In honour of the late, great, most magnificent Monarch of our times - Queen Elizabeth II (‘Liz’)

Part I

I'm going to tell you a little story about one of the most exciting nights of my life. It all started on a warm London day sometime in September, 2011. Sitting at my desk (and working hard!) at Aussie Times HQ the most unexpected letter dropped in front of me, embossed with the Queen's royal emblem and addressed to Tim Martin Esquire. My heart skipped a beat. What had I done to deserve a letter from Her Royal Highness? With a tiny bit of trepidation (and a cursory glance at the visa in my passport to check it hadn't expired and this was a royal eviction notice) I opened the envelope. Inside was a large cardboard invitation stamped with another royal emblem, this time in beautiful gold gilt. But it was the words below that had me in a stunned silence:

The Master of the Household has received Her Majesty's command to invite Mr Tim Martin to a reception to be given at Buckingham Palace by The Queen and The Duke of Edinburgh in advance of the Royal visit to the Commonwealth of Australia on Thursday 13 October.

Well I'll be!! Lizzy inviting me to her joint, Bucky house!! How utterly amazing!! Stunned, honoured, perplexed - I was in a state of shock. I would be meeting Queen Elizabeth II at one of the most famous buildings in the world. Wow…

As the days leading to the big event flew by, the enormity of the occasion started to dawn on me. Not many people get to look inside Buckingham Palace, let alone meet the Queen. The bush telegraph went into overdrive back home as word got round (thanks mum!) and I think I had more texts and calls regarding the visit than I have ever had on any birthday!!

When the day finally arrived, I was as prepared as I would ever be. I had had a haircut. I had pressed my suit. Ironed my shirt. Buffed my shoes. Picked out a tie. Shaved my face. Shined the pearly whites. Ironed my shirt a second time, just for good measure. I was ready.

Befitting such an occasion, I should have got a limousine to drop me at the Palace. Alas I am a poor journalist and struggled to just scrape together the tube fare let alone anything grander. So alighting at Green Park, I left the Underground station and made my way towards the Palace. The mile wide grin that stretched across my face probably would have shone all the way back to Australia!

At the Palace, there was the usual throng of tourists peeping through the fence and posing for photos with the famous building in the background. In times gone by, I was one of those tourists. But now, with invitation in hand, I would be allowed in to the inner sanctum of the UK's royal family. A quick check of the invite and my passport and I was ushered through the gates, to make my way across the gravelled outer perimeter of Buckingham Palace. What an amazing feeling.

I walked purposefully through the first building and then came upon a courtyard, away from the public view that led to the Palace entrance. Walking up the red carpet heading inside the royal bastion, I felt like a movie star as I sauntered past the press and photographer cordon. Once inside, the mind boggled. The decor and furnishings were exactly as you would imagine in a fairytale castle. Ornate artworks hanging on beautifully wallpapered walls. Marble statues and busts. Cherubed cornices. Plush lounge chairs and exquisite carpets. It was an entrance fit for ... yep, you guessed it - fit for a Queen!!

Picking my jaw up off the floor I quickly checked my phone into the cloakroom (no phones or cameras allowed inside) and then made a bee-line for the lavatories. It wasn't a call of nature as such, more a curiosity to find out what the royal dunnies looked like and to pocket some royal toilet paper - my souvenir from the Palace that had been requested by many a mate on the outside. Unfortunately, the bathroom didn't meet the lavish standards set outside but I let them off as it was only the reception bathroom and probably just for the servants when the Palace wasn't hosting functions.

Now I must admit that I still hadn't fully comprehended why I had been invited nor what the event actually was. I knew that it was a reception for notable Australians living and working in the UK but beyond that - I didn't have the foggiest. I had heard that morning that celebrities like Elle Macpherson and Rolf Harris had been invited but whether they would show up, I doubted. So it took me a little by surprise when I started climbing the stairs, heading to the main room that the man walking in front of me (limping actually) was none other than one of Australia's favourite soccer players, Tim Cahill. Slightly star struck, I broke the ice with, "dodgy leg mate?" He turned and smiled and said "yeah, football injury". And that was how I met Mr Cahill....

