Dusting Off The Bunting

I could not let today go by without commenting on THE announcement. Prince William and Kate Middleton, soon to be Princess Catherine, are to marry next year. This is great news. Their engagement has hardly come as a surprise. As I learnt about it, from spying rolling TV News (BBC of course) through an office window in The City yesterday, I initially smiled and walked on by. It was only after further deliberation and the media frenzy that has already gone into overdrive, I considered the true significance of the engagement and the wedding next year. The Missus and I had a good debate over whether or not we should really care. Our own frenzy was fuelled in no small part by a couple of pints of strong continental lager. 

It is inevitable comparisons are drawn between William and  Kate and Charles and Diana. The new royal couple do look very happy together and stare lovingly into each others eyes in front of the World's media. Is this any different to William's parent's announcement thirty years ago? Certainly his fiancee looks more at ease and confident than Diana did. Kate is ten years older than Diana was and the couple have been together for eight years. Even The Queen let slip her feelings that it had been a "long time" for the couple to get to this stage.  Let's hope that this modern royal couple will benefit from time spent away from media scrutiny so that they have already forged a strong bond and do not need to grow up, or worse grow apart, in front of the camera. 

William himself drew a parallel with his parent's relationship  by giving his mother's engagement ring to Kate. While some may see this as a disturbing move, invoking the sad tale of his parent's marriage and leading us to ponder Diana's tragic death, the gesture is more than that. It cleverly allows the couple a dignified nod to Diana without her memory haunting what is a happy occasion. It is, after all, not unusual for rings to be passed from generation to generation. Giving Kate an heirloom also heads off any initial criticism of extravagance in these austere times. Sometimes, it would seem, the Royal Family are just like us commoners. Indeed, Kate is a commoner, the first to marry into "The Firm" . While Diana was not a royal before marrying, she was from nobility.

Speculation is now rife as to what shape the Royal Wedding will take. The UK and the World is bracing itself for months of endless debate, sneak peeks, interviews with dress designers, discussions about the venue, the guest list, the cake, it goes on and on. I can recommend a discreet registry office in East London should William and Kate be stuck for ideas and would strongly favour a reception in The Cuckfield, though I do not think a quickie wedding and pub gastro food in a local is quite what the Royal Household has in mind. It's a pity, champagne and pie is a great way to treat your wedding guests. It certainly worked for The Missus and I. 

Inevitably there will be those who will call for a frugal wedding and republicans (for they do exist here) who will demand the House of Windsor pays for a the day, instead of the bill being sent to the taxpayer. Certainly some consider an enormo-wedding on the scale of Charles and Diana would not be appropriate. As momentum builds and the initial British cynicism gives way to support and then an outpouring of adoration (albeit understated) and excitement, we would all do well to get behind our future King and Queen. Sometimes it's wise to take a step back and look at events through the eyes of children and the BBC's Newsround broadcast today made me do just that. The wedding announcement here was presented purely for what it is. The celebration of two people very much in love who will become our future monarch. The outcome, a royal wedding which none of the target audience will have seen before. 

Let's not deny children here the excitement of this day. I remember Charles and Diana's wedding, principally because we were given a national holiday to celebrate, no school that day. Whether I watched the ceremony, I think I was outside playing on my bike, is of no importance. I remember the build up and excitement. For Prince Andrew and Sarah Fergusson's wedding there was no holiday but the wedding was shown in schools and we all in some way able to share. Royal weddings since have been muted affairs.

Let's not deny ourselves the pomp, the trumpets, the royals riding down The Mall in sparkling stage coaches. Let's not deny The Dimbleby his chance to shine again as he provides twelve hours of non-stop live narration of events as they happen. Let's not stop the souvenir teaspoon's, tea towels, mugs even the commemorative plates to hang on peoples' walls. Most of all and best of all, let's not deny ourselves the sight of the whole Royal Family appearing on the balcony of Buckingham Palace in front of thousands of people, a sea of waving Union Jacks, with the RAF flypast overhead. This is the stuff we do best so let's do it properly. 

Congratulations to William and Kate. 

Souvenir Ladybird book from 1981

A souvenir mugshot

Remember, Remember The Fifth of November

Remember, remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder treason and plot
I can think of no reason, why gunpowder treason
Should never be forgot

So goes the old rhyme. These days it could be remember the third, fourth, fifth, sixth..... Like all festivals it seems that in the current age days leading up to, or soon after, the actual day are suitable to celebrate, as if the festival leaks into the surrounding calendar, and I have no objection to this. Only Christmas Day stands strong where the whole country unites and marks the occasion united.

For Guy Fawkes Night fireworks explode in the sky for the week of the fifth of November. This leakage may be down to peoples' many commitments but it means there are plenty of opportunities to rush out into the garden when yet another ASDA bought arsenal starts banging, wheezing and fizzing into the night sky.  In London, I don't doubt in many other towns in Britain, the fireworks may also be marking Diwali, Festival of Light. I love fireworks of all shape and form, from the small but interactive sparkler, to fence scorching catherine wheels to the mammoth apocalyptic pyrotechnics organised displays provide. I salute, oooh and aaaah at them all.

Early November is a transitional time of year. The weather turns cold or at least it bloody well should do. Guy Fawkes night should promise damp, chilly air. I want to see my breath as I wait for the display to begin. I want to bob up and down, with my hands in my pockets and, like all Brits, comment on the weather, "It's turned cold, hasn't it?". All hope of a warm spell, an Indian summer now passed, and thoughts turn to cosy nights at home or a charmed pub, a best kept secret where a roaring fire, pint of bitter and chat with friends, are the order of the season. Guy Fawkes Night stakes out this pivotal point, confirming to one and all it's time to forget the hedonism of the summer and start thinking of what the missus wants for Christmas.

