So much is going to happen in the next 70 days. Snowdrops will have come and gone, Christ crucified and risen, tomatoes and common sense will have returned to British shop shelves.
And all of this leads to a momentous event in our history, that glorious day in May – trumpets sound – when King Charles is finally crowned.
The celebrations are set to span three days, after which the second Elizabethan age will truly be over when we hear The Age Of – well, what?
In the few days of her tenure as Prime Minister, Liz Truss referred to it as yet another Carolean era, and we can all agree that while the term may be historically accurate, it lacks a certain regal glamor.
It sounds more like a celebratory gathering to sing Away In A Manger, organized by a toothy vicar who scoops mulled wine into withering paper cups. However, I suspect that we will come to know this era as something very different; the beginning of the end of the monarchy.
And all of this leads to a momentous event in our history, that glorious day in May – trumpets sound – when King Charles is finally crowned
King Charles and Queen Camilla? How the heart sinks at the prospect. It’s hard for me to be inspired by the elevation of these former hapless lovers to constitutional head of state and his fragrant consort.
Will the Duke and Duchess of Sussex attend the coronation?
Surely the better question is: why would they want that?
Why attend a ceremony to renew an institution they have accused of racism and Meghan claims she treated her so badly that she considered killing herself and her unborn child?
That’s before we get to the big brother who got more sausages for breakfast, the father who “literally cuts me off financially,” and the sister-in-law who made Meghan cry. If any of this is true, why would the Sussexes ever want anything to do with them again? Please reply on a Netflix postcard.
Yes, they seem like absolutely lovely people who have worked for countless good causes. And yes, they always look their best on duty, shuffling around in their mossy tweeds or evening velvet dresses and exuding sparkling charm when need be.
There is also no question that in their twilight years they serve the country selflessly, albeit with the creaky caution of old age and at a time when they would probably rather be doing something else – like dry-walling or smoking cigarettes.
But let’s face it. Charles and Camilla are as charismatic as a couple of garden gnomes. Can they really be trusted to carry the mantle of monarchy on and onward, appeal to a new generation and deepen ties of loyalty with the public?
I just can’t see it. Or feel it. Or get it. For together these snowy seventy year olds bring together the combined star power of an Imperial Uncle Bulgaria and Madame Cholet, hampered by an unfortunate lack of attraction and a changing attitude.
Everything was so different at the last coronation. The TV archive footage of the ceremony is still moving, the newspaper photographing living images of an event that seemed authentic and moving.
When the Queen was crowned in 1953 she was a young unknown and a clean side; a dark-haired, serious monarch who put duty first decade after decade. A woman who inspired devotion and even love in her subjects – but can her son ever possess the same depth of loyalty? He doesn’t even have the crown on his head yet, but we already know that Charles often puts Charles first. Maybe he’s right about that, considering that destiny is something unique and fixed for him – and his older son. A golden prison that is becoming increasingly corporate and under attack.
When the queen was crowned, the monarchy still had luster and commanded unconditional respect. Now? Not only is the age of reverence over, but the concepts on which monarchy is built are viewed with suspicion and even hostility.
Why would the Sussexes attend a ceremony to renew an institution they have accused of racism and Meghan claims she treated her so badly that she considered killing herself and her unborn child?
These include inherited wealth, white privilege, territory ownership, and the rules of succession—not to mention the enthusiastic acquisition of gold and jewels, titles and estates, rents and riches.
With the best will in the noisy world, it’s starting to feel a little. . . uncomfortable. For example, how can a country with a minister to level up also have a king?
The coronation itself will feature cloaks and crowns and holy oils, golden spurs and crimson tabards and sworn oaths, while at the center of it all is a man of 74 with a hole in his sock, anointed by God himself.
Nobody is a bigger royalist than I am – but I’m not sure my saturated royal belief system can absorb much more of this nonsense. As the song goes on, the thrill is gone.
From the time Charles was a boy, his life was set in stages; from Cherry Brandy to Tampongate to fountain pen disgust and his mistakes as a father; The latter so cruelly revealed by his bitter younger son.
Charles cheated on his wife and married his mistress, took bad money for good causes, had his valet pre-paste his toothbrush every morning. That doesn’t make him a bad king, just an overly human one.
