Your Mother

While I was at Liam’s in London in May of 1998, I tuned in the BBC and caught the following tale.

A minor British actor found himself rather drunk at a party in conversation with a woman who looked very familiar but whose name he couldn’t recall. Being British, he of course couldn’t just admit that he didn’t remember her name, and he sensed that she was somehow important and that he ought to know who she was, so he kept up the conversation hoping she’d drop some hint that would remind him. The conversation went on and on while he uttered inanities, desperately praying for a clue.

Then, through the alcohol fog, it came to him. Her mother. There was something about her mother that was significant. So, frantically he asked, “And so, uh, how’s your mother?”

She had clearly long since realized that he didn’t know who she was and had been stringing him along for the sheer pleasure of watching him squirm, but she obviously recognized that here was an opportunity not to be missed. So she responded, “Oh fine, fine. She’s still the Queen.”

It was Princess Anne.

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