Receiving Our MBE at Buckingham Palace | Real British Military Life, Royal Encounters & Brotherhood

Join us for an unforgettable chapter in The Parallel Four — the day we stepped through the gates of Buckingham Palace to receive our MBE medals. From covert ops to cucumber sandwiches, this is real British military life at its most extraordinary.

Follow Stephen, Johan, Vinka, and Marlin as they swap deserts for dress blues and find themselves face-to-face with royalty. Expect laughter, pride, and a few surprises — including conversations with Princess Anne, the Duchess of Wessex, and Prince Philip himself.

We’ll take you behind the ceremony: the early-morning precision, the shine of medals, the Sergeant Major’s knowing grin, and the surreal shift from Helmand to Her Majesty’s garden party. Later, dinner at the Tower of London seals a week of royal encounters, military humour, and timeless friendship.

If you love true stories of service, honour, and camaraderie — mixed with travel, history, and a dash of British wit — you’ll feel right at home here.

🎖️ Military life. Real stories. True friendships.

Transcript

Late August 2009 finally rolled around, and with it the momentous day when the four of us were to receive our MBE's at Buckingham Palace. For us, it was never going to be a quiet formality. No, this was an occasion worthy of its own operation order—and a celebration to match.

We went in style, booking five nights at the Special Forces Club in Knightsbridge. That place has soaked up more stories than a confession booth. The walls practically whispered secrets, the bar had seen more covert operations than half the battlefields we’d served on, and the air still carried that old mix of leather chairs, dark oak panelling, cigars, medals, and—let’s be honest—suppressed trauma.

The morning of the big day, we were up before the birds—so early the poor kitchen staff were still ironing the bacon. Breakfast came out like a military operation in itself: a full English with every trimmings tray deployed, a pot of tea vast enough to drown in, and precisely the right dose of black pudding to fortify a formal bow.

Vinka spent most of the meal giving me side-eye, reminding me that “Her Majesty does not knight ketchup stains,” which meant I had to treat my dress blues like they were made of crystal. Once suitably stuffed and starched, we flagged a black cab. The driver clocked the uniforms and medals, squinted at us in the rear-view, and asked if we were extras from some period drama. Without missing a beat, Johan piped up: “Sort of. We’re the midlife-crisis chapter.”

The cab dropped us at the North Gate of Buckingham Palace, where an usher awaited—so immaculate he looked as though he’d been pressed between two encyclopaedias. His moustache alone could’ve sliced a Victoria sponge. With a polite nod, he led us across the forecourt and into the inner courtyard, every stone screaming grandeur. Even under the weight of several kilos of medal ribbon, I still felt strangely underdressed.

Inside, we were ushered into the Long Gallery to wait with the other honourees. The room gleamed—paintings, chandeliers, carpets that looked too posh to walk on. One chap, there for an OBE, leaned over and asked what we were getting our MBE's for. I gave him the straightest face I could manage and said, “Mainly for mischief… and the occasional global impact.”

Before we were let anywhere near the Ballroom, a royal equerry delivered a briefing with the gravity of a man defusing high explosives. Where to walk, when to bow, how to address royalty—it was choreography on a knife edge. Stephen, of course, couldn’t resist asking, “Any jokes?” The equerry didn’t so much as twitch, just replied, “Not unless you want to be tackled by the Coldstream Guards.” That settled that.

When my name was called, I stepped forward with all the swagger of a man who once defused an IED with nothing but a penknife and duct tape. Her Majesty gave me the sort of smile that cut straight through the medals and starch, and then—blow me down—she said: “I believe I gave you a Military Medal once before?” My brain scrambled. What I nearly said was, And you’ve got a cracking memory, Ma’am! What actually came out was a bow, a grin big enough to make me look like a naughty schoolboy, and a very quiet, “Thank you very much, Ma’am.”

