An exercise in “Gonzo journalism” on the subject of the Royal Wedding.
We passed by the peace camp at Parliament Square. They seemed diminished in number, had the forces of the state come down on hard on those resistant to the celebration? Their messages were scrambled. Their signs read not just of wars for oil but of conspiracies of freemasons. Could these be the sanest people here; Dedicated fighters for unpalatable scrambled truth amongst flyby night well-wishers? I was worried for those guys.
They seemed so off message, their shabby tents humbled by the shiny new canvas city that had erupted around them. A crowd like this could go up at anytime. A jingoistic tinderbox in kerosene soaked gortex. One wrong word towards the royal couple and these well intentioned maladjusteds would be torn apart. Ripped limb from limb, severed body parts and hiking boots taken as grotesque souvenirs of the big day. A terrible thought. Maybe the forces of law and order would snatch them away, for their own safety? For the safety of the state? Where those bastard freemansons really behind all this? Maybe it was all a set up, a canny stage managed assassination. Unlikely maybe, but it’s best to case out all the options.
Who am I to begrudge these people their fun? Even, if it is a warped bizarrely deferential kind of fun. I’ve been invited to Buckingham Palace myself, I met Craig from Big Brother, but that’s another story for another time. Recent investigations into the national psyche suggest most Britons favour the monarchy but then a fairly hefty proportion of the nation seem pretty cool tearing down the last remnants of the post war consensus.
Enough, now is not the time for comment and speculation, the scenes speak for themselves. A small man, with a union flag crown atop his head danced across the road oblivious to the traffic.
A great shaved head and tree trunk arm emerged from the window of a black four by four.
“Move it you soppy twat!”
He yelled, his eye bulged from their sockets with murderous rage. The dainty fellow in the crown sang to himself as he obliviously reached the pavement. Was this the revelatory image of the day or the kind of argy bargy London sees every ten minutes? We can call it a convenient metaphor and move on. We needed to move on; these strange scenes were getting to me. I needed a swift return to atomised reality. I had wormed my way into the heart of the crowd, but I barely understood what I found.
Does it make you feel proud to be British or want to emigrate?
Neither?