I feel it is only right, what with me being British and all, to write a post about the Diamond Jubilee.
I have had an epic day.
Let me start from the beginning - a very good place to start.
I awoke at 9.30 to the sound of tolling bells. A very pleasant dinging worked its way into my dream. Fifteen minutes later they were still clanging and I resigned myself to getting up. I rang Mummy Cotton and sang a rousing rendition (if I do say so myself) of 'Happy Jubilee to you'. She cut me off to midway to say that it was not a happy Jubilee and the weather was horrendous.
This was not going to stop me.
A morning of Mad Men in my dressing gown set me up very nicely for the festivities ahead.
I tubed to Shad Thames where a friend had kindly offered to host the celebrations. The road is beautiful. Old warehouses have been converted into maisonettes which back onto the river. We had a feast fit for a Queen: coronation chicken, fig and cheese tart, quinoa with pomegranate, salmon, cake, cake, and more cake, Prosecco and Pimms.
We watched TV and played 'I love the Queen because' which is basically a variation on 'my granny went to the shops and bought'. We soon tired of it but it was very insightful as to what people really thought...
I apparently love the Queen because (of)
All her diamonds are very lovely
her Boats
the Coronation
her Double Delicious hats
the Empire
she's Fucking Fantastic
she's got Great Guns (the girl who said this said she meant the guns on her boats...)
her Houses
I think she is wonderful
she's basically Jesus
her Corgis with a silent K (Faye was adamant the Corgis got a mention, even if that did mean changing the spelling of the word)
her Lineage
she's a Magnificent Monarch
she's Not a murderer (this was me - I think at this point I was running out of steam)
all those Other guys (Lewis (Faye's brother) waved in the vague direction of the TV)
Pimms is in abundance at every Royal party
Q proved to be difficult because we banned the answer 'because she is the Queen'. Livvy eventually decided upon 'the Queen's keys'. We were dubious. I'm pretty sure the Queen doesn't carry her keys to the Palace around with her in her handbag. I doubt Buckingham Palace even has 'keys'. We were tiring of the game so at this point so we let it slide. Besides, it was nearly 4pm and HRH was soon to be arriving in our neighbourhood.
We got on our clobber. Faye, Lewis and I were wearing blue trousers. I decided to leave my very 1990s Kag in a Bag at the house and we wandered down to Butler's Wharf. An action I would later regret.
Mayhem ensued.
One fat security woman and a clueless security man blocked the entrance. We had envisaged this. Our hosts had a bill and their passports ready for their residents rights. Said fat woman had a grump on. Mainly because people were being either very thick or really irritating. I hope the latter in some cases, as one man came up and said
'Oo-er there are a lot of people. Is there something going on? I wanted to go to the Design museum'.
Let it be noted that this man was NOT a tourist. He was plain old English. Tantamount to treason I say.
FatSecurity had the weight of the world on her shoulders. Her furrowed brow said it all. She was not to be trifled with. Thrice or more we were told we were too large a party to go through. Faye saved the day. Either that or she just struck gold because as she ventured forward to tame the beast, somebody put a cup of tea into her hand. We silently thanked Earl Grey and his brother English Breakfast and prayed it would sooth her. It did. She waved us through in a world weary fashion, all her principles crushed in a sip of sweet nectar.
We ran through. We wooped, we tooted*, we kicked our legs in the air and we ran to the banks of the River Thames. Where we were greeted by a wall of people.
As I have mentioned many a time, I am not blessed with height. Some might say I am vertically challenged. They might be right. But I can jump.
All 5 foot 5 of me jumped in a crazy fashion. I saw split-second's-worth of water and flags and heads and I got tired of jumping. But I have failed to mention that we were in fact a stone's throw from Tower Bridge. And as little children wailed and screamed and the rain began to fall, we found ourselves closer and closer to the front. And lo and behold, the Royal Barge docked directly opposite us.
