I was working at the Medical Research Council in Carshalton, Surrey, in the 1960s: more specifically at the new State of the Art Neuropsychiatric Unit – when I ‘sorta’ – met Princ Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh –
The British Government deemed this building a flagship to the rising importance of science. To prove it, we were to be officially opened by His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh, who was already known to champion all things ‘odd.”
The new Nut Hut was a long narrow single-story building, with an inner windowed courtyard flanked by four corridors that connected four long sets of laboratories and interconnecting rooms. The labs were set up with everything necessary for Vivisection. This included sinks and disposable units for ‘waste’ that fell automatically into a tube that went to an incinerator. Other push-me-pull-me devices allowed for utensil storage, Bunsen burners, and the like, all of which always impressed me no end.
As The Day got nearer, we received communication from Buck Palace regarding protocol, security, etc. and the estimated time of arrival was discussed along with a program of events suitable for his Royal Highness. Media and law enforcement were duly notified. As the recipient of the visitation, we had little input. On Monday, before the proposed Friday event, a distinguished gentleman came with an entourage to ‘walk the intended walk’. I was the only one available to show him around so found myself puffing up with pride as I demonstrated with virtually no real comprehension, all the ‘thingies’ that could be pushed or pulled. I was disappointed to find, ‘they were not amused,’ and were far more interested in the location of lavatories – “Just in case….”.
The Friday of the visit was the last in the month, usually reserved for vivisection, and this week was to be no exception, as it was the last possible date to dispose of some very expensive chickens – Rhode Island Reds – that had been held in strict quarantine. Originally it was thought that as the Prince would be attending in the morning, the science staff would simply put the project back into the afternoon – thus working late if necessary. However, with the Prince being known to be a little erratic in his time-tabling, it was then decided to hold the activity the day before.
Thus Thursday morning saw all our young doctors and their technicians fully involved in the decapitation of two dozen squawking chickens, extracting the brain cortex, fixing in dry ice, and generally doing poncey science-like stuff. However, as it was only the head and brain being used, the body did not necessarily need to be disposed of via the incinerators. The young, ever-hungry technicians had joined the team to dismember the remainders for plucking and further preparation for the cooking pot-.
All of this was well underway and a certain joy-de-Vivre was in the air as all anticipated the Coq-au-vin supper. I was in the office in the midst of lacquering my nails also in preparation for the revelries when the telephone rang. It was Alfie, the Security Guard on the gate.
His Royal Highness and retinue were on their way. Living up to his reputation, and in a fit of Princely pique, the Duke had decided to come a day earlier – “To see what really went on in those places.”
Panic, Chaos and a good deal of considerably fast running in three-inch stilettos and a tight skirt did not do much for my reputation either. (Remember – it’s the 60’s no mobiles – and few telephones.)
I ran around the labs screaming like a Banshee something akin to “The Prince is coming, The Prince is coming.” which then transferred the panic and chaos to all around me. The chicken carcasses were quickly scooped into the pull-out-drawers along with the feathers, bloodied lab coats were quickly thrown into others, Brand new ones, ready for the morrow, still with price labels on collars and cuffs were donned, and unbelievably seconds before H.R.H. walked into the labs, all was clean and calm.
He was charming. He walked the walk and talked the talk, obviously impressed, and extremely well behaved. Didn’t need the lavatory once. The staff relaxed. The odd joke was exchanged. There were smiles all around as he showed genuine interest and asked about the credentials of the doctors, the intended use of compiled data, and the use of the equipment.
And then he did it.
He pulled out one of the pull-down drawers for inspection, with a cheery, “So what’s this for?”
The hatch jerked towards him. Into the air flew the soft white down and feathers of twenty-four chickens, straight over Himself, covering his expensive dark-gray suit in marshmallow white fluff. As he flailed his arms, so the fluff went further, hither and thither, like a slow-motion explosion of confetti, now covering his hair in premature white. For a moment it was deathly quiet. As junior staff we fled to the sanctuary of the connecting lab. We had no loyalty whatsoever. From the intervening window we could see our high profile, Director, gently pulling white bits from the prince’s clothing, an act quickly repeated by his minders in ever-increasing fervor. Phillip stood quietly with his arms outstretched, like a living scarecrow, waiting patiently for them to finish. He had a bemused smile on his face, and when at a satisfactory level simply said, “Thank you, gentlemen. A little pampering does wonders for the soul. I feel so much better for that.”
As the official party then made for the door, we heard him mutter, “And I do compliment you all on your resourcefulness. I’ll be able to report to Treasury that absolutely Nothing is wasted in your labs. Enjoy your dinner.”
*****
