The Coronation - 1: A Nation Holds Its Breath

 As a loyal and devoted subject of the Crown, and one whom many believe to be long overdue for official recognition for services to literature, blogging and taking the piss out of advertisers, I humbly submit the first in what will build into a historically important series of short pieces about the one subject that is gripping the nation at this time - the Eurovision Song Contest The Coronation of King Charles III. For, in just a few short weeks, the nation's longest serving Prince of Wales will finally get to wear a crown, have oil splashed on his head for the first time since a dodgy barber in his student days asked if he wanted anything on top, and can point to coins with his face on and say "Hey, everyone, that's me, that is". He no longer needs to carry money or a passport, or drive a vehicle with registration plates. Everyone has to walk behind him all the time and he no longer needs to mouth the words to the National Anthem on state occasions.

Today I shall look back to his namesakes, Charlieboys One and Two. What can we learn from their reigns, separated by execution, civil wars and an 11 year Republican interregnum?

Chazza One was a difficult sod. He didn't like being told what do to, so made sure he only picked advisors whose one phrase was "Excellent idea, your Majesty". He was an awkward second son who decided that the Divine Right of Kings was a jolly good doctrine, and it was purely coincidence that he himself happened to be the Chosen One, and anyone who thought kings ought to have some sort of responsibility to listen to their subjects was doing the work of the devil. It all ended unpleasantly on a cold day outside the Banqueting Hall in Whitehall. He did at least reform and strengthen the Navy, and started the long and awkward process of persuading the English that such things needed to be paid for, but it was the Parliamentary opposition to him that established the core of the constitution as we know it today, not Charles.

His son, Chazza Two ("The Kingdom Strikes Back") took over a nation utterly weary of the failed Cromwellian attempts to have a Puritan state backed by popular consent (It failed because deep down the Puritan cause was not that popular). He established the Royal Society and presided over one of the great periods of scientific discovery, for which he has my respect. He also, with brother James, presided over the exploitation of the West Indies and southern states of the American colonies which were based on the expropriation of natives and the West African slave trade. His failure to have a legitimate heir nearly led to the destruction of the constitution and a Louis XIV-style absolute monarchy at the hands of the aforementioned Jazza; fortunately things worked out differently.

And so to Charlieboy Three. King because the constitution says he is, not because God has ordained it, and with very little power to screw things up the way his forebears did, though with a lot of influence behind the scenes. Ahead of his time with his interest in ecology and the preservation of the environment. Can he inspire today's youth in the way that his mum did in her time? Seems pretty unlikely. Will republicanism revive in the former British colonies? I believe it will, in a few years. But does any of it matter? That may be the most important question of all.

The Welsh Connection

 I am indebted to ex-Wealdstone centre back and club legend Sean Cronin for retweeting the following from one of his compatriots:

I had not heard of this letter before so I looked it up. The original is in the French National Archive. There is however, no record of a reply. Is this because the King of France decided not to offend the English, or felt that a secret reply was more discreet? No, it is because he regularly received letters similar to the one below and simply filed away Owain's letter as just one more of a set.

Dear King Charles VII

I hope this letter finds you in the very best of health. Let me introduce myself - I am Owain Glyndŵr, Prince of Wales and I need your help in something that will be of the greatest benefit to both of us. Some time ago a very rich man, Charles of Harlech, deposited all his money with the Royal Bank of Wales. Unfortunately he died in a tragic crossbow bolt to the throat accident. He did not name his next of kin and nobody has claimed the money. It has been in a special holding account for five years and will shortly be forfeit, unless it can be claimed first.  This, Your Highness is where you come in. It so happens you have the same name as the deceased and if you made the claim, the Bank would have to honour it.  I can ensure that your papers are quickly processed and propose to give you 30% of the proceeds. The total sum is two hundred and forty (240) groats, thereby making your share no less than eighty (80) groats!!

Please write back urgently, using only the most efficient of messengers, with the following details:

Name
Age
Job Title
Address of main castle of residence
Passport number

and enclose the sum of two (2) groats to cover preliminary expenses, which will of course be reimbursed when the funds are released. 

Most respectfully yours

Owain Glyndŵr, Prince.

Getting a Grilling - the Aftermath

 I wrote yesterday about the mysterious poster on behalf of the "British Toast Association" that had been put in a prominent place near Ruislip Manor Station. I pondered that it might be a spoof but opted instead for the far more likely reason that sinister forces might be afoot.

Today, whilst in haste to the station to catch a rare train (serious delays following an all-out Tube strike yesterday), I noticed a large group of hi-vis vest wearers near the station, and on drawing closer saw some with cameras and other gear. Their attention was focussed on the mysterious poster. I had intended to take a proper photo but there was not enough time so I caught a quick snap, which I here present to you:

Alas, I missed off the left side where the toast itself was pictured, but at least I recorded something because on my return, a  few hours later, the yellow-jacketed crew was gone, the street was quiet and the poster had been replaced by something else.

