“Duch of the terrace knows all her heritage
Says she’s Henry’s kid
Knows all her history in the family
Needs a man, god forbid
God forbid
Says she’s an heiress, sits in her terrace
Says she’s got time to kill
Time to kill
And the Rodneys are queuing up
God forbid
And they all want to win the cup
God forbid
Duchess, duchess…”
— Duchess, The Stranglers, 1979
Well, this is a bit spooky. Forgive one for condensing the lyrics to The Stranglers’ end-of-decade No. 14 hit, but the Duchess of the song who “says she’s an heiress”, (i.e. from aristocratic stock) yet “lives on a terrace”, suggesting her branch of nobility have fallen on hard times, wasn’t based on Katharine, Duchess of Kent, who has died at the age of 92 — the oldest member of the royal family after the death of Queen Elizabeth II — yet the similarities are uncanny.
You’ll notice that she “knows all the history in the family” and “says she’s Henry’s kid”. This is an obvious reference to being descended from King Henry VIII, who her husband the Duke of Kent certainly was, while Katharine hailed from a family line that included the arch republican Oliver Cromwell. Oh, the irony.
Where “the Rodneys” come in is linked to the earlier line “Needs a man, God Forbid”. Rodney symbolises the kind of nouveau-riche chancers and social climbers forever on the make but with no “breeding”, who trail around marriageable aristocratic femmes, to try and buy into “class”.
But why Rodney?
Because, nobody with any class would ever call their son Rodney. The name reeks of a plebby wheeler-dealer who her parents will disapprove of. Think Only Fools And Horses or Rod Stewart.
But “We all want to win the cup”? Hmm, a men’s tennis trophy perhaps? Perhaps there was an oblique reference to the Duchess of Kent after all.
“Excuse me, you’re not by any chance the Duke of Kent, are you?”
“No, no, no, you’ve got the wrong person there.”
— Fawlty Towers, The Hotel Inspectors, 1975
Well, close. The Duchess of Kent was probably my favourite royal, if indeed I can permit myself to have such a thing.
She was the one in the pre-Diana age that it was cool to like: the HRH of the swinging 60s and 70s who was impossibly glamorous yet careful never to give the tabloids the merest whiff of sandal, unlike that viper-tongued egomaniac Princess Margaret.
A kindly, empathetic presence within the Windsor firmwork, the woman born Katharine Lucy Mary Worsley on 22 February 1933 (Kenneth Williams’ seventh birthday, triv fans) was officially a ‘commoner’ like Diana, Fergie and indeed the gin-swilling porker that was the Queen Mum. Though she was hardly bog-standard aspirational middle class like the other Katherine who will probably be queen before too long.
Alas, it’s a lazy cliché to suggest she was most like Diana because other than they were both pretty blondes who — in the face of creeping conservatism — were trusted friends to the gays, I’d say the similarities end there.
We all used to watch the Wimbledon finals not only to witness tennis at its most gruntily high-powered but also to see this elegant, poised but distinctly unstuffy creature radiate her way on to Centre Court to hand out the winners’ trophies.
Then we’d study her body language to determine which players she liked the most. She reserved a kiss only for true greats like Martina Navratilova, but of course the most famous exchange went to fellow Czech Jana Novotná, who started blubbing all fountain-like at her loss, leading to the Duchess consoling the runner up as tears rained down on her immaculate ivory two-piece.
It’s still one of the great humanitarian images of our times, I think.
Bowing to the deference of the age, the microphones were always muted back then but apparently she told Novotná: “I know you can do it.” Five years later the Duchess did indeed present her with the winning plate.
That you rarely heard her speak added to the glamorous Hollywood-style mystique. She wasn’t in it for the ‘celebrity’ like certain two-a-penny tarts of recent times.
And — this is the most remarkable bit of all — when her marriage became rocky she didn’t connive her way on to the front pages on some bitch-troll revenge mission, or calculatedly collaborate on tacky tomes tomes or naff Netflix shows.
No titanic self-obsession or woe-is-me act or titanic self-obsession for this classy creature, because she simply found herself a job as a music teacher at an ordinary state school in Hull, of all places, quietly ditching the HRH and preferring to be known only as Kath or Mrs Kent.
Duch of the terrace did exist, after all.
A Yorkshire lass through then, and a very very remarkable human being — one of the good ones.
Requiescat in pace.
Steve Pafford