After the ceremony we were whisked across to Wellington Barracks, straight into the Sergeant’s Mess for lunch with none other than the Garrison Sergeant Major himself—a man as unmistakable as ever, his bald head gleaming with the authority of decades on parade squares. The tables were set like a regimental wedding: silverware polished, roast lamb steaming, and glasses filled with wine far too fine to have ever graced a field ration pack.

We raised a toast, swapped war stories that grew taller with each round, and somewhere between pudding and port managed to charm the barracks tailors into mounting our brand-new MBE's there and then. One of them shook his head with a grin and said, “You lot are lucky—normally we charge extra for last-minute gallantry.”

Good job too, because just forty-eight hours later we were back through the Palace gates—this time for a royal reception. One minute we were mingling in the Queen’s drawing room, the next we were striding through the Tower of London for a formal dinner. From her parlour to her dungeon in the same week—only we could pull that off without blinking.

It felt surreal, the contrast—velvet carpets and crystal chandeliers on Monday, ancient stone walls and flickering torches by Thursday. But that was us in a nutshell: slipping from pomp to pageantry to pure history, grinning all the while.

By this point, Marlin and I practically jingled when we walked. Our medal racks had grown into proper chest armour—now court mounted, gleaming, and swinging as one like ceremonial banners in a breeze. Each of us wore twelve: the brand-new MBE, Northern Ireland with an oak leaf for our Mention-in-Despatches, the First Gulf (also with an oak leaf), Kosovo, Macedonia, Afghanistan, Sierra Leone, Iraq, the Golden Jubilee, the Diamond Jubilee, the Accumulated Campaign Medal, and the Volunteer Reserve Service Medal with clasp. It was a lot of history to pin on one jacket.

Johan and I weren’t exactly lightweight either. Fourteen apiece, also freshly court mounted: the MBE, Military Medal, Northern Ireland, UN Cyprus, the First Gulf, Kosovo, Macedonia, Afghanistan, Sierra Leone, Iraq, both Jubilees, the Accumulated Campaign Medal, and the VRSM with clasp. Stand us in a breeze and we rattled like a regimental tambourine. Sorting that lot—plus the miniatures—was a monumental job, but the tailors pulled it off. By the time we strolled back into the Mess for lunch, every medal was polished, mounted, and gleaming. The Garrison Sergeant Major looked fit to burst with pride—as if he’d hammered out the medals himself—though we suspected it was the tailors who’d truly earned the applause.

The next day dawned with weather so flawless it might as well have been hand-picked by the Met Office and delivered with a note: Do not embarrass Her Majesty. Bright blue skies, warm sunshine, not a cloud in sight. With a few hundred other guests on the list, we left the Special Forces Club and hailed a taxi to Buckingham Palace. The moment we stepped onto the pavement, a ripple went through the crowd—oohs, murmurs, and a fair few sideways glances.

An usher spotted us just as we were about to join the queue with the rest of the mortals. In he swooped, sharp as a royal falcon, and steered us straight to the North Gate and through to the forecourt. Not because we were famous—well, not exactly—but because the four of us in full Blues, chest racks polished until they sparkled like disco balls, did make quite the sight. Heads turned, jaws dropped, and one poor woman nearly curtsied by mistake.

We marched in step across the forecourt, the girls leading like a decorated honour guard, and passed beneath the central arch into the inner courtyard. Inside the Palace’s Long Room, who should be waiting but the Garrison Sergeant Major again—by now, he was beginning to feel less like an official and more like a very well-dressed uncle. With a crisp nod, he ushered us to a prime spot.

“You’ll be presented to a member of the Royal Family,” he said, letting the suspense hang just long enough for us to shuffle uniforms, check medal alignment, and quietly practise our bow's. Johan, naturally, ignored the drill and settled on a wink instead. Some habits die hard.

Stepping out into the garden felt like walking straight into a Jane Austen adaptation—if Jane Austen had invited Paras and commandos to tea. The lawn stretched out before us, perfectly manicured and glowing under the sun. To the left stood a vast marquee, the scent of Earl Grey drifting temptingly from within, cucumber sandwiches lined up with military precision, each one a little green-edged soldier on parade.

