Princess Diana, Margaret Thatcher & Madonna: These I have known
(In which Tim reveals the very secrets of his conversational success, stories to tell when on a date and adds a personal take on a trio of famous women. Some pretentious crap about tapestries and history)
Occasionally - carefully and trepidatiously - I may be on a date. If things are going well, yeah, I know, not often, Tim may kick back and pull out those killer stories that push the conversation from “Who’s this shallow buffoon?'‘ to “Get your coat Tim, you’ve pulled.”
Indulge me.
We all have those stories we whip out at the right occasion; those anecdotes that attempt to make you look better by association. I often say, we are the stories we tell. What we choose to share is who we are. Now, you’re probably thinking, that’s deep Tim. You’d be right; that lightweight humour I wear as an armour masks shadowy caverns of intellectuality. How is he still single, I hear you ask?
So, ladies, if you hear me mention the following, you know that it’s decision time. Decision time to leave early often but hey! despite repeated evidence to the contrary, we continually trace familiar arcs.
I’ll say; I’ve met some famous, even iconic women in the past, so take a choice between Princess Di, Margaret Thatcher or Madonna and I’ll tell you the story. It merits interest when the conversation is flagging, when I need an extra boost to up my bone fides with whosoever I’m with. But, like all great things in life, it’s the anticipation, the journey that matters, not the destination.
What I’m admitting is; ultimately they’re all crap anecdotes.
So, you have choice, lady with a white wine in front of her, who would like to hear about: Princess Diana, Madonna or Margaret Thatcher? Obviously the limiting choice is a false one because, like every egomaniac, I will, of course, tell all three stories anyway. As the cascading crapness of each anecdote tumbles forth, it becomes apparent that these shiny celebrity baubles are but flaming torches on a dark pathway to somewhere else.
Usually a solitary walk home in the rain, but, here we go; I’ve preambled and foreshadowed enough. On with the stories Tim!
Princess Diana
The connections between the Robsons and the Spencer family go back generations. No, my ancestors weren’t at high society balls nor swigging flasks whilst grouse shooting on some windy moor: my grandmother (RIP) was a servant at Althorp House when Diana’s father was young. Like many bright working class people of her generation, continued education was not an option and so young Dora Mason left school at 15, probably packed a solitary suitcase and left for domestic work in a grand house. All very Downtown Abbey.
Skip forward 70 or so years and the grandson of the servant and the daughter of the young lord were fated to meet. Not once, but twice. As a Rochdale boy studying at Sussex University, I’d often have to take the Brighton to Manchester train (sadly now axed). A long six-eight hour journey stopping everywhere. One of the stops was Kensington Olympia.
There I was, penning a letter - yes we used to do that, no, not with a quill - and a familiar figure wandered into view walking along the platform. None other than the Princess of Wales (as she then was), Diana Spencer. Now back then, in celeb terms, she was top of the heap. And here we were separated by less than a foot as she walked past gazing into my eyes for less than a second. She then knocked on the window and beckoned me to follow. (1) Before walking on. I’d like to say, into history but this story has a (crap) further episode.
Years later, I was working in a supermarket in Brighton in Kemptown. The staff restuarant was on the first floor and there I was, gazing out on to St James’ Street and noticed crowds gathering on both sides of the street. Who should drive by but my old friend from Kensington Olympia, Diana? Boy, was this girl persistent. No means no, yeah?
This time she drove on and I never saw her again.
Margaret Thatcher
Prime Minister 1979-1990, winner of three elections, first female PM, Falkland War victor and iconic leader of the West against communism. If she were here now, she would undoubtedly mention all these achievements en passant but, if pressed, she would probably mention the handful of times she locked eyes with young Tim Robson.
I briefly working for an MP at the House of Commons many years ago. It was here that I crossed paths with Thatcher, then at the height of her power. Whether from Strangers Gallery, at a House of Commons regetta, or, well, Strangers Gallery again, we shared moments did Margaret and I. How many alive can say they stared into those cold blue eyes, eyes that could sear through to your soul and assess if you were ‘One of Us’, friend or foe? Ultimately, she never said what she thought of me. In retrospect, I think more of her now than I did then and I’m glad I saw her in the flesh.
And onto story three.
Madonna
And so we get to my Madonna story. Probably the best of the three. You know when people say they bumped into someone? Well, in this case, I actually did bump into Madonna. Might have exchanged words.
It was sometime in the mid 00’s and for some reason my boss - a high powered VP - decided I’d been suitably obsequious and so decreed on the spur of the moment to take me to Cipriani’s, then on Park Lane. Paparazzi lined the pavement, flash bulbs were going off left and right and the restaurant was packed. (2) We drank, we ate, we drank and eventually Tim needed the bathroom. The tables were close together so it took some weaving to navigate the journey to the gents.
A narrow corridor formed between tables and I walked quickly noticing, at the other end of this confined space, a short(ish) woman who looked liked Madonna coming in the opposite direction. I looked again; yes, it really was Madonna! There was only really space for one of us between the tables and she didn’t look like she was going to let me through. Too far on to go back, I pressed ahead and we kind of bumped into each other in the middle. And then she said the following words to me which I’ll always remember:
“Asshole.”
Now isn’t that a celeb story to treasure?
Conclusion
The stories themselves are lightweight and, in one way, inconsequential. Remember what I said to you about us being the stories we tell? But they serve two purposes. Firstly, they provoke discussion, they advance the conversation from quotidian ‘how are you’, ‘where do you work’, ‘how did you get here’ to a more interesting level. Everyone’s got a celeb story to tell. Usually just as crap as my own. It’s a bonding mechanism.
Secondly, what three remarkable women! All iconic, all remembered today (yeah, yeah, Madonna’s still alive, but you know what I mean). The stories and the women involved are a link to the past, and there’s nothing so obscure as the recent past. To be footsoldier at Austerlitz and see Napoleon riding close by must have been that soldier’s go-to yarn when refilling his cup in some provincial inn back home in France years later. How he looked, the uniform he wore, the weather. These are the touches of history that evade historians but just as each stitch makes a tapestry, so does each anecdote serve a wider purpose of preserving what is often lost.
Really Tim?
Oh all right. I tell them to create curiosity and as vehicle for a few jokes. We are the stories we tell.
Notes
1) Possibly that sentence, about knocking on the window, may just be my brain playing tricks on me. Time is a great deceiver.
2) Prince Andrew & Fergie were there with their kids also that night. No, me neither.