Part II

Previously in Tim's fairytale night of grandeur meeting the Queen (QEII): the invitation arrives, the hair is cut, the gates of Buckingham Palace are parted, the threshold crossed, (the dunnies scoped out) and on the majestic stairs leading to the royal ballroom - one Aussie Tim meets another - Martin meets Cahill.

So here I am in Buckingham Palace, the Mecca of royal abodes, and I am casually chatting with one of the biggest Australian sports stars of all time. Now, as a world famous football player and an English Premier League player to boot, one might have reservations for the humility and friendliness of a person such as Mr Cahill. But I found Tim to be one of the friendliest, down-to-earth blokes I've ever met. Paragon of virtue, a true Aussie good bloke. Generous and genuine with his time, Timmy C and I chatted amiably as we collected our name badges and moved with the throngs deeper into Bucky house.

Engrossed in conversation and in awe of our surroundings (unbelievably, the decor and furnishings continued to get more spectacular the further we moved into the palace - under twinkling crystal chandeliers we were followed by the glassy eyes of century old monarchs, silent sentinels in their oil canvas prisons on the walls of this stunning building). Suddenly we found ourselves in an ornate room that was brimming with people and incredible features like towering vases and grand pianos.

As we squeezed ourselves into a corner, keen to continue our chat and survey our surroundings, we passed a beautifully dressed butler brandishing a beverages tray. I reached for a flute of champagne (ever the alcoholic) as Mr Cahill reached for an orange juice (ever the professional). Casting my eyes around the room, I clocked legendary Australian music icon Nick Cave, the host and judge of Masterchef UK Aussie John Torode, the smartly dressed Kathy Lette (decked out in a corgi patterned dress), and a list of famous Australian television personalities (hey, is that Jason Donovan cruising through into the next room?). And all around us were fellow Aussies all who live and work in the UK.

It wasn't long til Tim's presence was noted and the deputy Australian High Commissioner to the UK Adam McCarthy dragged us (we were quite the little item now) into different circles of people. Not wanting to rain on Timmy C's parade, I escaped and made my way through the throngs of people to have a little explore on my own. Chatting to various people as I sauntered through the crowds, I had to stop and pinch myself. Was this really happening!?

But I should have saved the pinching because what happened next was to lift the evening to another unbelievable level altogether. Leaving the Cahills, Caves, and Torodes behind, I quickly found myself in another huge adjoining room and suddenly I was being ushered into line. Excuse me, ushered into line for what? I looked up ahead and instantly realised. This wasn't just any old English queue (they do do them very well over here by the way). This was a queue to meet Her Majesty the Queen.

Now, being totally honest with you, even though I may have tried to make myself think that I would actually be meeting the Queen in the lead up to the event, I never actually believed it. So, here I am, about to meet probably the most famous woman the world over. Time slows down. Then speeds up. I shuffle along in a daze. I pull out my pink namecard and pass it to an equerry (Queen's servant types). I adjust my tie. I get short of breath. My eyes glaze a little. I lose focus. And before I know it, it is over. And instead of Her Maj, I find myself in front of Prince Phillip. Wait, what!? Rewind! I just met the Queen of England and didn't even commit it to memory? I'm fuming… so very angry with myself.

I try to piece together what had just happened, meanwhile I have Phil the Greek in front of me - staring with that wrinkled face and hunched stance. "Are you Australian?" he asks. "Ummm, yes your Majesty..." (that's why I am here - it's an Australian reception...!! He would later comment to someone in the room - 'I can't get over how many Australians there are here...'). But as I step away and let other wide-eyed royal 'greeters' have their time in the sun, I am trying to recall my brief moment with Lizzy.

...My name is announced; 'Tim Martin of Australian Times'. She looks up, resplendent in a purple outfit and proffers a black gloved hand. She is tiny, with a neatly presented flock of fairy-floss white hair sitting atop her royal head (crowns have adorned that head, I think in my daze-like state). "Pleased to meet yo-u", the royal vowels rolling off her tongue. I'm still dazed, I make a half bow (more like a nod of the head), I take her hand gently and shake it ever so slightly. I utter (well, I think I utter) "Your Majesty" and it is over. We had locked eyes for the briefest of moments and then our shared space in time disappeared. I've got to hand it to her - at 85 and having the stamina to greet 300 people in an evening, let alone them being Australian (and she had a cold) - it's no mean feat for even the most energetic young whipper-snappers!