So it was all a stunt after all, an advertising shoot or perhaps a TV sketch, or a clip to be used in a drama. Or maybe there really is to be a British Toast Association and they were preparing the publicity material for the grand launch, presumably at the Dome (or whatever it's called these days), complete with a display of precision toast-ejection by a group of girls on horseback, balloons showering crumbs over the Thames and celebrities munching away merrily for the cameras. I look forward to missing it.

Getting a Grilling

 A poster has appeared by Ruislip Manor Station. On a plain white background, it features a picture of a very well-done piece of toast, has a slogan saying something like "Make your weekdays more weekend with toast" and bears the name of British Toast Association.  That is all. I was unable to take a picture as I was driving past at the time but will endeavour to do so.

There is no such thing as the British Toast Association. There is a Guild of Toastmasters but these people officiate at functions, praying for silence for the father of the bride, and suchlike. They do not, to the best of my limited knowledge, wield machines for the grilling of bread, nor do they judge slices as to crispness, degrees of carbonisation and suitability to bear a generous lather of butter and marmalade (insert toast topping of your choice here).  A Google search fails to reveal anything. I conclude that this is a spoof or the start of something else. 

I suspect skulduggery is afoot in the world of commercial baking. A group of disaffected crumpet-makers, in cahoots with the muffin-men and purveyors of pikelets, are planning a coup. They will announce a breakaway Super League of craft bread makers, spurning those who churn out the humble white sliced loafs, and restricting entry to a selected group. Then they will plaster our high streets with posters extolling their products

"Cor - it's Crumpet Time!";  "Bag yourself a Baguette!!"; "Wow, look at the Buns on that!!!" - that sort of thing. There will be ghastly TV adverts no doubt featuring beaming actors dancing and twirling around as they cram sophisticated fermented-yeast items into their mouths, plus an irritating jingle featuring whistling and a catchy tune. There will be National Griddle-Cake championships and Bagel Marathons, and racehorses called BannockULike. There will be lovable animated characters, although as most of the popular animal types have been taken, they may have to feature something more unusual - perhaps Jeremy and Rachel Dung-Beetle will be portrayed having adventures which always end when they gather round the family fireside scoffing craft Ciabattas and Dampfnudeln¹.

Somehow the ordinary bakers have got wind of this scheme. They have resolved to unite and strike first. Led by Jeremiah Warburton, Carol Kingsmill and Sir Geoff Hovis, they have realised that, if they get everyone hooked on toast made with their everyday products, then the Super League will be outflanked - we will all be too busy pushing down the levers on toasters, musing over whether to set the dial to 6 or 7, running cold water over our burnt finger-tips and forever picking up crumbs to worry about knocking back the odd Limpa² or Melonpan³.  

And so, in haste, the British Toast Association was born. No website as yet, no contact numbers, not even a lovable mascot to adorn their posters, but surely they will come, social media will be deluged with the promotion of good old English toast - "As good today as it was last Thursday" - and the world will be safe once again for those who want something on which to put a generous dollop of peanut butter.

-&-&-&-&-&-&-

Footnotes

1. Sweet, dense and moist bread from Germany
2. Scandinavian sweet spiced rye bread
3. Crispy Japanese bun made with cookie dough

[Is that all of them? Jolly nice of Messrs Google to assist with this project: Ed]

Return to Rush Hour

 I don't drive to work any more, and just as well too, but today I had to rise at some unearthly hour to take my car in for its annual service. Normally the exit from driveway to road is simple, maybe one car will be passing as I crane my neck in each direction. But leaving as I did, at exactly the same time everyone going to work was on their way, and everyone taking kids to school was doing likewise, as I backed out into the street to face the crossroads there was a car behind me, a van crossing ahead in one direction, cars coming the other way, cars trying to come up the facing road to turn across me ... I'm telling you, I am not used to this. 

A few minutes later, less than a mile from the garage and the roads were locked solid. I sat and fumed for about ten minutes as we crawled, maybe one vehicle at a time, each time the traffic lights ahead changed. Eventually I turned off and took a longer way round.  Having finally dropped off the car, I aimed to take a bus home, but just missed one, and then nearly caught it up as I started to walk home but as the traffic was moving at about 6mph, and I don't jog any more, it managed to evade me. Naturally the one behind was stuck in traffic and I had walked half way home before it finally caught me up and I could sit down for the final part of the journey.

I used to drive a fair chunk of the M25 every day to reach a god-forsaken trading estate in New Malden. I don't think I could cope with that now.