Off to the right, the Household Division band were in full swing—something cheerful and vaguely patriotic, all brass and polish, enough trumpet to make a corgi snap to attention. The lawn itself was dotted with small clusters of guests, murmuring politely in the Queen’s English. Light summer suits and flowing dresses caught the sun, broken up here and there by a splash of uniform—ours included—adding just the right touch of regimental steel to all that garden-party gentility.

There we were—tea in one hand, cucumber sandwich in the other, pinkies extended to the absolute maximum—when an equerry materialised with the grace of a Bond butler and asked if we’d like to be presented to Her Royal Highness, the Princess Royal. Would we like to? The only thing we wanted more was another sandwich, but this came a close second. Buttons were checked, medals straightened, and we did our best to hide the fact we’d just been giggling about the absurdity of posh tea etiquette.

And then—there she was. Princess Anne in the flesh. Razor-sharp, gracious, and with a dry humour that could cut steel. The girls were instantly charmed, even if they found it hilarious that at five-foot-ten apiece, they towered over her. At fifty-three, they still looked like Bond girls who’d traded in their Walther PPKs for pearls and silk. The Princess, clocking their resemblance, asked if they were sisters. “Only in crime and adventure,” Marlin quipped, flashing that smile of hers that could talk its way out of a war zone or into a palace.

Immaculately turned out in her Royal Navy uniform, Princess Anne then turned her gaze on Johan and Stephen, her eyes flicking over the Commando flashes and SAS wings. “Ah, quite the collection,” she said, one eyebrow arching with all the weight of an interrogation. The boys explained the path—Royal Marines to Royal Anglians, then into the SAS, and somehow back again.

She seemed properly impressed by the rack of medals until I spoiled it with my usual foot-in-mouth honesty: “It’s only because no one liked us much—they just kept sending us to all the worst places.” For a heartbeat, I wondered if I’d blown it. Then came the sound—a proper royal chuckle. Not polite, not rehearsed, but real. And that laugh sealed it: a gloriously surreal afternoon we’ll never forget.

Still floating from our chinwag with Princess Anne, we’d barely managed to reload with another cucumber sandwich when the next equerry appeared—this one homing in like a cruise missile in patent leather shoes. With the politeness of a man asking if we fancied another biscuit, he inquired whether we might like to meet Sophie, the Duchess of Wessex. Apparently, she’d requested us. Cue instant chaos: buttons rechecked, crumbs brushed off, and the universal British panic cry—“Are my medals straight?”

And then she arrived—Sophie—stepping into view from a shaft of summer sunlight like something out of a royal Disney scene. I half expected a chorus of bluebirds to strike up behind her. Far more radiant in person than on any telly broadcast, she carried herself with that mix of elegance and mischief that makes you feel instantly at ease.

Her eyes went straight to Marlin and me, both of us standing tall in our Blues, our medal racks wide enough to qualify as structural beams. “So symmetrical!” she said with genuine delight. “Are you two sisters?” I couldn’t help but grin. “Nearly—just married into the same regiment.”

“Swedish, really?” she asked, surprised. “Yes,” Marlin chimed in smoothly, “but we became British at twenty—married a couple of lads we couldn’t shake off.” That earned a perfectly arched royal eyebrow, a warm laugh, and a nod of approval. “Well,” Sophie said, smiling, “it seems to be working out rather well.”

To our surprise, the Duchess lingered, her curiosity far from polite small talk. She asked about our service—where we’d been, what we’d done—and somehow made the conversation feel like it was just between us, despite the hum of hundreds of guests around. When her eyes swept across our medals, she didn’t just nod at the shine; she wanted the stories. Kosovo, Afghanistan, the Gulf… she listened intently, never once glazing over as so many do when the alphabet soup of operations comes out.