Part III

Now, I'm a proud republican. I want Australia to be our own nation with our own head of state. But that doesn't mean that I can't respect; like; even admire Liz. So that is why I was so devastated that I couldn't completely recall our meeting. I guess I can now relate to Molly Meldrum's meltdown when he tried to do his Countdown show with Prince Charles by his side (YouTube it - very funny)! So as I moved away from the royal line, the royal pair, back into a group of other electrified Aussies I despaired that that would be it. I thought that would be my glorious moment.

We stood there, in our suits, jaws hanging open, reliving the amazing occurrence of just a few minutes before. There was a group of five of us, just five Aussie blokes having a laugh, having a yarn in the house of houses - Buckingham Palace. And then the strangest thing happened. As we stood there (me, desperately calling on my powers of cognisance to remember her Maj) one of the royal equerries sidled up to our group. In an Australian accent that shocked the lot of us ("yes," he responded to our looks of disbelief, "there are Aussie equerries!"), he started simply: "Excuse me gentlemen, Her Majesty would like to ... 'mingle'. Obviously not with all 300 guests here, she would just like to have a chat and a conversation with a few Australians. Would you gentlemen like to have a chat with Her Majesty?"

EXCUSE ME!? What did he just say! I turn and look in shock at my new chums. They look back at me with just as much awe. An esteemed figure in the Australian Army (I would love to say General but our ranks don't go that high), an influential member of Antipodean business, a one Mr 'soccer-playing' Cahill, an Aussie High Commission member and who? Me? A lowly newspaper editor? The Queen wants to come and talk to these men - yes - but me? I don't believe it!

The equerries form us into a semi-circle. We giggle, giddy with the thought. We place our glasses down, stand hands behind our backs. The room goes quiet (well in my mind at least). And then in the doorway appears the Queen. She makes her way effortlessly over to our group. The crowds have been parted and I turn my head to share the moment with Cahill and cohorts. And then I realise. Oh no... I am at the head of the crescent. She advances, slowly towards us. Towards me. Like a stunned mullet… I grin. My mind goes blank but I fight it. I won't let it be like the line-up. This one I will remember. In my ear I hear, "now remember, let her do the talking". And then she is in front of me. Again.

But this time she is presenting herself to me. I smile down at her. She reminds me of my grandmother. Graceful, timeless, legendary. "Hello," she says to me.

"Your majesty," I announce once again. And then the words don't stop. I know they ought. I know the protocol is she asks me the questions. But I can't help myself. Call it the journalist in me.

"Thank you so much for having us in your house!"

(WHAT - did I just refer to Buckingham Palace as a house in front of the Queen of England?)

'You're welcome..."

"So you are off to Australia next week?"

"Yes, indeed."

"It's been six years since you were there. Are you excited?"

"Well yes, terribly. I love Australia."

"Do you have a favourite part of Australia?"

Pause... "No, not really. I love all of Australia. Like my children. We are off to Brisbane first then ..."

At this moment I could have sworn we had been chatting for minutes on end. The others around the group are crowding in, trying to 'get a piece' of the Queen's time. A momentary lapse and the Queen sees her gap and moves to the next person. And I am left basking. In a conversation held with the Queen of England. And the night is restored.

She moves on from our modest line-up. And the ribbing commences. "Oh, your Majesty - do you loooove Australia?" "What is your favourite part?" "Talk to me Queeny, talk to me!" I'd only met most of these blokes not even 10 minutes ago and they are already giving me a hard time.

"Mate, I know you're a journalist but there's no need to interrogate the Queen," Tim Cahill jokes in my ear!

"Bugger off boys!" I laugh. And so my night at the Palace is complete. Or so I thought...

PART IV

How do you top meeting the Queen and Tim Cahill in one night? Can you? Possibly only if Nelson Mandela, Roger Federer and David Beckham were there to meet you too. And so I wandered around the halls of Bucky House in awe of the night, the guests, the achievement of just being on the list, of chatting to the Queen...

This time two years ago I was a long-haired, debt ridden traveller, living with my mum and dad on a farm in rural Australia trying to decide what next to do with my life. Suddenly here I was with the cream of the Aussie crop in the UK - having met and chatted to Her Maj!! Surreal doesn't even start to describe it.

