Jul
4
2009
Secret 29…I’m a disgrace to the nation
Her Royal Maj put Spud in the corner
Picture the scene. It’s the summer of 1977 and I am 6 years old. The UK is gripped with Silver Jubilee celebration madness; the Queen had been ‘on the throne’ (snigger) for 25 years and we cracked open miles of bunting, shut streets and had parties in them and printed terrible photos of Her Royal Maj on cheap mugs to celebrate. Not to be outdone, our village had a whole day of celebrations including ‘Decorate your bike in red, white and blue’ (I won that, my Raleigh 14 had never looked so splendid – it even had a massive union jack rigged up on the back), ‘Fancy Dress’ (I went as Britannia) all rounded off with an afternoon of traditional games for the children.
It was going reasonably well and tantrums had been averted due to my success in the ‘decorated bike’ contest (I bet my Mum slipped a little something to the judge, she’d got the measure of me by then). I shed my Britannia outfit (recycled Angel outfit from the previous year’s Nativity play, plus trident fashioned from a pitch fork – er hello? Health & Safety anyone?) and limbered up to take part in a few races. Already it was a terrible idea given that I can’t run/jump/do anything atheletic, although I was about to find out that being crap at games was the least of my worries. A whole new issue was about to rear its ugly head in the shape of my big, fat tummy.
So, race 1. Easy enough. Amble up the field towards a line of school chairs, duck under the chair, amble to the finishing line…throw a wobbler due to finishing last as usual and have to be taken home, kicking and screaming. That was how it was supposed to go. In fact it went like this:
Amble up the field towards line of school chairs, duck under the chair…oh…it feels a little tight?… REALLY try to squeeeeeeeeze through…help! I can’t move…wriggle a lot while grunting…look up to see the other children have finished the race and medals are being handed out..meanwhile I am well and truly stuck under the chair and people are laughing…try to back out…can’t move….try to wriggle forward…am completely wedged in…start howling…look up to see my mother running across the field to ’save me’…start shrieking at her….she lifts the chair off me using a degree of force as I am well and truly wedged under it…I throw a GIGANTIC tantrum out of sheer humiliation and have to be taken home, kicking and screaming.
So, your Royal Maj…I’m very sorry that I didn’t get in to the spirit of things as much as I might have done all those years ago. I apologise for cutting short my hommage to your Big 25. I would have stayed but I’m afraid I was just too fat. Sorry about that.
Oh this makes me so sad. I wasn’t particularly (ahem) pretty plus — that’s what they call it here — but I have a daughter that is. I can only imagine what your mother was feeling, even more than what you were feeling (tho I now have quite a bit of excess Bambi to love).
You are cracking me up!! This one is true. It just has to be.