The Southern Jubilee
It mattered not that the tea shoppe ran out of scones well before half past noon and, though disappointed, the enthusiasm of the crowd remained high when the last fish and chips dinner disappeared not long after. The insurmountable challenge of our geographical distance from authenticity was not once mentioned. We came to celebrate and for one bright, sunny, and blessedly cool afternoon we were all British, and happy to be so.
The grounds of the picturesque old college teemed with attendees in extravagant hats and costumes. Bentleys and Rolls were parked curbside and The Beatles were blasted from speakers. It was an event best enjoyed by giving humour free reign while at the same time keeping one’s sense of irony firmly in check, a feat difficult to master when Southern drawls could be heard emanating from kilt-wearing souvenir hawkers and meat pie sellers alike. The Commonwealth was well represented by Indian dancers in colourful saris and Tonganese twirlers in grass skirts and bone necklaces. There was an egg and spoon race, as well as a three-legged one and the announcer sounded suspiciously like Jonathan Ross. A cricket match was played in the stone seated arena after which versions of the same sentence were uttered over and over like a mantra, ...
“I simply cannot understand that game!”.
“I simply cannot understand that game!”.
But at least we tried.
The Welsh tent had the friendliest workers. The Scots had bagpipers.
The Indians gave us free mango juice.
The Irish had the best tea towels.
And at two o’clock on the dot we all lined up, some fighting back giggles, as a polished black car rolled up to deposit “the Queen”, a most surreal sight to be sure. We watched in amazement as an elderly lady in an embroidered gold dress negotiated her way down the grassy hill between two rows of pipers lustily playing Scotland The Brave. To the discerning eye, the look on her face revealed she had been vigorously talked into this, but she managed a frozen smile and an unpracticed wave as she passed. In her wake came several lovely ladies in princess dresses as well as, quite inexplicably, two tall creatures in microscopic blue skirts who were immediately dubbed, The Bond Girls. A mother was overheard leaning down to her little boy and saying, “Look! There’s the Queen!”, at which point the father sputtered and said, “For God’s sake, don’t tell him that!! He’ll grow up thinking he actually saw The Queen!”.
Like I said, surreal.
I am sorry to report that we left before this Southern version of Her Majesty made it all the way down the promenade to her throne, but as I was told it consisted of nothing more than a red folding chair and a couple of ferns, I don’t think we missed too much.
True, it was an event that enabled even those devoid of wit to conjure a bon mot or two. It was silly, perhaps, in the extreme. But in its own way, it was also a celebration of a marvelous sixty year reign- a day full of good will, a day with more than its fair share of smiles and, despite ourselves, we rather enjoyed it.
God Save The Queen.
Both of them.