After my chinwag with QEII, leaving Timmy C and co behind, I went for another wander to check out a little bit more of the amazing palatial rooms we were in (and to catch my breath and quietly reflect on what had just happened). I'd also heard Mr Hugh Jackman was in the house, so I thought, 'hey, I have met and chatted to the Queen, Hugh will be a piece of cake...'. Back past Jason Donovan I cruise (he was nonchalantly talking to Alf ‘flamin’ galah’ Stewart from Home & Away) and past more bronzed busts of royals from the days of yore. With the plush carpet under foot, my personal champagne waiter trailing behind (or was it that I just seemed to always find a full glass?) and hundreds of beautiful and excited Australians all around me, I was genuinely lost in my own little ‘royal' world.

And that's when it happened. Walking along in my daze-like state I bumped into a very well dressed man.

"I'm terribly sorry," I start, slowly looking up, to be suddenly face to face with an heir to the throne in His Royal Highness Prince Edward.

"Not at all," he replies with a smile.

Now, not being as au fait with the royals as I should have been, my mind baulked as to which brother of Prince Charles this was. Forgetting all protocol and manners, but not wanting to be rude, I quickly asked, “How you going mate?” He smiled again and laughed and said he was doing well. He seemed ok to engage in a bit of small talk with a wild haired Aussie (who had just called a royal 'mate') and I told him what an amazing place Buckingham Palace was and what a thrill it would have been to grow up there. "What, this old place?" he joked, his eyes alive with mirth. A few more pleasantries and I let the seventh in line to throne on his way. And it was just as well because just then a commotion caught my eye.

A gaggle of women were thronged around a reasonably tall man with a beaming smile. The gent with the genteel air? None other than the Hollywood heartthrob (or so the girls tell me) Hugh Jackman. Having set my goal to try and meet as many notable people as possible on this glorious evening, I saw the challenge of meeting Hugh was going to be a daunting one. Not only would I have to fight tooth, nail and handbag past a dozen swooning ladies, but then I would have to try and catch his attention. So, patiently, as the girls in front fussed and fought over our true-blue Australian actor, I waited at the back of the little congregation, biding my time. Luckily for me height was on my side and it wasn't long til Hugh caught my eye. We exchanged nods and he made to move over to me, only to be pinned against acres of bosom, crooning hands and smiles.

“How's it going mate," he called across their heads, an accent just as thick as my one.

"Not too bad, thanks Hugh. Listen, just saw Real Steel mate [his latest movie that he was in the UK promoting]," I lied. “Thought you were bloody brilliant. Even better than Australia."

"Oh thanks mate, thanks a lot. Glad you enjoyed it!"

And just like that my conversation with one of the world's top A List actors was over, as he was lost again to the squeals of delight and peals of flirtatious laughter.

[An aside...I hadn't actually seen Real Steel, so I was no better than the gorgeous sycophants surrounding him. And it wasn't until the next day, to my complete horror and embarrassment, that upon recounting the story to my flatmate that I was told that Real Steel had not actually been released in the UK yet so he probably knew I was a fake...Sorry, Hugh! You're a good sport for going along with it though.]

So with Jackman conquered, it seemed the night would yet again wind down, and I would be ever closer to being a mere mortal once more. But, as had been the way all evening, how wrong I was. With Hugh and Prince Edward and others behind me I made my way deeper into the palatial sanctuary of the Bucky House ballroom. With only clusters of groups now filling the space in this exquisite enclave, each bunched tightly around some glamour, royal or A-Lister, the walkway was relatively clear. And so it was that ambling along, looking both pleased with himself and only ever so slightly confused was the man who had remarked earlier 'I can't believe how many Australians there are here' (at an Australian reception!), His Royal Highness Prince Philip.

Wondering if he would recognise me from the hand shaking ceremony we had taken part in an hour or two ago, I said with as much reverence as I could muster: "Your Majesty."

"Oh, good evening young fellow! Are you enjoying yourself?" he replied in that clipped royal tongue.

"Very much so sir," I answered back politely.

It was then that our exchange took a drastic turn for the worst. Being a rugby union fanatic myself and knowing that his grandson-in-law Mike Tindall (who had, at the time, just married Zara Phillips) was captain of the England rugby side who had just been unceremoniously dumped out of the Rugby World Cup in New Zealand, I asked, a little too cheekily: "Have you been following the World Cup sir?"

