74 years in the making, but one thing we couldn’t prepare for was the rain pissing on one’s parade. Sent a text to the Pope this morning to see if anything could be done, but still waiting for an answer. It’s hard to defend the faith with this weather.
It had always been decided to have a slimmed down Coronation, mainly due to the financial crisis we currently find ourselves in. For this reason, we also decided to scale back on the evening Coronation banquet too, serving roast peacock instead of swan.
From Buckingham Palace, Camilla and I would leave in the Gold State Coach, taking in Pall Mall, Piccadilly and Marble Arch via Embassy, finishing with the Sovereign at Westminster Abbey. Camilla would then decide on the day which brand of cigarette she’ll smoke after the ceremony.
European royals, world leaders, heads of state and public figures were invited to witness one’s crowning. Even former UK Prime Ministers and other minor Royals like Boris Johnson, Liz Truss and the Duke of York gathered for the Coronation, although whoever invited them is facing an eternal staycation at the Tower of London. And why does Boris Johnson still insist on brushing his hair in the morning with a toffee apple?
To be honest, it was handy having them all there, as despite being retired for everyone’s safety, they were dutifully employed shovelling 500 tonnes of horse shit from the procession route once proceedings had ended.
It seemed to take an actual age for the Archbishop of Canterbury to put the sodding crown on one’s sodding head. One wasn’t 100% sure I’d make it. Sword, sceptre, spoon, ring, glove, orb – one’s crowning moment was like a Royal game of Buckaroo!
Crown > head. Wham, bam, thank you Ma’am – back into the Gold State Coach to witness the RAF fly over the Palace, and onto the continent to intimidate France. Next time there’s an occasion of such importance, one’s taking the Bentley. The carriage plays havoc with one’s arse.
God save the King!
~King Charles III~
