ON THE DEATH OF HRH ER II
The ‘corpo royale’, suspended in dry ice and formaldehyde, is contained within a silver, ceremonial diving bell, mounted on a pearl encrusted armoured car. The monarch’s face, visible through a tiny observation window, is lit with neon, her eyes, replaced with diamonds, wired to slowly open and close. A glowing sapphire, like a giant gobstopper, placed between her teeth.
Electric pulses replicate the beating of her heart, amplified for the crowd, a solemn drum thumping through a towering sound system carried on the back of a flatbed truck driven by a retired South African policeman, its tremors felt from Belgravia to Brixton.
Behind the wheel of a growling Jag, a princess (which one it’s hard to say) follows scowling, cigarette in mouth, a golden revolver in the glove compartment.
Four princes in Prada sunglasses loaf, pose, point, twist and skip through a series of boy-band dance routines to squeals of appreciation. One commentator talks of, “royalty keeping step,” another of, “a delightfully fresh take on the expression of a nation’s grief.“
On a float decorated by primary school children the latest lottery winners toast the cortège as members of the SAS display team decapitate Jihadi manikins.
The prime minister rides behind on an e-scooter. The cabinet follow in limousines with darkened windows, plainclothes operatives flank, fingers twitching at bulging holsters, eyeing any sign of unrest.
On an open top bus a minstrel troupe busks banjo ragtime ‘Hits from the Blitz’ and roll their eyes for Mammy.
Tech giant Max Sly hovers over head, broadcasts the entire ceremony in a series of digital dispatches from a satellite-air-balloon he has had made especially from rubber recycled from migrants’ dinghies.
Inside a golden Rolls Royce a former footballer holds a tiny, plastic replica World Cup trophy in one hand, strokes a coiffured corgi with the other, grins with bleached teeth.
And here comes the King! On stilts, in flapping pinstripe cloth cut by A&S, like a giant biped spider caught in a web of guy ropes and fly wires, hauled along the route by outriders and guardsmen in sequinned leotards.
From a hay-cart, a man in butcher’s apron sifts through the amputated limbs of servicemen and women, tossing them into the hungry crowd like bouquets. “I got me a fresh one,” says a mourner gnawing on a gristled stump.
A hum of mobility scooters in victory formation from the nine shires of Wakefield, Canning Town, Thanet, Prestatyn, Toxteth, Neath, Bolton, Stoke and Redcar adorned with novelty licence plates: MAJ1, LIZ69, QEII4EVR.
A lone voice, “I never voted for her,” heard before a Lidl shopping bag is pulled tightly over the offender’s head. Dragged limp through Green Park his body dumped by the bins outside the Ritz.
“It’s what she would have wanted,” recalls an onlooker fighting her way through the crowds with a sharpened selfie stick. Dukes and Duchesses, Earls and Viscounts and Barons all conga on, the royal procession stretches away endlessly.
JAN NOBLE 