The day of days

Roy Kerridge

A monarchist in theory, in practice I seldom go where monarchs are. They lead their lives and I lead mine. This mutual arrangement came to an end on Wednesday when I decided to pop down to the Palace to see both the Royal lovers and the lovers of royalty.

It was four in the morning when I arrived, the sky was pink fading into blue, and tents in St James's Park and the couples strolling about in the middle of the road suggested a fairground of long ago or perhaps a tournament.

Sleeping bags lined the pavements, some with one or two occupants and some empty as their owners paraded around dressed in Union Jacks. Skinheads merged with the last night of the Proms. Everyone was young, and on closer examination they seemed a very motley lot. A pop festival was nearer the mark than the Field of the Cloth of Gold, and one of the banners read 'Rock and Royal'. Even though the skinheads had their stubbly scalps painted red, White and blue, they still looked rather sinister. Everyone effed and blinded for all they were worth, kicked tins around and glared at one another. Photographers were jeered at and my notebook aroused so much resentment that I put it away.

Walking along the Mall, I was not reassured. At Clarence House some young men tried to get into an argument about the monarchy with two guardsmen, and this ended in both sides cursing at each other. I was disconcerted — would the Prince of Wales have to be Prince of Yobs, with hooligans as his only subjects? The Royal Family have a clever way of absorbing satire and turning it into a tribute, and the yobbos had clearly stayed up all night to cheer the happy couple in a ribald self-mocking manner, the line between joke-patriot and real patriot having grown fainter and finally disappeared.

Trafalgar Square marked the height of my fears, where ragged punks looked just as frightening whether they wore their plastic bag Ku Klux hoods or took them off. A young madman walked around roaring 'There is viperism in our blood!"Yeh', the punks agreed uncertainly.

By now it was six am, and I had safely reached the Strand. Here it was another world, for to my enormous relief, contented families were everywhere; the Home Service replaced Radio One, so to speak, and everything was just as it should be. In the Mall, most kind faces belonged to the police and to the St John's ambulance brigade, but here everyone seemed gentle and well disposed, even though the pavements were so crowded that I could hardly move. Television and radio people blared away, and one of them abandoned a rubber armchair which! sat on, to the mild shock of the crowd. Soon I drifted into a peaceful sleep. Later I arose, wrote out a 'Reserved' sign for my chair in case I should return, and pressed on to St Paul's, dodging around back streets where the crowds were impassable. Heads, and even bare feet, poked from every window in the tall buildings of Fleet Street, and messages of good will were held aloft or fixed to the crowd barriers.

All around the cathedral, happy faces stared expectantly towards the Palace. By some strange symbolism, the quieter sort ot well-wisher waited at the church, while the rowdies made for the Palace. But by nine o'clock, no rowdies were evident at all, overwhelmed and lost in the swelling crowds. A mighty air ship floated over the Dome, recalling G. K. Chesterton's novel, The Ball and the Cross, which begins with such a scene.

To my surprise, I saw a stranded-looking couple dressed for a wedding, and it turned out that they were invited as tenants of the Prince, and farmed 210 acres in Cornwall. A good humoured pair, they were wondering where St Paul's was, and how they could get to it on foot without being trampled on. A commissionaire came out of a hotel and seemed to be helping them, so I moved on. By now military bands were playing, and marching along the wedding route in a picturesque selection of headwear. Everything that passed was cheered to the echo, even a water-sprinkling lorry.

Suddenly I heard the high-pitched tones of a Jamaican accent, and traced it to two ladies with big hats and smiles, and husbands in the background.

'Have you anything to tell the readers of the Spectator?' I inquired.

'Yes,' said one of them, with no further prompting. 'It's the greatest thing that could ever happen today. Our Prince Charles is a real down to earth guy! I'm one of his admirers and you can say that again! From a baby right up I've always loved that child.'

Struggling back to the Mall, I heard the bells of St Clements burst into full peal, and soon afterwards a band I could not see began to play 'What Shall We Do With the Drunken Sailor?' and 'A-Roving'.

Coach loads of ticket holders were being applauded wildly. 'Here come the Chinese!' someone shouted. 'Three cheers for the Chinese!' Inside the coach the Chinese may have wished that they had kept their Emperor, so as to put on a return show.

'Is that Mrs Thatcher?' I asked, as a Rolls swept by. 'No, everyone's cheering', a policeman replied with a grin.

Vendors were everywhere, selling badges, periscopes and heart-shaped balloons. From the base of the Duke of York column, I was able to see the procession quite clearly, the guardsmen presenting arms as each coach went by, preceded by horseguards with flying plumes. First I saw the Queen in a pink hat, then the Prince in naval uniform, and finally Lady Diana all but invisible in a closed coach. The Duke and the Queen Mother managed to elude me, but I presume that they were there somewhere. Everyone saved their biggest cheers for Prince Charles, even the spiky haired pair of punks with 'Hate Chaos Croydon' on their jackets. Satire disappeared and genuine emotion took over.

It is pleasant to record that I saw only one person searched as a potential terrorist. This was myself, as a zealous police officer insisted on frisking me, addressing me as `Sir' while he patted my pockets.

'A single man always arouses suspicion', he explained as he let me go, a remark I shall treasure as my Wedding Souvenir.