An exercise in “Gonzo journalism” on the subject of the Royal Wedding.
The night before the royal wedding me and a friend, in a spirit of inquisitive apathy, decided to walk from Bond Street underground station to St James’ Park underground station. Down through Mayfair we joined the strays being pulled toward the strange heart of our nation. The signs of hysteria were there already, the wedding themed window displays weren’t the twee irony of East London, this was full blooded celebration. When you’re spending hundreds and thousands on your baubles playfulness isn’t really an option.
Through Green Park we strolled and then out in front of Buckingham Palace, straight into the scrum. Weird atmosphere as we got closer to the centre of the madness. Expectant and excited they lined the streets; tourist decked out in Gap and Union flags, the children of middle England poking their heads out from gleaming new tents. The argument that this was a party for middle England didn’t quite hold. The crowd seemed to encompass most vagaries of age, class and races. Much of the crowd didn’t seem to be driven by deference but manic curiosity. Many banners proclaimed a desire to be one of the first to see “the dress”. A strange and unfathomable collective lunacy had descended.
Amongst all this were the chosen representatives of the global media, most encased in monolithic temporary fortresses. Photographers and foot soldiers with portable cameras mixed with the rabble, seeking out the most eccentric and capturing them for posterity. Cameras hidden behind statues, lined the route. They lay in wait, like dormant Daleks, ready to take over the world.
The closer towards Westminster Abbey we got the stranger the sites became. The Mall had been manageable, but here were the true believers. We were squashed in as we tried to pass, even if you wanted to keep a degree of distance from the proceedings – a certain ironic detachment – you became part of the human circus; no better, no worse than all the other rubberneckers. A small man – must have been geriatric – union flag round his neck holding a teddy bear and a replica of the ring, an American without a tent but with a sign advising us to add him on Facebook, games of Royal Top trumps, women in wedding dresses, children signing the songs of Andrew Lloyd Webber for money, one woman even had a sign proclaiming she wasn’t mad.
Were these people heroes? Individuals who dared to stray a little from centre, away from the sterile constraints of the everyday and throw themselves headlong into this baffling maelstrom? These were people who put their individual eccentricities towards the collective. But, did they need a leader – a Big Brother to follow, to claim them ? Was there an untapped power here? Could it be tapped, used for some greater good or some terrible crime?
To be concluded.
