King Charles III Coronation

A comedic journey through London’s crowning moment

Mitch on The Mall hoping for a glimpse and a wave from HRH King Charles III

The chance encounter that sparked a royal quest

Some time in the month of February, 2023, my dear wife Erica suggested we attend King Charles III coronation later in the year, in May. I was pretty sure that he had forgotten me from a chance meeting back in October 2005. 

That meeting occurred when I happened to be in London one fortnight and, wandering around the West End, as you do, I turned left from Buckingham Gate onto the front of the Palace. 

A fortuitous meeting at Buckingham Gate

And guess what? There was Charles on his Mum’s balcony waving to me! I was almost overcome but waved back. From that moment and brief encounter, we’ve tried to stay in touch ever since. I wasn’t in when he called….. he wasn’t in when I called. It happens.

Just because there were another seven thousand folk gazing up at the balcony that sunny afternoon has not taken anything away from the experience.  

This story is all about the couple of days Erica and I spent around the streets of St. James’s Park that May weekend and the crowning of Charles III, as King after his Mum departed stage left, last September 2022.

And of course, trying to get another wave from him.

A royal invitation: Attending King Charles III's coronation

With the car loaded up with bags for two full nights in London, along with a double camp chair and one large umbrella from a Vauxhall dealer we headed off from the village of Tilbrook at 06.00am on Friday, May the 5th.

The first night we had planned to find a spot along The Mall in amongst a few thousand other crackpots. The second night was reserved at a reasonable looking AirBNB a quarter of an hour south of the river and one accommodation I could lay my hands on. I had also reserved a parking slot for 48 hours a few minutes away from the room. My initial task that early morning was to track down the parking space.

Navigating Google Maps and unexpected detours

As we headed south toward the capital things were not going well. Google Maps was telling me every five minutes that our ETA was moving out seven minutes suggesting that when we arrived, it might actually be Wednesday. I accepted an alternative recommended route from the Map Men but on one condition, that I would need to pay a toll.

No problem, I thought and expected the route to take us a bit east and over the Queen Elizabeth Bridge near Dartford. We would pay a fiver but I’d just got paid.

As soon as we crossed the M25 without turning onto it, I knew the Dartford crossing was not on the Google route but stayed positive and continued through the Barnet Borough toward northwest London where the journey took us across the Bayswater Road and even through Hyde Park toward Chelsea then onto Albert Bridge.

We were now closer to Wales than our parking spot. But, undeterred, I continued through winding streets and across traffic lights to an area of southeast London called Tulse Hill. The parking space was bang in front of what appeared to be a derelict, 4-level building on a busy road. Holding up rush hour traffic I backed the car onto the tarmac while two other vehicles filled the space earlier. Erica and I grabbed our bags and walked half a mile to Tulse Hill station.

Oyster card troubles and a YMCA moment at Tulse Hill Station

In the station I considered getting a couple of day travelcards but chose against it because in truth, we were not going to be returning that same day and as such, it would be a waste of money. Instead, I pulled out my Oyster Card and being the decent chap I know, handed it to my wife who went through the barrier. She tossed the card back over to me and I placed it on the digitizer. Red light. I tried another entry point. The same. A nice stationmaster advised me that you can’t use the same card by two different persons. Of course, silly me.

While dozens of commuters passed through the station to the platforms Erica removed her backpack. With our double chair bag also on her back with the brolly sticking out of the middle it offered the appearance of her looking something like William Tell but without the hat and Granny Smith. You had to be there…..

She rummaged through her own stuff to retrieve an Oyster card and tossed it over the fence. I placed it on the flat glass. Red lights. She gave me that mimicked ‘sorry’ look and held up her arms like she was about to break into YMCA by the Village People.

No problemo, I walked over to the ticket touch screen and what d’ya know there was £0.07 funds remaining on her Oyster account. No worries. I pulled out my trusty bank card and proceeded to top up Erica’s Oyster account. 

Declined.

“Oh dear, what could the matter be” I said to myself.

I then read a text message sent by my bank suggesting that some unusual purchases had recently been made on my account and until this was addressed the card would be declined. After a few minutes looking through the payments, I could see £15 had been removed for a Congestion Charge where I had unknowingly encroached upon. Not the news I had been hoping for because I’d gone to great lengths to avoid this part of the City.

After spending a few minutes approving transactions that included a rather serious looking but potentially fraudulent purchase of £2.17 I had made ordering photo prints, I was allowed to top up Erica’s Oyster and finally get us onto a platform about an hour and a half later than I had originally planned. A quick toilet stop and we were on our way.

