Britain haemorrhages history, with a host of ghosts in every nook and cranny. Whether monarchist or republican, it was fascinating to watch Charles and Camilla being stitched into time’s tapestry, with all that pomp and pageantry.
If Brits could choose Olympic categories in which you’d be guaranteed gold, they’d be queueing, quipping, pomping and pageantry-ing. Nobody does it better.
Like most plebs, I watched the coronation in my PJs, while secretly fantasising that I could be the broad with the sword. Penny Mordaunt, poised and dignified, didn’t display any upper-arm wobblage despite the weight of that huge Excalibur. (Just as well, as accidental beheadings are not a good look on the day.)
Friends were texting me from the abbey: where was Harry? Would he be given a seat with a restricted view? As in, from a cell in the Tower? I was disappointed no eccentric toff took the invitation to wear a suit as an excuse to don clanking heirloom armour. Although, as female dignitaries filed into the abbey, some of their hats were so ornate that I felt sure they’d have to be moved in and out of their seats by servants using block and tackle.
As the ceremony kicked off, my pal Helena Kennedy, the human rights lawyer, suddenly made an appearance. I called out of the window to my Irish boyfriend that Helena was carrying Camilla’s rod. “They’re going fishing?” he asked, bemused.
I only fish for compliments and refused to pull my head in until I’d elicited one, as I was wearing my Swarovski tiara. Yes, it’s an incongruous look with floral jammies, but in Australia we have inverted snobbery: convict stock makes you antipodean royalty. My ancestors were transported on the first and second fleets, making me the creme de la crim. When I first met Charles at the Australian high commission, 30-odd years ago, I cheekily explained this, concluding: “So, g’day, from one aristocrat to another!” The prince twinkled then pretended to pat his pockets to check for his wallet.
A fact few Brits seem to know about your new king is that he has a cracking sense of humour. Charles has always sought the company of court jesters, from Spike Milligan and Barry Humphries to Miriam Margolyes and Stephen Fry. My favourite example of his deliciously self-deprecating humour took place at a dinner in Billy Connolly’s Aberdeenshire castle. Billy told me how Robin Williams and Eric Idle were teasing him for holding socialist beliefs while being lord of his own manor. “Come the revolution,” Billy quipped, “we’ll all live in castles like this!” The then Prince of Wales laughed softly: “Well, I won’t.”
His observation was apt. Two-thirds of Brits polled before the celebrations indicated that they didn’t care, or cared very little, about the upcoming anointing. The royal couple’s recorded tube announcement, wishing people a happy coronation weekend, concludes with the king reminding us to “mind the gap”. Well, republicans are making that very point: in a cost of living crisis, is it right for the UK to spend £100m or so on all this ermine-robed extravagance?
Just as I was getting dressed to pop down to the palace for a bit of balcony action, one of my kids, who was at the republican protest, called to report that peaceful demonstrators were being arrested. All this was taking place not far from the statue of Charles I, who lost his head for similar repressions. I was about to forgo the Buck House flypast to go and post bail but, assured all was well, set off for the Mall.
I soon found myself among a happy throng chanting “Long live the king” and moments later, the euphoric couple, crowned and gowned, were beaming down on us. But it was their beam at each other that proved the best moment of the day – a tender look between two devoted lovers that said: “We bloody well made it.”
The big question is, will this new Carolean age resonate with young people? Harry’s book Spare besmirched the Firm’s brand with the younger British generation. Talk to most Aussie kids about the king, and they presume you’re referring to Elvis Presley in Baz Luhrmann’s biopic. Some Aussie backpackers are staying with me. They happened to stroll past the TV, mid-service. As the choir burst into soaring song, the screen flashed up the name of Andrew Lloyd Webber. “That’s an incredibly odd musical,” one of them said. “What’s it called?” “Um, the coronation,” I replied. When the chandelier didn’t crash to the ground, a la Phantom, they got bored and moved on.
But there’s one aspect of the king’s agenda that will definitely resonate with both Zoomers and boomers – his environmental campaigning. Normally you have to perform open-heart surgery to know what’s going on inside an upper-class Englishman, but Charles has always been completely forthright about his passion for conservation.
The queen kindly sent me an invitation to the coronation concert, so I rummaged in my wardrobe for something suitably sparkly, then realised it was an outdoor show and the weather looked worrying. I decided to think of it as Chaz-tonbury, and just wore wellies with my tiara.
Here’s hoping I run into Charles again soon, because now he’s inherited the crown jewels those pockets of his are finally worth picking.
Kathy Lette is the author of 20 books, the latest of which is Till Death, or a Little Light Maiming, Do Us Part