As a child, I used to celebrate at home in the garden with a bonfire, jacket potatoes or soup to eat, and the inevitable box of fireworks from the local shop, supplemented by a few additional rockets that Dad would have sneakily bought under Mum's wise frugal radar. These days many opt for organised displays, and why not? As a staunch traditionalist this transition worried me. The death of what has always happened and the start of something new is always of great concern.  I am now thoroughly in favour of  public displays. They are often free, thank you local council and my direct debit for the council tax. More importantly, they have better fireworks than any private pyromania could possibly provide. More bang for your buck, more pzazz for your pound. The only thing I miss from the humble home display is Dad, despite all government sponsored warnings,  inevitably returning to a lit firework, lighter in hand, ready to give it another go. 

This year, Tower Hamlet's very good but ultimately pretentious "Son et Lumiere" display in Victoria Park was snubbed for a revolutionary trip south of the river, to Clapham Common. Thank you very much Lambeth Council and the good tax paying folk of the borough for the display. The fireworks were huge, lasted for a good thirty minutes and they were close, really close.  This I am sure was in part to the choice of location for watching the show. Stood near to the launch pad it felt as if each enormous explosion would, given any mild deviation off course, melt our faces. Or at  the very least, leave us without eyebrows

To add to the danger most of us brought sparklers and, being "we have money, we can pay" Londoners, bought quite a few, of varying sizes and quality. I particularly enjoyed the extra smokey ones waved around by some members of the group. As if it weren't enough that after a couple of pints we all happily forgot that we were stood in a crowd and waggling giant burny sticks in the air, the fog created by some of the incendiaries made it near impossible for innocent bystanders to see where the next sparkly attack might come from.

In safer times, posing for the camera

So, this is Guy Fawkes Night 2010 for Londoners. Four hundred and five years after Catholic Guy Fawkes and his conspirators were caught in their attempt to blow up Parliament and kill Protestant King James I, we continue to commemorate this occasion. There is not always a bonfire which means no guy to burn, the guy usually being an effigy of some disliked or mocked public figure of the day. This means no calls of "penny for the guy" from children on the street asking for money for their effigy. A friend of mine, Guy, himself a Catholic, does not mourn the passing of this part of the tradition. Guy Fawkes Night is a uniquely British celebration and captures the imagination of most and so it stands alone as something special for this country and long may it continue.

Lunch and Circumstance

I’ve been lucky to have some caring loved ones take me out to lunch to places that are that little bit special, the two places appealing to my patriotism and pride and fascination with the history of tradition.  Both lunches have been more about the venue than the food itself and, for the record, about spending time with people very dear to me. 

It struck me that though both lunches were in two very different institutions the similarities between them were marked. This could all be true or I could just have been wearing my proud Englishman glasses again, tinted as they are with the red white and blue stain of British pride.

The first lunch was in the Terrace Cafeteria in the Houses of Parliament where I sat, overlooking the mighty Thames, eating fish and chips on Parliament’s “Chip Shop Friday”; the second lunch at the HAC (Honourable Artillery Corps) in The City. Perhaps it is because they’re both part of the establishment they feel similar, but as I ate in dining halls decorated with forest loads of dark wood panelling, I was a happy Englishman indeed. Though parliament on a Friday has wafts of a high street chip shop floating down its miles of corridors, and the HAC has that familiar sponge pudding and custard sweetness drifting out of the restaurant, both venues have an undeniable similar smell of history, as if Mr Sheen produces a special “18^th Century Must” spray just for these buildings.  

I love walking into these places not least because I like going into anywhere that is restricted. Passing security guards bolsters my confidence and appeals to my inner snob. Who, except die-hard communists, does not like to feel the thrill of entering somewhere exclusive.  Let’s be clear this is a social thrill only, being on the guest side of the red rope at a club is the same or sitting on the other side of the curtain on an plane, but simply being allowed passed the front desk at work, is not.  

One of the great things about the HAC is it’s a large complex tucked away in the middle of The City.  Take a sharp turn in the right place just off Moorgate and you veer away from the suited workers, the Boots sandwiches and London buses into a completely different world of military precision, perfect lawns and deference to The Queen. All of this is fantastically overlooked by the city types in their steel and glass offices , powering Britain’s economy. Who knows that underneath the perfect green grass lies the even darker camouflage green of tanks, Land Rovers, lorries and yes the odd artillery. In the days after London’s 7^th July bombings, this area was commandeered as a temporary morgue for the fifty innocent victims of the attacks and the lawn returned to its splendour by the City Police once the investigations were laid to rest.

"Attention" Outside the HAC

Walking into Parliament, with a smug spring in my step as I pass the tourists and onlookers, is awe inspiring. Westminster Hall dates back to William the Conqueror and has stood as not just London but England, Britain, Great Britain, The Empire, the United Kingdom and Commonwealth grew, changed and was reborn. It’s as if Westminster Hall, through its great doors, gave birth to the country  we know today and has nurtured it ever since.  

The Clock Tower aka St Stephen's Tower

There’s a sense of occasion, a sense of Britishness about both of these places and I was overflowing with patriotism.  Even the food reflected British history, authentically harking back to the days when Britain was not known for its culinary expertise. Not that the food was bad but, that had neither have been subsidized, an eyebrow would have been raised. Let it be on record however that the HAC’s puddings, quite literally “old school”, are heart warming and melancholic, invoking my happy days of education. 

So with rib sticking pudding and a large slab of fish and hillock of chips both places meant I had afternoons of wobbling around with a very full belly. As both dining halls had large portraits of The Queen overseeing the experience it was as if Her Majesty herself willed her subjects to be heartily fed. A royal matriarch demanding that plates are clear before anyone can get down from the table. Quite right too.

Staircase at the HAC

Medal Room at the HAC