"No, not really..." he gestured, almost expecting the next blow.

"What did you make of England's performance?" I said, hardly believing the words coming out of my mouth.

What happened next I probably never will forget (and not in a good way). HRH PP shot me the most hate filled look of disdain and shuffled past me in disgust, with not so much as a "hmmph". Oops...

PART V

So let's recap slightly…In the space of around 10 minutes I have yarned with Her Maj, then digressed slightly to calling one royal 'mate' and seriously offended another. I shooed away my champagne butler, dutifully looking to top up my glass. Buckingham Palace is certainly not the place where one makes a fool of one’s self!

Wanting to move on from my little faux pas with Prince Phil, I looked around to see who was left in the room. And would you know it, standing there by a gilded marble fireplace was none other than Elle Macpherson, flanked by Aussie entrepreneur Brian Burgess and Aussie fashion guru Collette Dinnigan. With the same champagne fuelled abandon that had propelled me to meeting Mr Jackman, I quietly slipped into the fold – a thorn between two beautiful roses in Ms Macpherson and Ms Dinnigan. I waited patiently until a break in the conversation and then proffered my hand to ‘The Body’ and her partner in conversation, the notorious Aussie Man & Van founder – Brian Burgess. They ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ when I told them I was Editor of Australian Times (we had just done a cover story on Burgess in the newspaper regarding his commendable response to the infamous London riots*) but it was Elle who I really wanted to speak to.

For some reason (totally unbeknownst to the sensible me) there was an anecdote I was just itching to tell Australia’s most famous supermodel. Let’s call it the champagne, but suddenly I found myself confessing something from my boyhood days.

“Elle, how’s this for a crazy story - I used to make eyes at and chat to your baby sister Lizzie over the fence in Paddington when I was about 10 years old!”

“Wow, how cool!” she cooed – her eyes melting any strength and resolve I had left. Now, if I could go back and somehow have that moment again, I would definitely try, if only to at least attempt to act the 29 years of age I was, instead of standing in front of one of the most beautiful women in the world acting like a giddy schoolboy.

I tried to make up for it with: “How do you like living in the UK?”

“Oh, I simply just love it!” she replied with her award winning smile. And with that I left Elle to Brian, and I resumed my mission to conquer Bucky House and all those within it.

*Brian Burgess offered hoodlums caught up in the London riots of August 2011 the chance to work for him at his Aussie Man & Van empire. As commendable as it was, unfortunately just months later Burgess would be forced to put the company into administration and flee the UK in disgrace owing thousands of pounds in unpaid wages and lost property.

There wasn’t much life left in our royal experience and I was eager to milk it for all I could, so as I shunned my champagne butler (again) for instead a silver tray of lamingtons and mini-pavlovas (made by the one and only Aussie celeb chef Bill Granger – who was also milling about the palatial halls) – a couple of very tall men caught my attention. Enter Mark Schwarzer (Australia’s legendary soccer goalkeeper) and Matty King (the rugby league star with the best afro hairstyle in the game). My mind raced back to something Timmy Cahill had said earlier in the night… My question to Tim at the time had been:

“Surely you will know some people here mate!? Surely Mark Schwarzer must be here too – have you heard from him or did you contact him before coming?”

“Nah mate, like I explained,” explained the ever-so friendly Timmy C, “I’m on my Pat Malone. Mark might be here but I don’t know if he definitely is or not.”

So now here I stand, with Mark Schwarzer in front of me, on the hallowed carpet of Buckingham Palace. In my mind – there is only one thing to do.

I turn and hightail it across the hall. I dodge dignitaries and equerries. I sidestep superstars and celebs. Butlers fall back over themselves as I scurry through at a frantic pace. I must find Tim Cahill. I must unite him with his Socceroo friend and teammate. Back past Hugh I hurry. Back into the White Room. Head on a pivot I scan the opulence for any sign of the mercurial little sportsman. Heads bob and weave in jolly conversation. No one pays any attention to the big blonde maniac scouring the room. And then I see him. In a corner, surrounded by pretty young things hanging on his every word. I slide over, very casually. I blend in effortlessly and he catches my eye. I make a movement with my head and he excuses himself from the group very politely, backing away from the throng.

“What is it Tim?” he asks with a little surprise.

