London Coronation Calling

As the excitement of our next adventure loomed, Jason was determined that he wasn't going to be packing the night before our flight. Instead he packed a week early, unpacked and repacked several times. He then spent the rest of the week lording it over me. “Have you packed yet, Ricky?”. But Jason's efforts were all in vain. The night before our flight, stress and panic set in. How was he going to fit all of the additional crap he had added to his backpack! Organising everything at the eleventh hour wasn’t part of the plan.

The big day finally came and we boarded our flight via Sydney and Singapore. The flight was relatively uneventful. It was the usual cramped cattle class, wedged between a screaming child and a dirty woman with her feet perched up on the walls. The dirty bastard.

Our next leg of the flight from Singapore was delayed, and instead of the gay flighties, it was full of blonde British women. Jason could hardly understand the Irish attendant, questioning if she was speaking Gaelic: “say that again”.

Being in such close quarters to others, there's not a lot of personal space. When I tried to put on a jumper to shield against the Arctic winds coming from the air conditioning, I almost took out the old man next me. Oops, sorry. He already had one foot in the grave anyway.

The flight was delayed leaving Singapore, and we were then held in a holding pattern before we could land at Heathrow. While it didn't faze us, we had hours to kill before we could check in. For a British woman on the flight, she began to panic that she was going to miss her connecting flight to Cork. She barged through the cabin like Sharon Strzelecki making her way to the all-you-can-eat buffet, making a rude remark to the Irish flighty, which was met with a sharp-tongued barb. With less than 45 minutes to get to her gate, there was no way that she was going to make it. Karma?

We’d planned our journey from Heathrow, working out which train to catch, but we got a little lost along the way. We had time to kill before we could check into our micro studio apartment on the Thames in Broken Wharf, near St Paul’s cathedral and Blackfriars station, but we really didn't need the extra steps.

We dropped our bags off at the hotel and then made our way to get a UK Sim card. It wasn't long before we were playing Jason’s Lost World again, season 2 is now on streaming services. Within an hour of being in London proper, Jason couldn't find his wallet. He’d concluded that it had been stolen and now he was left poor and destitute. No doubt he'll need to join the sex workers on Charing Cross road. Turns out it was in a pocket in his bag. Throwing things all over the Three mobile phone shop, he actually ended up losing his umbrella. Being London, it didn't take too long before he realised that it was missing, and quickly backtracked to reclaim his brolly.

After checking into our apartment, we went on a mission, traipsing through London to London Tower and along the Thames. I could hardly walk by the time we got back to our abode. If we continue at this rate I'll need a hip replacement by the end of the trip.

By the afternoon, the jetlag had set in and we could hardly keep our eyes open. We needed matchbox sticks to keep them open. So it was an early night for us.

The following day was the coronation of King Charles III and Queen Camilla. As a Republican (not to be confused with the US conservative political party), I was in two minds about going to the coronation. Democracy not monarchy! I wasn’t the only one in the crowd who was anti-monarchy, a crowd of protesters gathered in Trafalgar Square holding placards saying “not my king”. One of the best slogans had to have been: “worst season of game of thrones ever”. Even Jason, who has been a staunch monarchist for many years is starting to see a different perspective to the point that he began singing Britney Spears' "Womanizer", substituting the chorus with coloniser ... “Coloniser, coloniser, you’re a coloniser.”

The coronation procession was due to commence from Buckingham Palace at 10:20am. People had started camping out days before, so it was unlikely that we were going to get sideshow seats, but Jason reasoned that we’re tall and would be able to see over all the British little people. We ended up spending an hour and a half walking around London going from one viewing point to another. As each area filled up, the police closed it off, leaving us to continue our search for a position to catch sight of the royal entourage. Police had put barriers up, apparently so the royal couple wouldn't be able to see the protestors. Finally, we resolved ourselves to the fact that we would need to join the plebs in Hyde Park to watch the pompous ceremony on the big screen.

As we stood in the rain watching the big screen, the crowd behind us started booing Rishi Sunak as he came onto the screen. We got talking to a young British guy, who shared a dislike of the monarchy but like us was fascinated by the regalia and the ceremony. As the Archbishop of Canterbury hovered the crown over Charles’ head, the noise of the crowd reached a crescendo as it was lowered, with shouts of “God save the King” and “Long live the King”.

Prior to this though, when the choir was singing a hymn about Camilla in Latin, one could have misheard the lyrics, a mondegreen moment. We both looked at each other and in union said “are they singing vagina Camilla?”. Thankfully there were closed captions that could correct us. No, they were singing “Regina Camilla”, and modern British pronunciation of Regina no longer sounds the same as classical Latin. What was even stranger to hear was the pre-recorded message on the subway from Charles and Camilla wishing everyone a great coronation weekend, with Charles reminding us “to please mind the gap” in his royal British accent.

As we walked away from Hyde Park, a black car with an entourage of escort cars sped down the street. We're fairly certain it was Prince Harry exiting the ceremony and heading to the airport.

After another day of thinking we were Kerry Saxby, we were ready to retire for the evening; that is after a belly full of food.

Next stop: Cardiff.Read more