Of course I sat down to watch the coronation of Charles, the Third of his Name.
My wife, Lynette, has long nurtured a savage voyeurism for the inbreds of the line of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, and to behold live the medieval magic inherent in the crowning of its pre-eminent scion, was not something she was going to miss.
Nor was I, for I had never seen a coronation – and am not likely to ever see one again.
And let’s be honest, one does not simply want to miss such a stunning display of tax-funded magic, mummery, and monomaniacal shitwittery in 2023, does one? This is magic, people! Ma-fucking-gic!
And certainly, if one seeks to be grimly reminded that a grovelling shower of idiotic gibbons still exist in vast numbers, and any actual hope for mankind is still an alien invasion away, then one MUST watch such thing.
We initially tuned in to the ABC coverage. But that seemed to be more concerned with airing the totally justified grievances of our indigenous peoples than it was with showing us what we wanted to see – and the loud, often musical, and very superstitious sorcery that informs a coronation.
Clearly, on the BBC would provide such thing. And it did.
Now, I have no love at all for royalty. The concept of a person ruling over other people because an unseen mythical entity created by middle-eastern goatherds in the Negev Desert at the height of human enlightenment that was the Bronze Age, said he could, I just can’t accept. Sorry. You do you, but I can’t grok that.
And that’s exactly what this all is. It is a religious thing. It has nothing to do with a person’s actual fitness to rule or to enjoy wondrous privileges because he or she has so benefited mankind such privileges are deserved.
This is entirely a Christian god thing. And thus it is wholly anchored and informed in what can only be described as insane voodoo bullshit meant to awe the mewling serfs into submission and obedience.
Yes, it’s good for tourism. Yes, it’s fun to watch a parade. And yes, I like to gawk at unimaginable wealth and privilege as much as the next gibbon. My lizard brain is wide-eyed at the sheer spectacle of it all.
And that is what it is precisely designed to do – wow the unwashed chattering classes with a choreographed circus that shows God anointing some insipid, inbred descendant of genocidal rapists, slavers, and killers with the divine right to rule over us.
Apparently, this anointing was to take place behind screens so that the head wizard could smear magic oil onto the king’s head, hands, and boobs – and a big part of me was hoping the same would happen to Queen Camilla. Her getting her old-lady dungs fondled, in the name of God, by the oily hands of the chief witchdoctor, was something I truly pined for. But it seemed only the king gets to get greased up.
And to assist the process an entire battalion of caped and robed magicians, wizards, sorcerers, warlocks, witches, Trifeltch Putinards, and Kwisatz Haderachs, was on hand to oversee and conduct the process.
And what a process! Let’s see if I got this right…
The as yet-uncrowned Charles and his beloved jism-spitoon, Camilla, whose sanitary product he once fantasised about being, have a parade in a nice horse-cart from a palace filled with centuries-worth of treasures looted from subjugated realms, to a magical temple likewise filled with plunder and pillage from a dead empire upon which once, the sun never set.
Along the way they are cheered and applauded by people who have clearly been lobotomised, and who can’t afford to pay for their electricity, yet seem genuinely keen to piss-shit millions of their pounds to fund this stunning dog-and-pony show.
Upon arrival at the wizardly edifice, Charles is promenaded through the structure to the acclaim of some actual elected representatives of various nations, a whole bunch of hideous inbred relatives, various troubadours, and maybe six hot bitches, and sat upon a padded chair.
Chanting, wailing, trumpeting, and mystical yodelling accompanies his progress. At all times he is flanked by robed wizards and oungans, dedicated to see the ancient rites are carried out correctly.
Nearby, there is another chair. It is unpadded, but it has a magic stone under the seat, and therefore is a chair of great puissance. He can’t sit on this chair yet, but he will. The sorcerers decide when this takes place.
His missus gets her own chair, but this is all about him, so let’s just work with that, shall we?
Various incantations then take place.
The magical oiling occurs. Then Camilla and Charles go out the back so Camilla can choke back a quick Benson & Hedges, and then they re-emerge.
Mystical objects are then handed to him and some he gets to hold, while others he merely lays his hands upon. All of these objects are made of slave-mined gold and many are encrusted with stolen jewels. I saw Charles fondle a mighty golden chicken, spurs for the torture of many horses he owns, bracelets, and a golden cheese-plate that must have weighed a few kilos. Then he bunged on a fancy gloved and got to clutch a long golden stick and a short golden stick, both filled with special magic, and briefly handle a round orb that could buy a small Asian country if it was hocked at Cash Converters.
More chanting and invoking was voiced. Trumpets blared, holding back demons that might at any second swoop upon the assemblage, and there was much convoluted mumbling about how this was all about Charles “serving” some nebulous body, concept, or entity, but all under the stern and correct supervision of the aforementioned deity dreamed up in the Negev Desert centuries ago.
Then he was placed in the special chair with the magic rock under the seat, and a very, very fancy hat was placed on his head. This hat serves no practical purpose. It is unstable on the head, and it is heavy. It is heavy because it too is made from stolen gold and gems, just like everything Charles the Third of his Name lays claim to.
But the hat is a symbol. It symbolises his mystically-backed rule over lesser beings. No, really. That’s what it does. Seriously. It is a hell of a hat.
Then some fealty takes place. Beaut thing, fealty. It means the fidelity of a vassal or feudal tenant to his lord. Bowing, scraping, and kneeling is heavily involved. And kissing.
It was instructive to see Charles’s eldest son, and next in line for the fancy hat, a bunch of realms, lots of land, scads of free money, and a whole bunch of very nice castles, was first in line to perform this.
The other son, the spare one, has been relegated to Untermensch status because he married a mouthy bitch from the Colonies, and has thus been excommunicated from the Royal line.
Then everyone in the magical temple also pledged their fealty.
More chanting, more trumpets, more invocations and supplications to the goat-herd’s deity followed, and there was some kissing of thick, sorcerous tomes, filled with magical spells, and then the whole shower, once again flanked by the mystical and ancient wizards, exited the magic temple. The serfs and subjects bowed and curtsied and grovelled before the magical awesomness arrayed before them.
The newly crowned king and his queen then got into an even fancier horse-cart, and thousands of soldiers marched in lock-step all the way back to the palace, where they lined up in neat rows and cheered the new king.
Along the way, crowds of gibbons happily sang of their wish for their long and hopefully endless subjugation, and pleaded with the desert deity to “save” their gracious and noble ruler, presumably from demons.
And then everyone went home and I went to bed. Oh, fucking huzzah.
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Boris is a writer who has contributed to many magazines and websites over the years, edited a couple of those things as well, and written a few books. But his most important contribution is pissing people off. He feels this is his calling in life and something he takes seriously. He also enjoys whiskey, whisky and the way girls dance on tables. And riding motorcycles. He's pretty keen on that, too.