We saw a white blob with an umbrella descend the steps. It was Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth II. I squealed. Much like the squeal of Faye in India when we repeatedly didn't see a tiger.**
We saw a red blob with a red umbrella. It was Kate. We squealed. The whole rat pack followed. It was glorious. We waved. They waved. They stood on the boat balcony directly directly and thrice directly opposite us. Granted, we couldn't see their facial expressions or read their lips but had we had binoculars, I'm sure they would have been discussing how fine the drowned rats on the other side of the river looked and how perhaps, if only they could send a carrier pigeon, they might invite us to tea at the Palace.
But alas, no pigeons were available. Probably because of the lashing rain.
We stayed a long time.
Boats went passed playing 'Oh when the Saints', steam ships went past honking their foghorns and giving us all a heart attack. I was relieved to see an ambulance following them in hot pursuit.
We were very wet. I was under the spoke/spike/spindle of the umbrella of the man next to me. This was most unfortunate. Rain juice gathered in the aforementioned device kept pounding onto my head in a very wet and unpleasant manner. My gloves had molted and stuck to my rain-washed face so I was covered with a black beard of fluff.
When the ships piped down a bit, we gave a rousing rendition of God Save the Queen. It was melodious and wonderful. We cheered. The Queen et al (also probably) cheered (we can't be 100% certain because the rain and the wind were whipping in our ears) but they definitely waved. Especially the man on the end with the white gloves, which we later found out was Prince Philip (although Faye maintains it was Wills and I am not one to disagree).
Some people were getting cold. So we left the poor 87 year old lady battling wind and rain and went to watch her in the dry of the flat.
Drowned as a drowned rat. Happy as a bitch.***
*NB this is not passing wind, this is singing songs such as Rule Britannia to the word 'toot'
** This is a good squeal because Faye was repeatedly convinced it was a tiger when it was a deer, or in fact, a tree stump
*** Derives from the expression 'hot as a bitch', coined by Victoria Cotton, meaning 'very hot'. We were very happy. But that just doesn't have the same ring to it.
Lastly, the title of this piece is very clever. I won't hear a word against it.
I have had an epic day.
Let me start from the beginning - a very good place to start.
I awoke at 9.30 to the sound of tolling bells. A very pleasant dinging worked its way into my dream. Fifteen minutes later they were still clanging and I resigned myself to getting up. I rang Mummy Cotton and sang a rousing rendition (if I do say so myself) of 'Happy Jubilee to you'. She cut me off to midway to say that it was not a happy Jubilee and the weather was horrendous.
This was not going to stop me.
A morning of Mad Men in my dressing gown set me up very nicely for the festivities ahead.
I tubed to Shad Thames where a friend had kindly offered to host the celebrations. The road is beautiful. Old warehouses have been converted into maisonettes which back onto the river. We had a feast fit for a Queen: coronation chicken, fig and cheese tart, quinoa with pomegranate, salmon, cake, cake, and more cake, Prosecco and Pimms.
We watched TV and played 'I love the Queen because' which is basically a variation on 'my granny went to the shops and bought'. We soon tired of it but it was very insightful as to what people really thought...
I apparently love the Queen because (of)
All her diamonds are very lovely
her Boats
the Coronation
her Double Delicious hats
the Empire
she's Fucking Fantastic
she's got Great Guns (the girl who said this said she meant the guns on her boats...)
her Houses
I think she is wonderful
she's basically Jesus
her Corgis with a silent K (Faye was adamant the Corgis got a mention, even if that did mean changing the spelling of the word)
her Lineage
she's a Magnificent Monarch
she's Not a murderer (this was me - I think at this point I was running out of steam)
all those Other guys (Lewis (Faye's brother) waved in the vague direction of the TV)
Pimms is in abundance at every Royal party
Q proved to be difficult because we banned the answer 'because she is the Queen'. Livvy eventually decided upon 'the Queen's keys'. We were dubious. I'm pretty sure the Queen doesn't carry her keys to the Palace around with her in her handbag. I doubt Buckingham Palace even has 'keys'. We were tiring of the game so at this point so we let it slide. Besides, it was nearly 4pm and HRH was soon to be arriving in our neighbourhood.