There will be a stripped down ceremony, sparing the diamonds, crossing our fingers that the ermine is sustainably farmed, and let’s hide Andrew behind a pillar
The magic ebbs on an outgoing tide. The king had to fold already settled fashion concerns into his coronation meringue. There will be a stripped down ceremony, sparing the diamonds, crossing our fingers that the ermine is sustainably farmed, and let’s hide Andrew behind a pillar.
Up until this point, the ritual at the heart of the coronation had been sacred and unchanging for a thousand years – but the problem now is that the world outside has changed beyond recognition. The fact that Charles found it necessary to change certain ceremonial elements makes me think he’s ringing his own death knell – but what choice does he have?
Charles comes to the throne in the autumn of his life, dragging behind him an unfortunate hinterland and a torn cloak. One can wish him well, but also accept the unlikelihood that he will ever enjoy the widespread love and devotion of the people that his mother enjoyed.
In the symbiotic relationship between the monarchy and the people, something profound died with the Queen and Prince Philip. And despite Charles’ best efforts, no amount of pomp or magical anointing oil will ever bring it back.
The golden era was no place for us women
Absolutely loved The Gold (BBC1), the dramatization of the Brink’s Mat heist, brilliantly written by Neil Forsyth. Set in the 1980s, the historical details were outstanding, right down to the chain smoking, the horrid haircuts, and the mud-colored offices.
I even had the same vest worn by Detective Nikki Jennings (Charlotte Spencer), practically a criminal offense per se.
Unlike most of the characters in The Gold, Nikki is fictional, a bit of creative license used by Forsyth for dramatic effect and – in this case – to hint at the stifling testosterone and rampant sexism of the time.
The reality was even worse. The entertaining book co-edited to accompany the series reveals that among the 32 key police officers involved in the case, there was not a woman, nor a single QC, investigator or expert. I understand why modern drama needs diversity ratings and roles for women — but I worry sometimes that we risk reshaping history or giving the male world a feminist glow that just wasn’t there back then.
If women played a part in the 1983 Flying Squad, we all know that all they had to do was reacquaint themselves with their underwear and boiling water to make hot drinks for the men. Don’t let that detract from this pure gold show, though. . . Don’t miss it.
I understand why modern drama needs diversity quotas and roles for women — but sometimes I worry that we risk reshaping the story
I would rumble Clooney in disguise
In a written account of their Sunday brunch, a manager at New York restaurant Balthazar told his chefs that “George Clooney was visiting in his usual disguise.” I wonder what that could be. As Elvis? In his Batman costume? It seems like a lot of effort for a plate of scrambled eggs.
I like to think that if I were in a restaurant and a heavily disguised George slipped into the next booth, I would still recognize him. Even if it was only on a deep, instinctive, cellular, feminine level—one that would make me turn to him like a sunflower, my hair standing on end and a panicked expression spreading across his face. You can’t hide from me forever, George!
By the way, this is the restaurant that James Corden banned for being rude. Even if the ruffian tried to sneak in in his furry Cats costume, he’s never coming back.
I like to think that if I were in a restaurant and a heavily disguised George slipped into the next booth, I would still recognize him
That Therese is right is a turnip for the books
Let them eat turnips! Environment Secretary Therese Coffey has suggested that those complaining about the tomato shortage should eat turnips instead.
“It’s important that we value the areas of expertise that we have in this country,” she said. Oh how I love this woman! There’s not a stick in the country that she can’t grasp the wrong end of – including telling poor people to work harder – but is she right?
Finally, Therese is just pushing for seasonality, sustainability, and the healthy practice of avoiding airline miles and imports in favor of sourcing local produce.
These are inherently green, fashionable, and awake values, but she’s still pilloried for stating the obvious.
Therese is just urging seasonality, sustainability, and the healthy practice of avoiding airline miles and imports to shop local produce instead
Critics say Kate Forbes has already failed in her attempt to become the SNP’s new leader because of her religious beliefs as a member of the Free Church of Scotland. That means she is against abortion, same-sex marriage, sex before marriage and illegitimate children. Oh come on It’s 2023, not 1723 – even in Scotland.
Pacino is all ears for just £2,250
Al Pacino is doing some live shows in the UK next month. At Experience With Al Pacino Live, truly devoted fans can pay extra for the opportunity to meet and greet the famous actor. For £2,250 per ticket, you can be one of 16 guests to spend an exclusive 20 minutes with Mr Pacino.
You can get him an autograph, take a selfie with him and ask him a question.
“Do you really need the money that badly?” would be mine.