Then she turned that same sharp warmth on Johan and me. The Commando flash, the SAS wings, the rows of ribbons—she took it all in with a knowing glance that suggested she’d done her homework. “Quite the collection,” she said, but with none of the detachment we sometimes get. She meant it. We spoke of families then—the kids, the grandkids, the lives carried on in the spaces between tours. Sophie laughed easily, asked the sort of questions that showed she cared, then, with the poise of someone who knows exactly how long to hold a moment, she smiled, touched Vinka’s arm lightly, and slipped back into the throng.

We watched her go, sunlight catching her hair, and I couldn’t help but think how surreal it all was. From war zones to garden parties, from dusty roads to Buckingham Palace lawns, life had spun us a thread that somehow tied it all together.

We honestly thought that was our curtain call—time to retreat honourably towards the tea tent and stage a tactical withdrawal via the cucumber sandwiches. But then another equerry appeared, this one wearing the sly grin of a man who knew he was about to upend our afternoon. “His Royal Highness The Duke of Edinburgh would like a word,” he announced, as casually as if he were offering us a Hobnob.

Well, you don’t say no to Prince Philip. Not ever. He’d been one of our favourites for years, sharp as a tack and famously irreverent. And the moment we stepped forward, he proved every bit the legend we’d hoped for.

From the moment he opened his mouth, Prince Philip had us in stitches. Unfiltered, razor-sharp, and far too observant for anyone’s comfort. Johan barely got three sentences into explaining our line of work—broadcasting, psyops, intelligence—before His Royal Highness cut him off with a grin: “Ah yes, the lot who know everything but never say a bloody word. Like my wife.” I nearly lost control of my teacup, tea and medals never being a good mix.

Then his gaze swept over our uniforms, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You lot must be trouble,” he said. “The Army always dresses up its most dangerous people the smartest.” We laughed so hard it was all we could do not to rattle like wind chimes. By the time our audience ended, we were half-convinced he could’ve led a patrol himself—had the Taliban surrendering in minutes, either from sheer charm or pure exhaustion from laughing too hard.

We left Buckingham Palace absolutely beaming—and, truth told, a bit stunned. Like competition winners who’d just walked off the stage of some surreal royal game show. But basking in the glory wasn’t an option. One glance at the watches and the reality hit—we had about fifteen minutes to leg it back to the Club, swap into full Mess Kit, and then blast across London to the Tower of London for a formal dinner. No pressure at all.

What followed was a military-speed transformation worthy of the Quick Reaction Force. Jackets whipped on, buttons flying, medals jangling, hair being wrestled into place. At one point Johan somehow managed to get half a sock lodged in his waistcoat, which nearly set us all off giggling again. Somehow, though, in record time, four ex-operators were starched, polished, and ready to storm the Tower—this time as guests, not invaders.

We bundled into a black cab with the urgency of four people late for their own wedding, medals still settling as we rattled off through London traffic. By the time we pulled up at the Tower, the sun was laying a golden sheen across the Thames—postcard perfect, if a little sweatier than the tourist brochures suggested.

At the gate we were greeted by a Yeoman Warder in full regalia, the very picture of a Beefeater—so much so you half-expected tonic water and a slice of lime to appear at his side. Next to him stood our old boss, now proudly wearing the uniform of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, grinning like a cat who’d not only got the cream but arranged the whole dairy delivery. He welcomed us as guests of honour to a regimental dinner inside the Tower’s museum. Just your average Thursday night out, then.

The evening was nothing short of magical. We dined beneath those great vaulted ceilings, the walls hung with ancient standards, swords, and relics older than most nations in the Commonwealth. Every surface whispered history, and every guest seemed to carry a story or two of their own—usually starting with “you remember that time…” and ending in laughter loud enough to rattle the glassware.

The wine kept nudging us—just one more glass—and we obeyed until our cheeks glowed with that warm mix of satisfaction and a touch of Merlot. When the port finally arrived, it was vintage enough to make some of the junior officers we once trained look positively youthful. Glasses were raised high, to friendships that don’t fade but only grow richer with age—like a good tweed jacket or a medal that’s been polished just a bit too often.

