Not about tea with the Queen

I am going to write about football, but first let me mention the little matter of tea with the Queen.

A few weeks ago...

There were a few corgis lapping around her ankles. She was sitting at a desk with a very large tome on it filled with lists of names of her subjects, all written in copperplate hand. She paused at one of the names, then reached for a bell push.

In the distance was the faint sound of tinkling. A few moments later a distinguished man appeared in the room and negotiated his way past the corgis.

'Ah, Simkins,' she said, 'I have come across the name of the Barr family from Norfolk. I would like to invite them to tea. I command you to deal with it please.'

'Yes Ma'am,' replied Simkins, for she was the Monarch and he was the Lord Chamberlain. 'And while you are about it, could you round up another 7,996 guests. I wouldn't want the Barrs to feel self-conscious if they were the only ones.'

And so it came to pass, as they say in biblical circles, that last month the postman delivered a vellum envelope of the most expensive kind containing an invitation that will grace our mantlepiece until it turns yellow with age.

It said: 'The Lord Chamberlain is commanded by Her Majesty to invite...' ... us.

New shoes and lots of hats

In the ensuing weeks the females (or ladies as they were to be for the day) kitted themselves out in hats and elegant dresses. And it was made clear that I needed a makeover myself '“ like the acquisition of a new suit ('no not another one that costs £50. You need one that will set you back much more than that. And those shoes. You cannot go there in those shoes. She will think you are the gardener.') The list went on: shirt, tie, even underwear '“ despite my protests that it was pretty unlikely that I would be required to strip down to my Y fronts.

Came the appointed day, there was pandemonium in the Barr household as we struggled to get ready '“ then panic as we set out late for London, terrified that if we did not make it in time we would be BARRed.

In the nick of time we reached the Mall, lined with smiling police officers. There were four of us '“ Kirsten, my wife, two of our daughters, Bryony (who is in a wheelchair) and tall willowy Philippa, and me, whose only claim to fame is that I was appointed to the Council of the Law Society because no one else wanted to represent Norfolk. The Law Society is one of many organisations that can nominate guests for one of the Queen's garden parties '“ and our name came out of the hat.

Did I say 'hat'? There were thousands of them '“ ladies' hats of all colours shapes and sizes and men's top hats, military hats and caps, traditional native headgear and senior officers whose hats had enough gold in the braid to rescue the economy.

'And what part of the world are you from?' '“ this from a sixty-something man with a well-travelled face, a top hat on his head and a carnation in his button hole.

We were standing next to an enormous marquee where immaculate staff were pouring tea from highly polished kettles and symmetrical sandwiches (and little cakes bearing the royal crest) were piled high on salvers. In front, in the bright July sunshine, the hats waved and danced as those underneath them sat at tables and consumed the Royal feast.

Thinking that I ought to know the sixty-something man, I kept talking, introducing him to the family and mentioning (in passing) that Bryony had cherished the ambition to meet the Queen. At this, he produced some cards from his pocket and proceeded to write down our details using his top hat to rest the paper.

'This is about the only thing these things are good for,' he explained as he wrote. 'Right, leave it with me and I will see what I can do. Meet me at the second urn on the left,' indicating towards the Palace.

As it happens, we were not welcome at the second urn on the left. We were soon seen off by a large axe-bearing beafeater who told us we were not allowed on the gravel. At the Palace, if you are told to get off the gravel you do it or you get marched off to the Tower.

Royal footsteps

By then our 8,000 fellow guests had been parted into long avenues. Our man (who turned out to be a 'gentleman usher') lined us up, slightly jutting out from the rest of the crowd. Then suddenly the band struck up the national anthem.

Slowly the Queen processed down our avenue. As each family was presented to her, she was briefed by the real Lord Chamberlain (who is not called 'Simkins'). All the while she was followed at a discrete distance by a phalanx of ladies in waiting and other staff who crept forward as the Queen did, only moving when her back was turned, as though they were playing a royal game of grandmother's footsteps.

Then our turn came. The Queen, dressed in bright pink, was smaller than I imagined and looked much younger than her 83 years. She was interested and soft spoken. We talked about Norfolk and she said that she had recently returned from there: 'One likes to go there in different seasons,' she explained, and I had to remind myself that she did not just have a quaint country cottage there.

Then Bryony realised her dream as the Queen bent down and greeted her.

Not a word to the Queen about football '“ and I have run out of space, so I urge you to log onto the website and there you will find what I was really writing about today.

Real football, real fans: read Richard's completely unbiased review of his brother's book Real Football, Real Fans.

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