S03E06: Coronation

[loud clattering of crockery] You put dirty- you put dirty plates in with clean plates. Rosa? 

[Rosa] "What?!".

[Alan clears his throat and gets ready to speak with gravitas]

It's September 1994, BBC Television Centre. It's nightfall, and along the corridors wafts the clink of glasses, the stench of cigar smoke, and the rumble of men's laughter. It's a party to celebrate the end of Bruce Forsyth's stint on The Generation Game, and some of the corporation's most senior figures have gathered to wish the chisel-chinned broadcaster well, and to plot the future of the BBC.

Sir John Byrd is there, Alan Yentob floats around for some reason in the corner, and, of course, beady of eye and sharp of tongue is the BBC's estimable chairman in the days where he could still say chairman, Sir Marmaduke Hussey!

A young presenter happens to be in the building, preparing for the launch of a superb new chat show and, as if drawn to the song of the siren, he wanders into the roam. His name? Alan Partridge. 'Twas me. 

There, girded by the courage of youth, I asked Sir Marmaduke if I could approach. He nodded, and I introduced myself. Then, for what seemed like an hour, but was probably forty minutes, we chatted like old friends. I spoke at length of my ambition, my hopes for the direction of the BBC, and how much I liked the name Marmaduke, until he bleated, "What is it you want?".

And so I told him. "I mean to say, Sir Marmaduke, when Her Majesty passes and is replaced by His Royal Highness Prince Wales, I would like to anchor the BBC official broadcast of His Coronation".
Sir Hussey shrugged and said, "If you want". I extended my hand, "Do I have your word?". He offered me his hand, and we shook on it.

Some twenty-eight years later, Her Beloved Majesty does indeed pass away, and I contact the BBC, expecting them to honour that promise. Perhaps it was naïve of me, perhaps I'm guilty of judging others by my own high standards. But, and this is typical of the left-leaning graduates who populate the organisation, honour it they would not. 

Instead, the podcast you're about to hear is me, I, Alan Partridge, honouring the promise that I made to myself, that I would present this live coverage of this an historic event, come what may, in May.

Since this is a podcast, I'm unable to bring you pictures, nor am I permitted to direct you to the footage of the broadcast on iPlayer, so that you might marry my words up to the BBC's coverage. I don't have the rights to any of the footage, and it would be irresponsible of me to usher you to the two minute thirty seconds mark, and tell you to press play in three, two, one...

You join us on this magnificent day, this day of days, this morn of morns, and later this aft of afts, as we prepare to coronate His Majesty, King Charles, King Charles III.

What a day! A day when, if I may reclaim a word, a word more often applied to those of a homosexual bent, and widely accepted in that new usage by all apart from Jacob Rees-Mogg. A day when we breathe new life into old words. A day when traditionists can, with their hand on their heart, remove their Union Jack plastic boater and hold it against their breast, and without fear of mockery or derision, hold their heads high and say as one, "What a gay day!".

A glass of champagne in hand, I don't mind telling you, I'm happy to toast His Majesty [glass clinks, slurping, exhale] and say, "God save the King! God save the King! God save the King!". The six Windsor Greys towing the royal carriage, truly resplendent in what can only be described as their resplendiosity. 

Adorned this morning with what looked like royal blue cornrows, a nod, one assumes, to the fine peoples of our Caribbean territories, as well as to the reggae music so adored by the King's father.

Because this, of course, the horse's day, every bit as much as His Majesty's, and I can honestly say that they haven't put a hoof wrong. And what hooves! What hooves! Each reshod yesterday with horse shoes forged from iron, taken from an old Audi Quattro, the King's favourite car, the shoes engraved on one side with the words, 'Charles Rex, King Charles', and on the other, 'Vorsprung, Durch Technik'. 

A glimpse, a tantalising glimpse there, through the rain-spattered electric windows of that ancient carriage. And there he is, underneath his ermine gown, he wears a military uniform covered with a carpet of medals. There are many who will look on these medals and ask, "But what are they for?", to which I would reply, quite simply, "Do you mind? That's actually a very rude question to ask. It's none of your business!". 