Stepping out of the museum into the night felt like walking straight into a painting. The Tower walls glowed gold under the floodlights, every stone steeped in centuries of whispers. The Thames rolled dark and steady beside us, catching flickers of moonlight, while the evening air cooled our wine-flushed cheeks. For a moment, we just stood there, four silhouettes in Mess Kit, trying to take it all in.

It was one of those pinch-me moments—the kind you file away knowing nothing quite like it will happen again. From Buckingham Palace lawns to dining in the Queen’s dungeon, all within a week, it felt like we’d crammed a lifetime of pomp and history into a few glorious days. As we made our way out through the gates, medals glinting under the lamps, I couldn’t help but grin. “Not bad for a couple of kids from Poplar and Ellös, eh?”

Slightly merry—read: giggling like schoolchildren—we bundled into a taxi back to the Special Forces Club. One last nightcap was shared at the bar, strictly medicinal of course, before we retired upstairs with the delicious sense that we’d just wandered through a scene from a Bond film. All the glamour, none of the explosions, and just enough tuxedo polish to carry it off.

The next morning dawned brighter than expected, though perhaps that was just the port still humming in our veins. Breakfast was kept light and dignified: coffee, toast, and the kind of knowing smiles that said we got away with it. Johan and I polished up in our sharpest suits, shoes gleaming like parade mirrors, while Vinka and Marlin swept in wearing brand-new frocks so elegant half the Club’s members froze mid-broadsheet just to stare.

That day brought yet another invitation—because apparently, our old bosses had formed a secret club dedicated to keeping our diaries full. This time it was lunch at the Honourable Artillery Company, tucked away in one of their private dining rooms.

And this wasn’t your standard regimental feed. This was the full white-linen treatment: silver cutlery polished within an inch of its life, and waiters who moved with the precision of MI5 operatives. The guest list? Top-tier. Can’t say who—classified faces, hush-hush titles—but let’s just say it wasn’t the sort of crowd you’d find queuing at Tesco on a Saturday morning. The food was exceptional, the wine divine, and the conversation the sort that makes you pinch yourself later and wonder if it really happened. One of those afternoons that stays with you for weeks, tucked away like a medal you don’t need to shine to remember.

That evening, still buzzing from port, medals, and a week of royal hobnobbing, we rounded off our London escapade with tickets to Half a Sixpence at the Noel Coward Theatre. Charlie Stemp bounded onto the stage as Arthur Kipps with such energy that Marlin and I were instantly smitten.

“Look at those legs—far too nice for a musical lead,” Marlin whispered. Vinka, never missing a beat, shot back, “And he can dance better than you lot.” The pair of them were in fits while Johan and I just rolled our eyes and tried not to admit she was right.

We’d seen the show half a dozen times before, but this performance had a particular sparkle—maybe it was the week, maybe it was Charlie himself—but we found ourselves tapping along all the way back to the Special Forces Club.

Exhausted yet elated, we slipped into the bar for one last nightcap. Four grinning veterans, looking for all the world like theatre kids who’d just met their crush at the stage door. A perfect curtain call to a week that still feels half like a dream.

And then there was the little extra magic that tied the whole week together—not a single cabbie charged us a penny. Mess Kit, Blues, or civvies, it made no difference. Every driver just tipped his cap and said, “On the house, Gov.” Maybe we looked respectable for once, maybe they thought we were royalty slumming it incognito.

I told the lads it was clearly the medals. With the way they rattled and flashed in the sunlight, they probably acted like some sort of veteran Oyster Card—tap your chest, and London waves you through. Either way, it felt like the city itself was quietly tipping its hat, and we loved every moment of it.

The next morning we checked out of the Club, waved a fond goodbye to Knightsbridge, and rattled north on the train back to Hitchin. The plan was simple: a quiet weekend to let it all sink in. After a week like that—cucumber sandwiches, royal banter, Yeoman Warders, port older than some nations, and a theatre crush thrown in for good measure—it felt as if we’d just wandered out of a fairytale.