The State Opening of Parliament
by Olga Wojtas
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: A Dutch tourist inadvertently creates havoc when he attends the State Opening of Parliament.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A Dutch tourist inadvertently creates havoc when he attends the State Opening of Parliament.
I declare that I, Dries Donker from Groningen, am happy to make this statement to the British police. I believe it was your Sherlock Holmes who said: "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."
And I'm sure you'll accept that it's not impossible that I, an undistinguished Dutch tourist, should be at the heart of a constitutional crisis in the United Kingdom.
I have been trying to piece together what led to this improbable situation, and these seem to me to be the salient points:
My friend Coenraad's aunt's inability to distinguish right from left.
My slight hearing impairment.
A man whose name I do not know getting stuck on the Central Line due to a signal failure at Mile End.
My sister's interest in amateur dramatics.
I suppose it essentially started when I told my friend Coenraad that I was planning a trip to London. He urged me to get in touch with his aunt, who had recently begun working in our embassy in London, a fine building near the Royal Albert Hall. Coenraad's aunt was a charming and helpful lady who said she would arrange for me to see the state opening of the UK parliament, an event she said was both quaint and spectacular. She organised the relevant documentation and advised me that once I had gone through the security checks, I should look for the entrance on the left. At that point, I was unaware of her inability to distinguish right from left, and that she meant I should look for the entrance on the right.
I am a great admirer of your monarchy and all your pomp and circumstance, so was full of excitement as I duly looked for the entrance on the left. A frantic young woman accosted me. My knowledge of English is excellent: we Dutch learn many foreign languages since nobody else can speak Dutch. But I am increasingly hard of hearing, and I understood the young woman to say: "Are you Herr Donker?" to which I readily agreed. Of course, she should more properly have said: "Are you Meneer Donker?" but as I say, only the Dutch speak Dutch, so I accepted the German form.
"You're very late," she said, which surprised me, since I pride myself on my time-keeping. I wondered whether my watch had stopped.
I was rushed along corridors where there was no sign of any other members of the public, but I thought the documentation Coenraad's aunt had organised for me perhaps guaranteed me a particular seat.
"You've got the papers with you?" the frantic young woman asked as we sped along and, patting the documentation, I reassured her that I did.
The next thing, we were in a side room, and the young woman was fitting me with a headset involving an earpiece and a microphone. I tried to explain that my English was adequate for all eventualities, and that I had no need for a simultaneous translation, but she simply said: "Yes, yes," in a distracted manner and propelled me through a door.
I later discovered that she had brought me into the chamber of the House of Lords, but I could see very little apart from the backs of two massive gilded chairs.
"Stay down or the television cameras will get you," the young woman hissed, as a voice in my ear said: "One two, one two, hearing us okay?"
"Very well, thank you," I said, and the young woman flapped her hands in dismay, indicating that I was talking too loudly. "Very well, thank you," I repeated in a whisper, and she nodded before disappearing back through the door.
I was somewhat confused. There was no seat for me, but when I peered through the gap between the two massive gilded chairs, I could see a vast hall, full of people in scarlet robes. And then trumpets sounded, all the people rose to their feet, and a procession started making its way towards me. My view was restricted, and kneeling was slightly uncomfortable despite the thick carpet, but I could only marvel that Coenraad's aunt had secured me such a remarkable vantage point as Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip took their seats in front of me and I could study the few centimetres visible at the bottom of the chairs. I could see the queen's white silk gown and velvet cloak, and the prince's well-polished shoes.
The queen began to speak, outlining what her government would do, and then suddenly she fell silent. There was a shout in my ear: "Prompt!"
This brings us to the gentleman whose name I do not know, who was stuck on the Central Line and unable to get a mobile phone signal to alert anyone to his predicament. He was the prompter, and I had been mistaken for him.
Your magnificent queen, now aged 91, wears spectacles to read her speech, but decided that the sheaf of papers would be too unwieldy if it was printed in a large font. So as a failsafe, in case the queen's eyesight was less keen than in the past when dealing with 12 point print, she placed reliance on a prompter - the frantic young woman had in fact asked: "Are you the prompter?" rather than "Are you Herr Donker?"
The demands in my ear for me to prompt were getting more and more insistent, My sister is a keen amateur actress, and relies on me to help her learn her lines. She recently took the part of Shen Teh, the heroine of Brecht's play, Der gute Mensch von Sezuan, The Good Woman of Szechuan, and I was very familiar with her key speeches. The increasingly urgent demands for me to prompt sent me into something of a panic, and all I could think of was when I helped Saskia. I embarked on a speech condemning the exploitative nature of capitalism, and since Saskia's company had performed the play in German, this was the language I used.
The queen repeated my words perfectly, and I was particularly impressed by the authenticity of her German accent. She put real feeling into the lines: "Something is wrong with this world of yours. Why is wickedness so rewarded, and why is so much suffering reserved for the good? I should gladly have been an Angel to the slums."
But I had little time to admire her before there was uproar. I discovered later that the queen's use of German was considered unacceptably supportive of the European Union, and when the few linguists in the crowd translated what she had said, it was considered contrary to government policy.
I popped my head round the side of the gilt throne to see what was going on just as someone proposed an emergency motion to depose the queen. There was a chorus of "Hear, hear!" and the prime minister nodded sagely. But the camera capturing the queen's reaction also captured me which is why I am in my current situation. So, officers, that is my statement. And as a great admirer of your monarchy, I greatly regret that Her Majesty has been obliged to abdicate. I am sure we would welcome her in my own country, and Saskia would be delighted should she have an interest in amateur dramatics.