The military tradition passed down from one generation to the next in the British Royal Family, of course, King Charles's own children being no exception. Harry, with two tours of Afghanistan, and William, with three of, I believe, Anglesey. 

The Queen concert, there. I once went to a Queen concert, it was fantastic. I mean, his other wife was mates with Freddie Mercury, wasn't she? A royal couple travelling to Westminster Abbey in the Diamond Jubilee state coat, constructed in 2012 to mark Her Majesty's sixty years on the throne. Many onlooking children no doubt thinking the carriage resembles the type one might see in an animated Disney film about a princess. Though in this case, of course, it's its occupants, despite being of great stature, a long way from what you would describe as being Disney princesses. And I mean both of them. 

And how fine the horsemen look in their breeches, their tights, in their tunics and finely brocaded jackets. A coronation, of course, not a day for zips, all zips put away for another day. Indeed, it is a day of staunch tradition, Britain at its finest! Some will complain that there's little in the way of international flavour, a dearth of diversity. A debate, I think, for another day. For now, though, let it rest, allow it to rest, give it a rest. 

Happy faces in the crowd there, overjoyed to get a glimpse of their beloved King and his Queen, though less so the Queen, because she made Diana sad. 

Wonderful to see so many smiles, though, and a little bit of levity. Some laughter, and indeed, why not? Queen Elizabeth II, of course, known for her droll sense of humour. Less so the King, though even he not averse to the occasional chuckle.

I'm sure if he saw Nicholas Witchell tip over a bin, or if it was raining and he saw Nicholas Witchell didn't have an umbrella, or if Nicholas Witchell was told off by a policeman for standing somewhere, he shouldn't be standing. He'd love that. He'd absolutely piss himself at that. Just the sense of a smile on the King's lips there. Not an actual smile, that would be inappropriate. The sense of a smile, quite a skill to master. Get it wrong, purse the lips too much, and you're into a smirk. 

The Laughing Cavalier, perhaps the most famous example of a smirker, available to see at the National Portrait Gallery, although that smile wiped off his face in no uncertain terms by Oliver Cromwell and the New Model Army; an army of peasants and farmers, who, through good training and sheer toughness, absolutely leathered the Royalists. A hiding of which, once the Restoration came, King Charles II said, "There's no way that's happening again".

And so here we are. King Charles III, a monarch who will reign over a nation where all the classes live in harmony, and with a single army with a much, much more agreeable structure, in which working-class soldiers often lay down their lives so posh people can roam freely with their Labradors. Hip, hip, hooray, for he is a jolly good fellow! And so say all of us! 

Another famous smirker, of course, from the world of art, Mona Lisa. If I'd have been around in the 16th century, I'd have said to her, "That's a cracking smile!", and give her a wink. Back then, you could still wink at a woman, and it was fine. Then I might have said, "Have you been a naughty girl?". [Sid James-style dirty laugh] Yeah. But, yes, not appropriate today.  A little saltiness, entirely appropriate for the 16th century. Men had a cracking time, they really did. 

Carriage, of course, not the carriage which will be used on the return trip to the palace, that honourable four-ton-of-gold state carriage, built in 1762, and bedecked in gold. It weighs a staggering four tonnes, not including the combined weight of his and her Majesties. 

So that would be a combined weight of around about, I would say, twenty, twenty-four, twenty-five stone. Getting on for 350lbs, which is, er... Rosa? 

"You okay, Mr Partridge?".

How much is a sack of potatoes?

"About twenty-five, thirty-five kilos?".

Not kilograms! Not today, Jesus! 

Indeed, such is the weight involved, that the Windsor Greys have had to practise towing lighter carriages with heavier weights gradually added, presumably to avoid the risk of neck injuries, or worse. One of the horses, potentially, pulling its own head off. 

