'The Footrace'

Another Episode of Simon's Embarrassing Moments

Al Jazeera snapped this photograph of my nephews and I on a backstreet in a small town in the south of France a few years ago. I didn't even notice the photographer, he approached me afterwards to say he'd taken a great picture and to email him if I wanted a copy.

I'm going to change his name because he's super famous, has since become a good mate and probably wouldn't want this story recounted. I'm going to assign him the pseudonym Rupert Snodgras because he's an upper middle-class Englishman from the south east and I think it fits.

We got to know Rupert and his wife well. They own a home in town and it's not very big so we'd encounter each other pretty much every day. Share meals, enjoy a drink together in the town square, that sort of thing. They wondered why there were more Gendarme all of a sudden, more than they'd seen before: we knew and were forbidden to tell them it was because of my mum’s birthday.

One evening Lockie and Alex arrived from London for the party and to stay with us for a few days. It had been a long drive so Lockie and I went into the town square for a glass of rosé so he could stretch his legs. Just two nondescript Kiwi jokers in shorts and t-shirts, wearing jandals, casual as. We encountered Rupert along the way.

"Bloody hell cobbers even more flamin' Kiwis!" exclaimed Rupert, affecting the worst approximation of an Australasian accent I've ever head. "Who's this joker?"

I turned to face Lockie. "Excellency, may I present the celebrated photojournalist Rupert Snodgrass from Al Jazeera."

The forms must be obeyed.

"Rupert, this is His Excellency Sir Alexander Smith, our representative to the Court at St. James."

Rupert's jaw dropped, like he's just committed a thermonuclear faux pas which to some extent, he had.

"Giiiidaaaaay Rupert" said Lockie, broadening his accent to comical proportions.

I don’t think ambassadors are supposed to blatantly take the piss.

-SRA. Auckland, 30/iv 2024.