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I watched Charles II’s Coronation the other day.

Not because I am a Royalist, or because I am a British Citizen.  I am just curious about these people. Without having looked at the numbers, I suspect the Royal family has something to do with the millions of tourists that visit a rainy Island with not much more than history, a sense of humour, and some magnificent buildings to boast about.

I watched it on BBC.  The Murdochs don’t sit well with me.

The pomp and ceremony in the procession were unrivalled.  Compare it to the Oscars – its contemporary equivalent. The picture on the screen is precisely composed. Union Jacks lined The Mall.  The flag was designed by a graphic design genius. The scarlet, white and navy blue offset in a pure symmetry of verticals, horizontals, and diagonals. The tar on The Mall is dyed a dull red – like the carpet, and the green leaves of the London Plane trees provide a pleasing backdrop for the eyes.

The uniforms of the soldiers are equally striking in reds, and dark blues with white belts, and a variety of silver, white, and bearskin headgear.  Some are plumed with feathers, a bit like the fascinators worn to Ascot.  The commentator speaks in a mild Edinburgh accent which is pleasing to the Celtic ear.

Bridles clink and saddles are polished enough to shine in the dull light.  You can almost smell the dubbin off the television. The drill is practised and exact. Men, and even some women, ride and march past in rectangles of precision. The drums boom in the background, providing the beat.  Kettle drums rattle like loose spoons on a silver tea tray and the pipes squeal the haunting melodies of the Glens. Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.  One is almost convinced.  At least before the lead starts to fly.

The ancestors of the commonwealth troops who march alongside the regular troops must have found this spectacle terrifying – particularly when they figured out the power of the musket and the cannon against their spears and shield. And the avarice of the administrators who followed in the pith helmets.

But there is nothing to fear now.  The British Army isn’t even that good anymore.  They were embarrassed in the Suez in the fifties and have never recovered their swagger.  Conquering the Falklands doesn’t cut the mustard old chaps.  And so all this is, is a show – and we must enjoy it as such.

The crowds intrigue me.

They have been standing in the rain for hours to watch a King who isn’t a ruler.  The ones in the front have been here for a day and a night. Why? To catch a glimpse of the King and Queen in a coach gilded with Gold nicked from the Colonies and resembling something fashioned by a wave of the Fairy Godmothers’ wand.  I almost expected the footmen to turn back into frogs at the end.

Those interviewed in the crowd were ordinary people From Leicestershire and Somerset whose brains seemed to function all right. Some were dressed in Union Jack suits while the practical ones wore raincoats. There were thousands of them.  One would have thought they were satiated after the Queen’s funeral, but they can’t get enough. A few protested that this wasn’t their King. They were booed and a few were arrested.

It was when the coverage moved to the Abbey that we began to realise how much thought Chuck and his advisors had put into this.  The congregation was diverse, and there was prominent representation from most religions and cultures in the UK and the Commonwealth.  He is clearly an aficionado of classical music.  Pretty Yende belted out an aria early on, Gospel singers praised their Lord, and expert musicians played music ranging from the Byzantine to a hymn composed this year for the spectacle.

The choir usually provides a highlight for me in church services conducted in English cathedrals.  The notes those choir boys create in the acoustics provided by the vast stone structures are wonderful.  This all makes sense. The scale of the buildings and the beatific sounds were curated to create a sense of awe and wonder for God.  Although the high notes are not provided exclusively by the choir boys any longer.  Girls have been allowed to join in.  Nor does everyone wear the same outfit – a white tea doily over a red frock.

There were a wide variety of outfits on show.  A couple of girls dressed in Wynberg High School uniforms sang happily next to the rest.  Inclusive indeed.  The diversity didn’t affect the singing – it was perfect with the high notes even reaching the scale of worn brake pads pressing against a rotor disc.

When the King and Queen walked down the aisle, a tranche of trumpets popped out of the rafters and blew a befitting fanfare.  Charles wore an ermine robe that looked more appropriate on Henry the Eighth, his royal predecessor in the divorcing business.

Camilla was styled in something white that my mother couldn’t stand.  She said it stuck out in the wrong places – and didn’t fit in the boob.  I thought she looked acceptable for a seventy-year-old. Harry was seated in the third row with Uncle Andrew and the other bad eggs.  Edward seems to have received a battlefield promotion while Ann was inconsequential one row back.

Charles was attended to by a gaggle of Bishops.  I thought Ainsley Harriott had segued into the priesthood until I realized the bishop in question was a female Anglican.  Greek Orthodox priests performed an important initial role – presumably a nod to Phil the Greek.  Rabbis, Imams, Sikhs, and Buddhists faffed around the King, handing him several ceremonial goodies – there was a sword, an orb, and something else I didn’t recognise.

I didn’t spot a Scientologist, and I was disappointed that a Zulu Sangoma didn’t get a small role. Surely, she could have thrown the bones for the King on those sacred tiles.  Perhaps Charles didn’t want to upset the Americans after the ANC had supplied the Russians with a ship full of arms.

The King sat on a battered old Throne which people had been carving their initials on for centuries after the bishops were done.  The Throne is perched above the Stone of Scone.  They erected a screen around him so that he could be anointed with holy oil in private.  The screen resembled the ones they use to stop the public from witnessing Polo ponies being executed after they have broken a leg.  A wonder if there is a correlation.

The screen was eventually removed, and he was helped into a gold tunic.  It reminded me a lot of the gold suit the Khubuluse Zuma wore to the Durban July a decade or so ago.  Back in the good old days when the Zuma’s and the Guptas held the keys to the South African kingdom. The corpulent Kubuluse had looked like a giant Ferrero Rocher in his get-up.

Chuck didn’t look much better.  He looked old.  The gold accentuated his gin blossoms and for a while, he floundered like King Lear at the back end of the play.  And then it was Camilla’s turn and he righted himself.  She is clearly a tonic.  It was either her or a glorious rendition of Zadok the Priest which had even my mother reaching for the tissues – it may have been played at one of her husbands’ funerals.

The colonies featured again when the crown was perched on the King’s head.  The Cullinan diamond was nicked from Pretoria while Kohinoor was looted from the Punjab. The rest was a bit of a procession with Royals waving to John Bull, bands thumping, and a lot of marching.

Anne was tired of sitting in the carriage and commandeered a stallion for the ride back to the Palace.

It was while watching the Coronation concert (the sequel to the initial performance) that I realized why Charles will be a fine King.

He cares about all the things Millennials love – particularly the environment – and he has sensibly used his platform to push the agendas of his passions.  He has no illusions about ruling or telling them to get off their parent’s couch and get a job.  The concert was a bit of a lemon incidentally.  Charles’s taste in popular music is dire. Take That played like fifty-year-olds who shouldn’t even be in the audience.

I am pretty sure the Starlight Classics were better.