The carriage features painted panels of Roman Gods and G'ddesses, or Goddesses. On its roof, are three cherubs, overweight babies often depicted carrying bows and arrows. Of course, violent, chubby babies, a common feature of art in the Middle Ages to symbolise England, Scotland and Ireland - no room for Wales, but that's fine - the principality getting more than its fair share of attention these days, for example, Doctor Who is now filmed there, though, of course, His Majesty hates Doctor Who, and he's right to do so. He is right to do so. 

But today, also, a chance to look back and to cherish the many happy memories we have of the former Prince Charles. Of course, the investiture of a rather awkward 21-year-old with big ears and a plum in his mouth, but he was to blossom from what many would openly admit was an ugly duckling. He has grown into... perhaps not a swan, but certainly a very fine goose.

His passion for horticulture, the brave polo matches where the dashing prince would sit glistening astride a magnificent beast. A horse where, with a tall inverted hammer, he would knock a ball about with floppy-haired aristocrats, rich Arabs and, of course, professional Argentine polo players. 

He may not have won every match against the Argentines, but when it came to the most important game of all, a Battle Royal, in which the prize was a little island called the Falklands, my God, he triumphed.

The first of many challenging wars around the world, in Iraq, Afghanistan and Northern Ireland, all of them resounding victories. Sir Rory Stewart is here today, resplendent in a privy counsellor's uniform he got from a fancy dress shop, lightly-adapted from a costume worn by the character of Buttons in a production of Cinderella in Winchester. 

Some very funny texts have come in, I've got to read you this one, "It's interesting that we continue to laud those who sit at the apex of the pyramid, a class structure designed so those in power can keep their collective foot on the neck of working people to prevent them from rising up and asking why everything has to be like this". 

[exasperated sigh] There will always be people like that, detractors. The trick is not to argue, just simply say, "Sorry, I'm afraid I've got to go now and hand out these plastic flags to anyone who doesn't want to challenge things. So I'm a bit busy". 

[slurp from glass] That's good champagne.

[Rosa] "You drinking all day?"

No, I'm not finished yet. Just er... there's only so much you can say about fucking horses. 

[theme music sting]

You re-join us now for the investiture proper.

Lost count of the number of toasts I've given to His Majesty, the King previously known as His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, now His Majesty, the King. An event the like of which we have not seen in this country for some seventy years and will not see again for another ten. Fifteen if he's lucky. 

May I ask that you now firmly shush anyone close to you who is talking, or Republican, that all phones be placed in mode of the airplane, sorry, airplane mode. Of course, if anyone's phone were to go off in the Abbey, they would be set upon and torn limb-from-limb by the Archbishops. 

Prince William - the balding Prince of Wales, who's unable to just have done with it and get a buzz cut because of Royal Convention, that is, his father'll tut - now approaches to assist his father in donning the shimmering, gold-sleeved coat known as the Supertunica, which I think Sir Michael McIntyre described as sounding like a sporty Fiat 500, and how we did laugh. 

He is here, I'm sure, somewhere, not in the inner sanctum, but he's here, with fellow monarchist Rob Brydon, MBE, Member of the British Empire. An empire that today doesn't just include Great Britain and Northern Ireland, but spreads as far afield as our overseas territories, Jersey and Guernsey, and, of course, the jewel in the crown, the Falklands. Apparently, they have five different types of penguins, and surely that is worth fighting for. Let me finish this bottle. [slurps] P-P-P-P-Pick up a penguin.

With his role performed, the prince slowly withdraws, because on a day such as today, all movements must be carried out with the utmost slowness, reverence infusing one's every step. Feet barely lifted from the floor, speed dropped to sixty, sixty-five percent of normal pace, head bowed like a told-off toddler. Smiles too, should be saved for another time, another place. 

The King being handed now the Rod of Equity and Justice, handed too the Sovereign's Orb, and the Sceptre with Cross symbols. These of kingly power and spirituality. A less-kind onlooker suggested they look like the accessories of a drag artist. Pay them no heed. Pay them no heed. 

Only moments ago, he was also handed the sword thing, the Rod of... the Spike of Justice by the Lord President of the Privy Council, Penny Mordaunt. Oh, Penny! Her outfit today, not a traditional one. Never before has there been a female Lord President, designed by Penny herself, to be in keeping with this ancient occasion, but with just a hint of Star Trek. I really like her.