“Mate, I’ve got someone I want you to meet. Let’s go – follow me!”

And off we rush, retracing my steps back through the Bucky House wonderland, Tim blindly following his crazy new mate. Thankfully he doesn’t spot our intended target until I reach an arm up high to tap on Mr Schwarzer’s shoulder.

“Excuse me Mark, I have somebody who wants to say g’day.” The Socceroos (and Fulham) goalkeeper's eyes go from disdain to joy once he spots Timmy C. They hug and shake hands, shuffle their feet and beam with delight. I simply stand back and grin. Brazen as ever. My smile is radiating but then again, why not? I am the meet-er of Queen’s. The ‘friend’ of stratospheric sports stars. The bringer-together of mates. And so as Cahill and Schwarzer talk and laugh like the old friends that they are, I lean against a wall in this famed ‘fairytale’ palace and survey my domain. I feel like I am king! And then I meet one.

“You’re looking pretty pleased with yourself!” a thick Aussie drawl washes down over me, pervading my glow. I look up and it is the former Melbourne Storm rugby league star (now South Sydney Rabbitoh), Matty King. We’d met briefly outside the Bucky House gates before we both came in, where he asked me to take a quick snap of him with the palace in the background. Now, here we were inside, chatting like old buddies. We talked league and footy and living in England, he introduced me to his then Warrington Wolves coach Tony Smith, and we laughed at what a motley trio of Aussie blokes were doing in the Queen’s residence. Before long the Cahill and Schwarzer combo had joined the conversation and you couldn't have gotten a more sporting Aussie set up if you'd tried (we were only an Adam Ashley-Cooper and a Ricky Ponting short of a full house). Tall tales were told, 'living in the UK' horror stories shared (would you believe it but the damned awful weather was a common gripe between all!?), and once in a while each member of our little group would get that far off look in their eye as they suddenly realised where we were. Standing there in Buckingham Palace - I wanted the night to never end.

But alas, as all good things must, the palace staff soon started their fated endeavour of trying to herd this gaggle of Aussie 'good-for-nothings' out the door. Our group splintered and with a shake and a wink, I said adieu to my new BFF - Timmy C. As he limped off down the royal staircase, I pinched myself just to make sure this wasn't a dream. I said farewell to Schwarzer and told him I would be seeing him again very soon (that Sunday in fact at a little match in Craven Cottage between Fulham FC and Manchester United!). I patted Matty King on the back and wished him luck with his move back to Oz and said good bye to Tony. I turned on a heel and picked up one last champagne glass and thanked my personal butler profusely (the shocked look in his eyes told me that he may not have been actually my personal butler - but let's not ruin a good story).

As the last of the 300-strong Australian contingent filtered out through the palace rooms, I found one of the men who had been in our semi-circle 'mingle' with the Queen earlier that evening. Benny MacCormack, General Manager of AFL Europe, had that mile wide smile that could charm the bronze off the busts around us. As we put an arm around each other's shoulder and slowly descended the cushioned stairs, taking us from our lofty heights among the metaphorical royal clouds, we were in a blissful stunned silence. Each man grinning wildly, alone with our own thoughts and memories from this most magical of nights.

And then, once our feet were back down to earth, and crunching once more on the hallowed pink gravel of the palace surrounds, it hit us. And we almost fell over ourselves with laughter. With the twinkling lights of London in front of us and the mysterious silhouette of Bucky House behind us - the enormity of the moment cascaded over us and all we could do was laugh. Here was a bloke who had handed the Queen an AFL Sherrin footy as a present. And beside him a rangy blonde journo who had done his best to 'interrogate' Her Maj. We giggled for what seemed like an eternity until the moment was gone. And then as we crunched our way out those famous black gates and saluted the Queen's guards, resplendent in their royal red uniforms with their high furry hats, the night's mirth was pierced by a text message alert from my phone.

"Really great to meet you tonight Tim! Proper Aussie - bloody good laugh. All the best, Tim Cahill."

My night was complete. It had started with Tim and finished with Tim. And while the evening may have been more about an inspirational octogenarian monarch, renowned the world over, for me it would always be the Tim & Tim show. The night the Aussie boys from Down Under met the Queen. One one would never forget.

(An extract from: The Aussie Who Gatecrashed London ™)