And I'm sure you'll accept that it's not impossible that I, an undistinguished Dutch tourist, should be at the heart of a constitutional crisis in the United Kingdom.
I have been trying to piece together what led to this improbable situation, and these seem to me to be the salient points:
My friend Coenraad's aunt's inability to distinguish right from left.
My slight hearing impairment.
A man whose name I do not know getting stuck on the Central Line due to a signal failure at Mile End.
My sister's interest in amateur dramatics.
I suppose it essentially started when I told my friend Coenraad that I was planning a trip to London. He urged me to get in touch with his aunt, who had recently begun working in our embassy in London, a fine building near the Royal Albert Hall. Coenraad's aunt was a charming and helpful lady who said she would arrange for me to see the state opening of the UK parliament, an event she said was both quaint and spectacular. She organised the relevant documentation and advised me that once I had gone through the security checks, I should look for the entrance on the left. At that point, I was unaware of her inability to distinguish right from left, and that she meant I should look for the entrance on the right.
I am a great admirer of your monarchy and all your pomp and circumstance, so was full of excitement as I duly looked for the entrance on the left. A frantic young woman accosted me. My knowledge of English is excellent: we Dutch learn many foreign languages since nobody else can speak Dutch. But I am increasingly hard of hearing, and I understood the young woman to say: "Are you Herr Donker?" to which I readily agreed. Of course, she should more properly have said: "Are you Meneer Donker?" but as I say, only the Dutch speak Dutch, so I accepted the German form.
"You're very late," she said, which surprised me, since I pride myself on my time-keeping. I wondered whether my watch had stopped.
I was rushed along corridors where there was no sign of any other members of the public, but I thought the documentation Coenraad's aunt had organised for me perhaps guaranteed me a particular seat.
"You've got the papers with you?" the frantic young woman asked as we sped along and, patting the documentation, I reassured her that I did.
The next thing, we were in a side room, and the young woman was fitting me with a headset involving an earpiece and a microphone. I tried to explain that my English was adequate for all eventualities, and that I had no need for a simultaneous translation, but she simply said: "Yes, yes," in a distracted manner and propelled me through a door.
I later discovered that she had brought me into the chamber of the House of Lords, but I could see very little apart from the backs of two massive gilded chairs.
"Stay down or the television cameras will get you," the young woman hissed, as a voice in my ear said: "One two, one two, hearing us okay?"
"Very well, thank you," I said, and the young woman flapped her hands in dismay, indicating that I was talking too loudly. "Very well, thank you," I repeated in a whisper, and she nodded before disappearing back through the door.
I was somewhat confused. There was no seat for me, but when I peered through the gap between the two massive gilded chairs, I could see a vast hall, full of people in scarlet robes. And then trumpets sounded, all the people rose to their feet, and a procession started making its way towards me. My view was restricted, and kneeling was slightly uncomfortable despite the thick carpet, but I could only marvel that Coenraad's aunt had secured me such a remarkable vantage point as Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip took their seats in front of me and I could study the few centimetres visible at the bottom of the chairs. I could see the queen's white silk gown and velvet cloak, and the prince's well-polished shoes.
The queen began to speak, outlining what her government would do, and then suddenly she fell silent. There was a shout in my ear: "Prompt!"
This brings us to the gentleman whose name I do not know, who was stuck on the Central Line and unable to get a mobile phone signal to alert anyone to his predicament. He was the prompter, and I had been mistaken for him.
Your magnificent queen, now aged 91, wears spectacles to read her speech, but decided that the sheaf of papers would be too unwieldy if it was printed in a large font. So as a failsafe, in case the queen's eyesight was less keen than in the past when dealing with 12 point print, she placed reliance on a prompter - the frantic young woman had in fact asked: "Are you the prompter?" rather than "Are you Herr Donker?"
The demands in my ear for me to prompt were getting more and more insistent, My sister is a keen amateur actress, and relies on me to help her learn her lines. She recently took the part of Shen Teh, the heroine of Brecht's play, Der gute Mensch von Sezuan, The Good Woman of Szechuan, and I was very familiar with her key speeches. The increasingly urgent demands for me to prompt sent me into something of a panic, and all I could think of was when I helped Saskia. I embarked on a speech condemning the exploitative nature of capitalism, and since Saskia's company had performed the play in German, this was the language I used.
The queen repeated my words perfectly, and I was particularly impressed by the authenticity of her German accent. She put real feeling into the lines: "Something is wrong with this world of yours. Why is wickedness so rewarded, and why is so much suffering reserved for the good? I should gladly have been an Angel to the slums."
But I had little time to admire her before there was uproar. I discovered later that the queen's use of German was considered unacceptably supportive of the European Union, and when the few linguists in the crowd translated what she had said, it was considered contrary to government policy.
I popped my head round the side of the gilt throne to see what was going on just as someone proposed an emergency motion to depose the queen. There was a chorus of "Hear, hear!" and the prime minister nodded sagely. But the camera capturing the queen's reaction also captured me which is why I am in my current situation. So, officers, that is my statement. And as a great admirer of your monarchy, I greatly regret that Her Majesty has been obliged to abdicate. I am sure we would welcome her in my own country, and Saskia would be delighted should she have an interest in amateur dramatics.
About the Author
Olga Wojtas is a writer in Edinburgh whose short stories have been published in literary magazines and anthologies in the UK, America and India. She recently completed her debut novel.