Singing in the reign
"Roll up, get your official Jubilee merchandise here! Official merchandise for 'er majesty Queen Elizabeth's Silver jubilee! get it 'ere."
"Hang on. Silver Jubilee?"
"Yeah."
"You aren't even really trying, are you?"
In spite of the rain - of course there was rain; if it'd been sunny it just wouldn't have been British - the she-David and I sauntered down to the river on Saturday to watch the Jubilee regatta. The largest procession on the Thames in over 350 years and undoubtedly the largest we'll see again any time soon, we made a point of setting off several hours early through the drizzle in order to get a decent view, and we were glad we had. The crowds had turned out in force and despite being several hours early we were still four or five rows back from the front. Fortunately it turned out that everyone else who'd come along for the show was a midget so we had a fine, uninterrupted view.
Whilst the crowd was cheerful and friendly when we arrived, as time wore on it got increasingly fractious. Latecomers started jostling for a better view. Tempers got frayed and the accusations and counteraccusations of pushing started. Honestly, I thought to myself. These people would be an absolute liability in a moshpit. I'd been chatting to the people at the front with the best view and it turned out they'd got there at 7am to secure the best possible spot, but getting out of bed early and making an effort doesn't cut any ice with the whiney, oh no. Instead they just shove at the back and say in loud, piercing and carrying tones "I think that tall people should have to stand at the back so others can see because that would be fair". I didn't reply, I just breathed in and stood on tiptoe. As we waited the she-David and I watched the preparations on my phone. We couldn't hear any sound, so I had to do the dialogue myself while watching Charles and the Queen embarking ("Are you dead yet, you old bat? Hurry up and snuff it.")
The flotilla, when it came, was worth the wait. Headed by a proper old-stylee royal rowed boat and a converted barge with a peal of bells on it and then dozens - maybe hundreds - of little rowed boats representing the livery companies and counties and duchies and commonwealth countries and pretty much everyone else who'd wanted to send something along; the Isle of Man had sent a replica longboat, the Maoris a war canoe, and the Republic of Venice* a couple of giant gondolas. I wondered what the first Queen Elizabeth would have made of the variety.
After those there were the various barges carrying grandees and royalty and their associated hangers-on, and then a succession of the 'little boats' from Dunkirk and lifeboats and pleasure cruisers and barges with orchestras (playing the water music, natch, although apparently the shifted to the Bond theme as they went past Vauxhall) and bagpipers and drummers on and...and you know what? After four hundred boats or so they start getting a bit samey. After five hundred they start gettingvery samey. By this stage I was looking at my watch and idly wondering what would happen if I did try to turn my section of the crowd into a moshpit, or maybe tried crowd surfing. Anyway, my feet were starting to hurt and the drizzle was turning heavier so that's the point we gave up and headed towards home, stopping occasionally to gaze over the heads of the shortarses thronging the riverbank towards the latest spectacle; a cruiser full of opera singers, or a small fleet of canal boats or whatever.
It was all very odd; the roads closed, the crowds trudging home through the rain waving flags, or drinking, or singing bursts of the National Anthem (those last two might be linked), with occasional distant cheering or bursts of cannon fire whilst at the side of the road the people still watching the boats jostled for a better view, everyone seemingly convinced that someone else had a better spot than them. It felt almost dreamlike.
It was a nice day for all of the ill-natured pushing. The pageant was spectacular and did everything it set out to do, and more. Despite the ill-natured bickering over position everyone seemed genuinely pleaased to be there to watch and wave as the the most important person - Boris Johnson - and the Queen sailed placidly by. However, if there's one thing I really learned by attending it's that if youre a shortarse and you want to watch a once-in-a-lifetime event: try getting out of bed early rather than rolling up ten minutes before it starts and then bitching because you can't see. Just saying.
* I did wonder why the Venetians had sent these; is there some ancient, never-anulled alliance between Britain and Venice like the one with Portugal, or do they just like gondoling** and wanted to be involved?
