The Day of the Beast
Bill, Hillary and Me
Bill and Hillary, enjoying the End of History
Joe Biden’s attending Her Majesty the Queen’s funeral in London. This means British journalists get to recycle breathy articles about POTUS’s famously over-the-top security arrangements. This invariably includes a profile of ‘The Beast’, the US President’s monstrous limousine. The Beast is the automotive equivalent of an Imperial battle cruiser. If you want to know how powerful it is, I’ve even heard it’s exempt from Mayor Khan’s LEZ.
And once upon a time in a Galaxy far, far away, I saw The Beast for real.
It was a damp November day in 1995. I was part of a team of officers (for pre-planned events the police call them ‘Serials’) taken off routine duties to protect Winfield House, the US Ambassador’s London residence. This involved patrolling a tiny culvert, presumably in order to spot enemy frogmen. Nobody told me why, although President Clinton was in London en route to Belfast. There, he’d help kick off the process ultimately leading to the Good Friday Agreement. Perhaps someone feared the Red Hand Commando had a squad of kamikaze scuba divers on the books.
In reality, I was simply a piece of human scenery; a British bobby wearing a Victorian helmet. The real security was provided by US Secret Service agents. Equally exciting were the dangerous-looking US Marines prowling the grounds in combat gear; it was dusk, a Black Hawk helicopter half-hidden beneath a camouflage net, radios crackling while troops swept the perimeter with night-vision gear.
All in the middle of London.
The Secret Service were friendly and very, very American. A surprising number were diminutive men of Italian descent (they’ll tell you, no need to ask), moustachioed and wearing identikit London Fog raincoats and paperboy caps. It was like being surrounded by a squad of heavily-armed Joe Pesci lookalikes. Sharing a heated marquee, we were provided with an endless supply of coffee and donuts. The Americans wanted to chat about what it was like being a London cop. This was a buttering-up exercise before they tried to persuade you to part with your iconic British police helmet. I was offered Secret Service lapel pins and a surprising amount of cash for mine. Sadly, I only had one and (a) it was on my head, and (b) it belonged to the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.
By early evening the frogman threat had receded and I was reassigned to be a piece of street furniture outside Winfield House. The President and First Lady were having dinner with the Prime Minister, John Major, their convoy headed for Westminster. Which was when I saw the Beasts.
Yes, Beasts.
In 1995 America was still a bona fide hyper-power, flush from its Cold War victory over the USSR. It was the End of History, right? The twentysomething me was astonished, and deeply impressed, that there were TWO convoys – a real one and a decoy to baffle any would-be attackers. Each convoy was identical, like the entourage of 20th Century Xerxes; police motorcyclists, trucks full of Secret Service agents, counter-ambush teams, US air force field ambulances, support vehicles, 40-seater minibuses loaded with flunkies, courtiers and journalists…
One convoy turned left and the other right, a cavalcade of highly-polished coachwork. Each of the gleaming Beasts flew the Stars-and-Stripes, fluttering under Regents Park's amber streetlights. I stood next to the convoy turning right, away from the natural route you’d normally take to Westminster. That would have to be the real convoy, surely? Or was it a double bluff?
The Beast passed by, close enough to touch. And visible through the passenger’s window, the glass not as tinted as I expected, was Hilary. She looked happy. Her hair was, I remember, very blonde. Bill was looking in the other direction, ruddy-faced and smiling.
At least, I think it was them.
I know it's not Top Trumps, but I've sat in the Beast. Reagan was visiting in 84 and took over the top floor of the Cumberland Hotel in W1. Me and a mate were floating around outside, on night duty uniform 'security', just in case the heavily armed Secret Service chaps needed someone shouted at and tapped on the head with a bit of balsa. The Beast was parked just outside the hotel foyer with an unimpressed Secret Service probationer looking after it. We got talking, and after the internationally recognised 'what no gun, not even a small one?' incredulous conversation, he asked if we wanted to sit in the back. The door was about a foot thick, and when he slammed it, my ears popped like in my old VW beetle. The Beast looked a bit tired inside, and smelt of hospitals and aftershave. I've never wished I had an I've met the Met sticker on me more than that night.
Listen to the Rest Is Politics with Campbell and Stewart dated 15th July where AC tells highly amusing tale of the SB Prot Team leaders response to the US SS team leader boasts. Its so Branch and apparently totally genuine.