The ardent crowds gathered in the London drizzle presumably got exactly what they had come for, but among the coronation’s garish costumes, impenetrable rituals and perfectly timed salutes and processions, there lurked an unavoidable sense of anticlimax. There he was, hanging on to his orb and sceptre: a very familiar, remarkably glum-looking 74-year-old man, sitting atop a very damaged institution, honoured with a ceremony based on a national religion that no one really follows any more, in a country whose collective mood is not exactly cheerful.
No one needs any reminders of why this is: living costs remain impossible, more strikes loom and the cliche of a country where nothing works perpetually rings true. It is easy to think of the UK – or, more specifically, England – as somewhere that is simply stuck. In that context, as royal rituals always do, the coronation spectacularly served its purpose, presenting nostalgia, continuity and deference as virtues rather than vices.