We got on our clobber. Faye, Lewis and I were wearing blue trousers. I decided to leave my very 1990s Kag in a Bag at the house and we wandered down to Butler's Wharf. An action I would later regret.
Mayhem ensued.
One fat security woman and a clueless security man blocked the entrance. We had envisaged this. Our hosts had a bill and their passports ready for their residents rights. Said fat woman had a grump on. Mainly because people were being either very thick or really irritating. I hope the latter in some cases, as one man came up and said
'Oo-er there are a lot of people. Is there something going on? I wanted to go to the Design museum'.
Let it be noted that this man was NOT a tourist. He was plain old English. Tantamount to treason I say.
FatSecurity had the weight of the world on her shoulders. Her furrowed brow said it all. She was not to be trifled with. Thrice or more we were told we were too large a party to go through. Faye saved the day. Either that or she just struck gold because as she ventured forward to tame the beast, somebody put a cup of tea into her hand. We silently thanked Earl Grey and his brother English Breakfast and prayed it would sooth her. It did. She waved us through in a world weary fashion, all her principles crushed in a sip of sweet nectar.
We ran through. We wooped, we tooted*, we kicked our legs in the air and we ran to the banks of the River Thames. Where we were greeted by a wall of people.
As I have mentioned many a time, I am not blessed with height. Some might say I am vertically challenged. They might be right. But I can jump.
All 5 foot 5 of me jumped in a crazy fashion. I saw split-second's-worth of water and flags and heads and I got tired of jumping. But I have failed to mention that we were in fact a stone's throw from Tower Bridge. And as little children wailed and screamed and the rain began to fall, we found ourselves closer and closer to the front. And lo and behold, the Royal Barge docked directly opposite us.
We saw a white blob with an umbrella descend the steps. It was Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth II. I squealed. Much like the squeal of Faye in India when we repeatedly didn't see a tiger.**
We saw a red blob with a red umbrella. It was Kate. We squealed. The whole rat pack followed. It was glorious. We waved. They waved. They stood on the boat balcony directly directly and thrice directly opposite us. Granted, we couldn't see their facial expressions or read their lips but had we had binoculars, I'm sure they would have been discussing how fine the drowned rats on the other side of the river looked and how perhaps, if only they could send a carrier pigeon, they might invite us to tea at the Palace.
But alas, no pigeons were available. Probably because of the lashing rain.
We stayed a long time.
Boats went passed playing 'Oh when the Saints', steam ships went past honking their foghorns and giving us all a heart attack. I was relieved to see an ambulance following them in hot pursuit.
We were very wet. I was under the spoke/spike/spindle of the umbrella of the man next to me. This was most unfortunate. Rain juice gathered in the aforementioned device kept pounding onto my head in a very wet and unpleasant manner. My gloves had molted and stuck to my rain-washed face so I was covered with a black beard of fluff.
When the ships piped down a bit, we gave a rousing rendition of God Save the Queen. It was melodious and wonderful. We cheered. The Queen et al (also probably) cheered (we can't be 100% certain because the rain and the wind were whipping in our ears) but they definitely waved. Especially the man on the end with the white gloves, which we later found out was Prince Philip (although Faye maintains it was Wills and I am not one to disagree).
Some people were getting cold. So we left the poor 87 year old lady battling wind and rain and went to watch her in the dry of the flat.
Drowned as a drowned rat. Happy as a bitch.***
*NB this is not passing wind, this is singing songs such as Rule Britannia to the word 'toot'
** This is a good squeal because Faye was repeatedly convinced it was a tiger when it was a deer, or in fact, a tree stump
*** Derives from the expression 'hot as a bitch', coined by Victoria Cotton, meaning 'very hot'. We were very happy. But that just doesn't have the same ring to it.
Lastly, the title of this piece is very clever. I won't hear a word against it.