**If that's not a real word then it should be.
"Hang on. Silver Jubilee?"
"Yeah."
"You aren't even really trying, are you?"
In spite of the rain - of course there was rain; if it'd been sunny it just wouldn't have been British - the she-David and I sauntered down to the river on Saturday to watch the Jubilee regatta. The largest procession on the Thames in over 350 years and undoubtedly the largest we'll see again any time soon, we made a point of setting off several hours early through the drizzle in order to get a decent view, and we were glad we had. The crowds had turned out in force and despite being several hours early we were still four or five rows back from the front. Fortunately it turned out that everyone else who'd come along for the show was a midget so we had a fine, uninterrupted view.
Whilst the crowd was cheerful and friendly when we arrived, as time wore on it got increasingly fractious. Latecomers started jostling for a better view. Tempers got frayed and the accusations and counteraccusations of pushing started. Honestly, I thought to myself. These people would be an absolute liability in a moshpit. I'd been chatting to the people at the front with the best view and it turned out they'd got there at 7am to secure the best possible spot, but getting out of bed early and making an effort doesn't cut any ice with the whiney, oh no. Instead they just shove at the back and say in loud, piercing and carrying tones "I think that tall people should have to stand at the back so others can see because that would be fair". I didn't reply, I just breathed in and stood on tiptoe. As we waited the she-David and I watched the preparations on my phone. We couldn't hear any sound, so I had to do the dialogue myself while watching Charles and the Queen embarking ("Are you dead yet, you old bat? Hurry up and snuff it.")
The flotilla, when it came, was worth the wait. Headed by a proper old-stylee royal rowed boat and a converted barge with a peal of bells on it and then dozens - maybe hundreds - of little rowed boats representing the livery companies and counties and duchies and commonwealth countries and pretty much everyone else who'd wanted to send something along; the Isle of Man had sent a replica longboat, the Maoris a war canoe, and the Republic of Venice* a couple of giant gondolas. I wondered what the first Queen Elizabeth would have made of the variety.
After those there were the various barges carrying grandees and royalty and their associated hangers-on, and then a succession of the 'little boats' from Dunkirk and lifeboats and pleasure cruisers and barges with orchestras (playing the water music, natch, although apparently the shifted to the Bond theme as they went past Vauxhall) and bagpipers and drummers on and...and you know what? After four hundred boats or so they start getting a bit samey. After five hundred they start gettingvery samey. By this stage I was looking at my watch and idly wondering what would happen if I did try to turn my section of the crowd into a moshpit, or maybe tried crowd surfing. Anyway, my feet were starting to hurt and the drizzle was turning heavier so that's the point we gave up and headed towards home, stopping occasionally to gaze over the heads of the shortarses thronging the riverbank towards the latest spectacle; a cruiser full of opera singers, or a small fleet of canal boats or whatever.
It was all very odd; the roads closed, the crowds trudging home through the rain waving flags, or drinking, or singing bursts of the National Anthem (those last two might be linked), with occasional distant cheering or bursts of cannon fire whilst at the side of the road the people still watching the boats jostled for a better view, everyone seemingly convinced that someone else had a better spot than them. It felt almost dreamlike.
It was a nice day for all of the ill-natured pushing. The pageant was spectacular and did everything it set out to do, and more. Despite the ill-natured bickering over position everyone seemed genuinely pleaased to be there to watch and wave as the the most important person - Boris Johnson - and the Queen sailed placidly by. However, if there's one thing I really learned by attending it's that if youre a shortarse and you want to watch a once-in-a-lifetime event: try getting out of bed early rather than rolling up ten minutes before it starts and then bitching because you can't see. Just saying.
* I did wonder why the Venetians had sent these; is there some ancient, never-anulled alliance between Britain and Venice like the one with Portugal, or do they just like gondoling** and wanted to be involved?
**If that's not a real word then it should be.