The Royal Wedding Goes Feral

The crowds, the patriotic hysteria, the extra strong lager. It could so easily turn nasty on Will and Kate's big day...
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The crowds, the patriotic hysteria, the extra strong lager. It could so easily turn nasty on Will and Kate's big day...

Nobody saw it coming.  The red tops were fully behind the wedding, reflecting the view of the man on the street, as they saw it.  The establishment papers - The Times, Telegraph and Mail all got behind it with jingoistic gusto, while the Observer and Guardian seemed to believe, with a couple of reservations, the whole thing was rather enjoyable.  Nobody saw it coming, especially the pitchfork that ended its arc in Charles’ guts.

After all, the night before had been balmy enough to comfort the dedicated four hundred or so who had decided to sleep outside Westminster Cathedral.  The hardcore determined to get the best view.  They erected tents and their own bunting, shared tea from thermos flasks, even had a bit of a singsong.  Worldwide news crews couldn’t get enough.  Adam Boulton was wired. Kate Thornton threw up from patriotic nerves live on ITV2.

The morning was different, though. At six minutes past seven, the rain came down in Westminster only. It came down as what I now realise was foreboding, without doubt it came down as malicious intent. The rain met the spectators with such force that the water must have reached terminal velocity.  It was if a great pool had been suspended above the crowd’s head, released all of a sudden. Doris Evans, 90, died instantly, her neck ending at a right angle to the rest of her spine. As the body was retrieved by the ambulance service, her two daughters remained in place to witness the wedding. ‘It’s what Mum would have wanted. Besides, we’ve waited 23 hours for this spot.’

Still, though, nobody saw it coming. You can’t foresee a woman, on the day of her wedding, being led away in handcuffs.

In a moment, the years of swan-munching privilege the royal family had enjoyed on the public’s coin...were no longer supportable.

Hundreds of thousands of overexcited Britons and febrile tourists were making their way to the centre of London.  The streets, to those unsure of their way, became ominously full. Even for Londoners, versed in tube etiquette, there was too much heat and not enough space. The unrelenting sun had cooked the dregs of stale lager, in discarded cans, to a pernicious and upsetting brown vapour. It clagged.  It seemed you could breathe it in, but not exhale it. The effect was cumulatively unsettling.

The police were doing their best, guiding the ever more dehydrated masses through Trafalgar Square, letting crowds through at sensible intervals to maintain order.  The mood was agitated, though overwhelmingly jolly.  But when a pissed up lout, though, mouthed off to a policeman’s horse, he was summarily brained by a baton.  When his mates piled in, the police instinctively began kettling the 90,000 people in the square.  Within ten minutes, 40 were dead, and violence proper was just waiting for its excuse.  Nobody knows how the fires started.

As the elegantly gilded carriage made its way past the hordes of the less fortunate, the ones who brushed their own teeth, the trouble began in earnest.  The microphones picked up Philip’s aside to his wife as he alighted:

‘Jesus, look at these fucking miserable bastards.’

He entered the cathedral, and they were the last words he ever spoke publicly. It took twenty minutes for the crowd outside to learn of them.  The news came in a wave over texts, calls and tweets. In a moment, the years of swan-munching privilege the royal family had enjoyed on the public’s coin, the racist statements from Philip, the political interference from Charles, the corruption of Andrew, the Nazi dress-up from Harry, the largess, the entitlement and the tax breaks, were no longer supportable.

The public had been kettled and brutally assaulted for the final time, and it was tired and sweaty.  The public had drunk too much Stella. A ninety year old woman was dead.  The masses swarmed over the temporary metal fencing, a guttural roar in the form of vengeful people advanced.

Just as the ceremony was complete, the doors burst open.  Philip was swallowed up by the crowd, it is assumed he was trampled underfoot.  The bodyguards stepped aside without fuss.  The break for the cathedral entrance had been so swift that those inside had no idea what was happening.  A pitchfork was launched anonymously from the protesters, finding its home in Charles’ liver.  He slumped to his right, and fell off the pew.  Kate was seized from her husband, the both of them handcuffed in minutes, to stand trial on the 1st of June for crimes against the people.  Nobody saw it coming.

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