Switching from overground to underground systems at London Bridge it wasn’t long before we were leaving Westminster station and making our way through St. James’s Park to The Mall. Erica had a full backpack and a breeze carrying her part of the goods we had chosen to bring along. Unfortunately, I had brought a rather large holdall, shocking pink in colour for television watchers to pick us out should we be on camera, packed to the brim with one camera, a case and lenses, blankets, jumpers, hats, scarves, cushions for the camp chair, kindles, books, towels, toothbrush, binoculars and a power bank to charge up our cellphones. The whole shebang must’ve weighed in at 15 kilos. The shoulder strap was just a half inch wide and with each step, cut into my shoulder. On the other shoulder was the William Tell quiver with the Vauxhall umbrella stuffed down the centre. Every 30 yards I needed to stop and rotate the loads. A royal pain.

Settling in and weathering the storm

Starting at the west end close to the Palace we sauntered along The Mall looking for opportunities to pitch up against the security barriers that lined the street. There were many folk who were clearly taking this Coronation seriously. Areas the size of a tennis court were roped off with bunting containing a dozen women sitting on chairs next to their base camp tents sipping Dom Perignon from a Baccarat flute. Listening to their chatter they would have likely arrived on Wednesday. 

Further along the Mall closer to Trafalgar Square we found a short section of barrier but enough for our double chair and bags. It was a relief to offload that bloody pink bag and sit on the chair which was to be our sanctuary overnight and through to 4pm the following day. 

Settling down and meeting several nice folk around us from Toronto, Lancaster, Malaysia and the home counties we started to relax. At eleven o’clock the heavens opened and cuddling up to each other under the partial protection of the Vauxhall umbrella, sadly it did not stop the rainwater from running down the side of the chair and pooling beneath my arse. By noon, my underpants were soaked and I sat there, without wine, wondering how on earth I would be able to see this through the next 28 hours without any anger management.

But then, the clouds cleared, the weather warmed up, more people gathered and tents erected as we all started to see the nicer side of this event. A bottle of Cabernet and two King Charles III mugs purchased from a stall on Trafalgar Square that offered finance, proved to be a great lifeline as we sat there sipping the wine while tucking into a Tesco sarnie.

At 7.30pm, hundreds of folk had pitched up around us but things soon took on a different perspective. A policeman leaned over the barrier and advised those in earshot that a section of The Mall, specifically the section we were on, would have to be vacated in the next half hour to make way for a large mobile medical unit. Let me tell you now, this news did not go down well. In truth, I thought the copper was ‘aving a laugh. He went off to let his superiors know that we were simply not interested in moving having already spent ten hours in that spot, without objection. 

More security folk, more rejection. I suggested to all around us that we follow Russell Crowe’s approach and all hold arms should we be attacked from any direction. As I tried to stand firm and not start to pack up as some had done along the 200 by 10 metre parcel of real estate being oicked out, a rather large gentleman with security badges and spiral wiring from his ears walked up to me and looking me straight in the eyes, he said this:

“Listen sir, if you continue to protest and stand your ground you WILL be spending the night in a jail cell and from thereon in you will always have a criminal record. Is this how you want to play it, son?”

Well, what can I say. I stood there nodding and with the atmosphere now a tad cooler than it was an hour ago, Erica and I reluctantly started to pack up. 

Word on the street was that there were spaces along Whitehall, about 10 minutes walk to the east. I found this odd with all the people on The Mall. However, when trying to take the shortest route from The Mall onto Whitehall every street was blocked off it. It would take us ninety minutes to get from St. James’s Park to Whitehall and arrived around 9.30pm. 

By now, I had two ridges carved into both shoulders and regretted having the bottle of Cab because I needed the khazee again. So, with a soggy arse I tried desperately tried to see the positive side of it all. I picked up an empty beer glass from an outdoor table and waltzed through to the upstairs toilets. Erica’s approach in all this was to keep smiling and remind me that this would be a memory of a lifetime. 

She wasn’t wrong there.

Sleepless night and rainy processions

Whitehall, was indeed quite empty. This, predominantly due to the fact that nowhere within a half hour from our new chosen spot on the roadside was a shop selling food or beverages and no sign of a toilet other than in the two pubs a hundred yards in each direction. 

With Trafalgar Square being at one end of the street and Westminster station at the other end, only government buildings graced Whitehall with Downing Street a hundred yards away from us, saturated with security. 

We settled into the night and even with the pubs in close proximity I decided against a few beers to retain our position and not put me in peril of busting for a wee in the small hours when the pubs would be closed. 

Erica headed off for the occasional lone walk through the night streets while I tried to get some shuteye. This proved to be difficult for a few reasons. One, Big Ben was visible and apart from chiming every hour on the hour, the bell also chimes every quarter of an hour. This means you have exactly 14 minutes to fall asleep and of course, this proved to be impossible. 

