Former council leader Sir Bill Taylor has retold his 'frantic' visit to Buckingham Palace in his new book.

His book ‘One in a Million’ reveals the challenges he faced and what motivated him to become one of the council’s most well-known personalities and public servants.

In this extract Sir Bill retells his visit to the Royal Garden Party at Buckingham Palace with wife Anne during his year as Mayor in 1990. In it he describes the garden as being the size of Corporation Park and hoping to catch a glimpse of Diana, Princess of Wales.

We jumped in a London cab, Janet advising us that the London protocol was to share a taxi if it was appropriate. 

As fate would have it, another couple jumped in once we established we shared the same intended destination. The ladies sat facing forward on the proper seats already adjusting and fiddling with their headgear, whilst we chaps sat facing backwards on those flip-down seats.

Knowing Anne as I do, I was given the eye to initiate a conversation. As I opened my mouth it became one of those occasions when even you don’t know what your brain is going to instruct your mouth to say, a bit like the Numbskulls comic strip (from memory, in the Beezer, Topper or Beano?).

‘Been before?’ I enquired. Not having heard our fellow passengers speak before, the most perfect cut crystal glass, public-school-accented reply was quite a shock in both content and delivery.

‘Not this year.’ That hopefully not intended put-down reply stumped the Yorkshireman with a Brummie accent. Anne silently but clearly encouraged me to continue this forlorn interrogation.

‘Have you come far today?’ I was quite impressed with my improvised line of questioning.

‘Oh no, we live in Town.’ I’m thinking to myself, ‘so do we’ but I remembered and deciphered that, to Home Counties types, ‘Town’ is code to the metro cognoscenti for London. A very loud silence descended again.

‘Have you come down today?’

‘Yes, we’ve flown down on the Shuttle.’ That failed to impress.

‘Are you local authority?’

‘Yes, my wife and I are mayor and mayoress of our town this year.’ ‘Oh, which town?’

‘Blackburn.’

‘Oh.’ My travelling companion’s voice became more awkward and
perplexed even with monosyllables.

‘Do you know to go to the back gate?’
‘No.’

‘Right then, follow us.’

We got to wherever we had to get to and I paid the £2.20 fare. My
new and far more knowledgeable chum then argued about who was going to pay, suddenly handing me a pound and a 10p coin.

At the back gate we were security-checked by soldiers and then my mayoress and I promenaded through the grounds. 

The grounds seemed the size of Blackburn’s Corporation Park, one of the biggest urban parks in Blackburn.

We were entertained by a couple of military bands that took it in turns to play. I remember one of them doing a selection from Simon and Garfunkel. 

I was wearing my best lounge suit, most of the other chaps wearing top hats and morning suits.

It has always seemed to me that posh people talk louder than ordinary people.

And also that morning suits were actually upper-class boiler suits, things to be seen and get drunk in. We spotted one guy with a yellow crossover waistcoat, a purple shirt and a green tie.

Spotting an acquaintance this guy bombastically boomed out, ‘Philip, old chap, congrats indeed!’

We sat quietly in some directors chairs with a cup of tea from a samovar, a little plate of cakes and savouries and a glass of lemonade (the real stuff, not R Whites!).

Two pairs of morning suits and two hats approached and bumped into each other. Top hats were doffed and cheeks offered for pecks. One top hat said to the other, ‘Congrats, did you have any idea of the impending elevation?’
‘Well, I must admit, a pretty good intimation was given.’

‘Good show, well done. Mind you, after all you’ve done, you thoroughly deserve it.’

We knew nothing of this world. We recognised James Anderton, then chief of Manchester police and John Smith the Labour MP. That’s all.

I was sweltering hot and removed my jacket only to be immediately told off by the mayoress. 

One of the army of waitresses went busily past and I asked how many were in attendance. She told me that 8,000 people had been catered for.

The Scottish Yorkshireman in me hurriedly tried to assess the cost of the event in terms of travel, hotels, hire of clothes, etc., and I reckoned not less than 3 million quid, if not loads more than that, as we were doing it economy style.

Then it happened. A loose scrum, or perhaps more aptly an Eton Wall Game manoeuvre began, obscuring something or other from view. ‘It’s them. They’re here.’ We missed it!

Seemingly it was the emergence from the palace of Her Majesty the Queen, Prince Charles, Princess Diana, the Princess Royal, Mark Phillips, the Duke of Edinburgh and Sarah Ferguson.

I was sent to see if I could see at five-foot-eight what my mayoress at around five-foot couldn’t see. The answer was: not much more.

I’m starting to formulate a theory that not only do posh people talk more audibly than the rest of us but also, they are taller too.

I invited my mayoress to accompany me on a promenade of the grounds, which she graciously accepted.

We’d been there around an hour and a half, we’d seen everything that we were likely to see including Anne stretching possibly to five-foot-two on tippy toes to catch a glimpse of Princess Diana.

As we’d parted company from the ‘Back-Gates’, they’d recommended that we could leave via the palace. We mounted some steps and entering through some French windows we found ourselves actually inside Buckingham Palace. Were we allowed in, I wondered?

Still referring to my notes of the occasion, it was cool and comparatively dark inside. 

Every room had massive display cabinets in every corner crammed with what I thought was horrible but inevitably priceless china. Invitees, I thought perhaps not wishing to look like they were anxious to dash away from the event, nodded knowingly at the exhibits. 

Little cards leant against each piece described what it was. I thought I’d take a punt at it and said in my best booming voice,‘I told you it was a Mecklenburg, dear.’

Sir Bill Taylor will be hosting the forthcoming book signing sessions:

Blackburn Golf Club - Meeting Room (Courtesy of Captain)
1:30pm - 2:30pm Sunday 10 December.

Bangor St Community Centre in the presence of His Worshipful The Mayor.
11am Sunday 17 December.