The King now being presented with the Coronation oven glove. Some have speculated that the fact the glove is white is a nod to the late Sir Michael Jackson, not the former head of the British Army, but the late musical nonce of the same name. Finely crafted by Henry Maguire, the King's own Glovesmith, who tailors bespoke gloves and mittens by royal appointment on the Isle of Mull in Scotland, using the best pieces from sheep reared on the Inner Hebrides and blended with the finest cashmere from Mongolia.

Tradition has it that the wool used to the king's love is drawn from a single sheep, which is always the first lamb born after the death of the previous monarch. On its birth, the sheep is declared the Lord Fleece of Mull, and until its' first shearing, is fed nothing but ground venison and sanpha, thus ensuring that its wool grows thicker and stronger than any other wool on the British Isles. 

Many of you have expressed understandable concern as to how an ordinary-sized glove will accommodate His Majesty's sausagey digits. Quite simply, the fingers of this glove have been expanded by inserting specially designed wooden fingers with expandable joints. Once a day, the King's Chief Footman will wind the iron handle and expand the aperture until the King's Dresser cries, ''Halt!'', a ritual performed every day until sufficient finger-fatness has been achieved. 

Rosa, can we stick some sausages on? 

"Okay, Mr. Partridge!".

The Archbishop Justin Welby now about to place on the King's magisterial head St. Edward's Crown, the shiny metal hat worn only when a monarch is crowned, last donned some seventy years ago by the late Queen. Of course, not in the sense that Her Majesty was tardy for her own Coronation, but late in the sense that she has now passed over to the great palace in the sky, where she is no doubt watching the Coronation on the BBC. 

"Mr. Partridge, do you want the thin ones?"

No, not the chipolatas, the fat ones. Walls! Walls! 

"Walls?!"

The pork ones, outdoor-reared. 

"Out boar reared?"

Fat pig sausages!

[unsure] "Okay"

The crown made in 1661, few of us own any headwear even a tenth of that age. I myself, the proud owner of a fifty-year-old cap inherited from my late grandfather, Grandad Graham. 

The crown encrusted with many precious and semi-precious stones. Why they couldn't just cover it with precious stones, I'm not sure. It seems a bit... just a bit tight, really. Yeah, no need! It's the King, cover it with precious ones! King of England!

"Heavy is the head that wears the crown", said someone, probably Shakespeare, and he was right, both figuratively and literally. The King, of course, would have prepared, bulking up his back and neck muscles by wearing weights hung from a chainmail balaclava, so seen from afar he would resemble a robot Rasta. 

Rastafarians, of course, also welcomed at today's ceremony. Not in the abbey itself, of course, but I think that they let one or two stand behind the third or fourth cordon.

Here we go. 

Welby moves in for the crown. 

Welby's on the move!

He passes it, surprise! 

And forward they go together. Bold move by Welby, but that's why they're paying the big bucks. And he's back again!

A nice one-two, it's a lovely move! 

Takes the crown, moves forward, raises it. 

Come on, it's now or never, Welby! Bring it down, bring it home! 

That's it, it's on! 

Not that hard, he's a fucking King!

Easy! Easy, Welby! 

Check, check, that's right, make eye contact. You don't want a cock-eyed king! We do not want a cock-eyed king, Welby!

It's on, he held his nerve. Second attempt, went for it. He shoved that big golden hat on the regal head and he looks pleased as punch, as well he might! Well played! Welby played! 

He checks it, takes a step back.

God save the King, Welby! God save the king! 

You... yes! That is a King. A kingly King, a godly King. Camilla there made Diana sad, never mind.
A godly King, a kingly King, a good King. A kind King, King Kong! Bish bash, boss. Back to the palace for some nosh! 

Right, that's enough of it. Eammon Holmes said he'd be there. He's nowhere to be seen, he's full of shit.  

Oh, God save the King again, goodbye. 

[closing theme music]