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[title]Generally speaking, when it comes to the coronation of King Charles III, there are two types of people in this city.
There are the people who are probably admins of a Whatsapp group named: ‘[insert street name]’s Street Party 🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧’. They post on it every day with links to Cath Kidston limited-ed napkins and clotted-cream flavoured teas. They’ve already made a certain vegetarian quiche at least twice, even though they secretly think it would taste better with ham. They probably abhor Meghan and might even have Hello! magazine on alerts. And, just like some of us pretend to be glad we missed out on Glasto tickets because ‘the line-up is extremely mid’, they’re apparently not fussed they won’t be going to the Sunday coronation concert (‘Robbie isn’t performing, anyway’).
And then, there’s the rest of us.
We’re just here, trying to go about our lives. Since the last lockdown was lifted, London has felt like a royal assault course, one where we’re stumbling continually over jubilees, funerals, marriages and coronations. There’s no getting away from it. But even if we could – would we really want to?
While we talk about these big royal events with a bit of a sneer, we still talk about them all the time
Spend a day in London, and you’ll realise it’s not exactly crawling with royalists – at least ones that are out of the closet. Walk past any office water cooler and you’ll hear scoffs about how fed up we are with it all. But the thing is, while some of us might talk about these big royal events with a bit of a sneer, the fact is, we still talk about them all the time. And even though we’d never say it out loud, there’s almost a strange sort of smugness that comes with living in the city that the best part of the world’s eyes are on.
There’s a comfort in knowing we can ask: ‘looking forward to the coronation weekend?’ as reliable small talk. It’s like football, a conversational safety net. There’s an unexpected mini-thrill in overhearing an American accent on the tube talking about Buckingham Palace, and a pleasure to be had in scrolling past Instagram ads for coronation drag brunches. Deep down, you love the ridiculous memes about frostbitten todgers and how much Twitter pops off. You savour the eye-roll when you see yet another semi-ironic coronation IPA made by a London craft brewery you didn’t know existed, and you’ve even flirted with the idea of parting with actual currency to own one of those hideous, mass-produced tea towels (but only to show the grandkids, one day.)
Then there are all of the ridiculous, meme-y abbreviations we’ve come up with. The Corrie Naish, Meg and Hazza, Chazza, the Platty Joobs, the Statey Funes. We tell ourselves that we’re doing it in a mocking way. But we’re not really, are we? It’s like how we all started saying ‘slay’ as a ‘pisstake’, and now it’s wiggled its way into our everyday vocabulary. It’s part of us, whether we like it or not.
Being a Londoner when there’s a royal event on is basically being part of a shared in-joke; like getting high with a mate and walking around the Tesco aisles. It’s fun.
Being a Londoner when there’s a royal event on is basically being part of a shared in-joke; like getting high with a mate and walking around the Tesco aisles
Still not convinced? Picture the scene, and don’t tell me you don’t get butterflies. OOO is on. The sun is (hopefully) shining. You’re avoiding central like the plague, obvs. You can smell Richmond vegan sausages wafting over a neighbour’s wall and have put your ‘picky bits’ and M&S G&T cans in a tote bag to go and sit in Victoria Park with all the other Ganni-wearing ‘creatives’. Grape Elf Bar in pocket to be on-theme. You look at strangers in the eyes and they know. It’s a shared sense of relief, joy, or maybe even horror, that, actually, you’re kind of enjoying the celebratory vibe.
And whether your jollies consist of Unfold XXL or getting tipsy off Pimms at a flag-waving pavement party, you just know it’s gonna be litty. After all of the fun is over, you’ll post pics of your weekend on the grid with the caption ‘Corry Naish dump’ – not forgetting to geo-tag London, because you need everyone to know that you live in the best city in the world. That’s what you keep telling yourself, anyway.
Abbreviations, drag brunches, and tourists aside, there’s an elevated sense of pride – but not quite patriotism, thank God – that seems to ripple through London on a royal bank holiday. Maybe you feel it because you’re four £6.85 pints of Neck Oil deep and you just took a really hot fisheye BeReal in the Crooked Billet beer garden at golden hour. Or, maybe, it’s because even though we know Britain can be a massive pain in the arse, and the royals are problematic (to say the least), this city almost makes it all worth it. Perhaps, it’s because despite everything, there’s something weirdly emotive about knowing that the country is experiencing something in unison; like the hysteria of the 2012 Olympics or a big England football match. Whatever it is, God Save The Bank Holiday – and God Save London.