To add to this woe, street cleaners were constantly moving up and down the road at all hours. Then, there were a gang of protesters resident for three months no less and completely out of their box from drugs and alcohol while playing ghastly music over loudspeakers. To this day, I’ll never understand why the Metropolitan Police just didn’t haul their arses out of there into a Transit and get rid of them. Apparently, they had rights. If this was Shanghai, Lagos, Moscow or Paris….. they’d have been long gone well before this Coronation.

Erica brought back a much-welcomed coffee from a McDonalds at Charing Cross station. We sat there in the cooler night and under a full moon counting the hours, trying to nod off.

From majestic coronation to unforgettable adventures

As the sun rose in a pink sky and without any clouds, we started to see more people arrive on Whitehall. Portable toilets were set up close to Westminster and the station there. The stationmaster also opened up his toilets and lineups in excess of fifty yards were not unusual. 

Processions began around 11am and Whitehall was now buzzing. Wandering toward Trafalgar I needed the loo. Yes, again. It happens when you’re 65. Alas, the access road had been blocked off and everyone was being turned around back toward Westminster. Fighting the crowds for another half hour, approaching Westminster station that end of the road had also been closed off by ‘MAN’, the security company. Complaining a second time in twelve hours it was clear that this disconnect between the managing contractor was being ignored.

Crushing began and more importantly, I now had a vein standing out on my forehead as looked like the funky chicken skipping down the road. I tried hard to find a place to have a pee. Back to Erica I fought off the anguish and an hour later, the portable loos were now accessible and I stood there in the dark green box with a large smile on my tired face.

Horses, guardsmen, police, military folk and carriages all descended upon us as the time ran down to the Coronation. There were some lovely folk we befriended. Pete, Sandra & John, Gemini and Nishtantia. 

Five minutes after the start of the procession the heavens once again opened up and with a constant fall, the rainwaters covered all around us till everything we had in our possession was drenched to the bone. Listening to the 2-hour service from speakers elevated on doorways on Whitehall, one could participate in the event.

About to be crowned King, I could see Charlie waving at me once again in passing.

It was now time for Erica and I to make our way to the Airbnb, just half hour train ride away.

I was knackered.

Chaos and homeward bound

We packed up and swinging the pink bag over my achy shoulder for the six hundred and fifth time, we once more headed up to Trafalgar Square. No luck, the road had been blocked off. Turning around and heading off to Westminster it was another twenty minutes and we got to the station steps only to find the station was closed for another two hours. By this time, I was nearly in tears from the sheer tiredness of not having slept much and hardly eating much, either. And to top it all, we couldn’t get out!

So, we did what any good citizen might do and dived into The Red Lion pub for a pint of London Pride. At the doorway, we were quickly told that we couldn’t bring the bags into the packed boozer. With little choice, we stood outside in the rain and drank bitter from a plastic beaker.

Trying our luck back up at Trafalgar we could get around the Square and so, made our way to Charing Cross station. But as the stretch of bad luck continued, this was also closed. With the taxi rank there but no sign of any taxis I was not in a good place. 

However, what jumped out at me was the Pizza Express across the road! It was open and buzzing on two floors. 

With the bags on the deck and settling down at a table we ordered a bottle of red wine and pizzas to while away the next couple of hours while the West side of our capital city returned to some kind of normality.

Trains back to Tulse Hill, with tears of joy back at the car I dumped the pink bag, double chair and pulled out the small, wheely carry-ons. Ten minutes to the accommodation, once again I was ready for a toilet and smiled as I approached the front door to our AirBNB house on Ulverstone Road and rang the bell.

No answer. 

I rang again and banged on the door.

No answer. 

I dropped our host, Elena a message only to be advised that she had gone to work! In correspondence the day before she had asked what time we would be there. I told her it would not be before 5pm. 

By text, she now advised us to look for a set of keys in the flowers (actually, weeds) and let ourselves in. This, we did, only to find a miserable looking place to stay with frayed towels and everything around us falling apart including my patience…..but except a toilet, and a welcome sight, too.

So, with Erica not feeling comfortable with the condition of the property and I myself, not really in any disagreement we decided to walk back to the car and drive two and a half hours home but not spend the rest of the weekend in London, as planned. 

Parking up after 9.30pm the bed beckoned and we both collapsed after a memorable time at the Coronation. 

I’m sure I’ll one day see the benefit of being part of this terrific occasion but right now, I can truly say that this was the last Coronation I’ll be attending! 

God Save The King.     

Image courtesy of The Royal Family instagram page.