in throwing a birthday party for a woman who isn’t there, on a day which isn’t her birthday, seemed lost on the hundreds gathered around the somewhat shabby gazebo the organisers erected to house their guests (should Edward VII’s bid for a sunny celebration not go to plan).
I took a soft drink from a passing waiter and walked outside to the lawn, where a military band was kicking up a storm. The head of the shiny-shoed troupe – which was busily frog-marching around the garden in their uncomfortable-looking uniforms – screamed in an English accent that they were the band of the Royal Irish Regiment, a part of the UK armed forces traditionally made up of soldiers of Irish stock. Happily, they chose to play Amhrán na bhFiann before a rendition of God Save the Queen and, as they marched off through a gap in the bushes at the side of the garden, the stiff-lipped gathering sent up a rousing round of applause in appreciation.
Having evidently heard the last of the music, I set off in search of food, stopping to greet a surprise guest, former Minister for Justice Michael McDowell, who was wishing my editor luck with whoever might be the outgoing Minister’s replacement.
My quest for something to eat eventually yielded a small Asian girl carrying a platter of cocktail sausages. She was, however, being mobbed by a horde of starving dignitaries, and I opted to spare myself the indignity of joining the scrum. I then spotted a man with a plate of small round items pierced with cocktail sticks. He was dealing with a relatively small stream of traffic, so I nipped in and tried one. The reasons behind the lack of attention he was receiving became immediately apparent – they were horrible yolks.
With a desperate taste in my mouth from whatever it was I’d just ingested, I headed back to the tent for another drink. Shockingly, I found that our hosts had closed the bar – and it was still bright out! What kind of a party ends that early?
Disappointed at the lack of available refreshment, I wandered around the crowd, making small talk with my fellow well-wishers, and I noticed that I was having trouble distinguishing the country of origin of many of those I spoke to. Several of those proclaiming to be Irish sported grandiose English accents. Very confusing.
On my way out the door, I had a brief chat with a large priest, who told me that he didn’t feel the event was particularly newsworthy, and that it was primarily symbolic. I agreed, adding that it would be difficult to have anything other than a symbolic celebration, given that the woman herself wasn’t here.
“What woman?” he asked, looking genuinely puzzled.
“The Queen,” I replied. “It’s her birthday party.”
“Oh right! Of course!” he exclaimed, thrusting his empty wine class skyward.
I’m not one to stick the boot in, but if someone asks me what the Queen’s birthday was like, I’ll be telling the truth; the food was bad (and virtually non-existent), the band stopped playing before the sun went down – and I didn’t see even one person bring a birthday present. Worst birthday party ever.
