The day Penny Mordaunt became gay culture

Former Tory prime minister candidate steals show at King Charles III’s coronation hen told m friends in the tates that would be crossin the pond and finall heading back to Blighty they were rather excited. But when I said it was for the coronation some faces changed, “Why would you celebrate that man after what he did to Meghan?”

“Can we all agree that Penny Mordaunt is gay culture today?” The declaration was made in a crowded Soho bar, made slightly less gay by the revelers from the coronation that had taken place an hour earlier. By Sunday the former Tory candidate for the premiership had become the Pippa Middleton of the day, completely ignoring that our new king had been crowned.

The epitome of Britishness.

“Wait, are you actually going to the service?” Their eyes studied me, did they have a secret Lord in their midst?

The truth of the matter was that I just wanted to be home in South London for this event. Sure, I’d be swapping one sofa for another, and instead of the dog napping it would be my father, but CNN aren’t a patch on the Beeb during big events. Plus, I’d have my mum’s running commentary on the most obscure of guests, giving Cherie Blair short shrift.

The British just have this special way of doing things, a result of both loving some pomp and circumstance but also being slightly embarrassed about making a fuss. I think that’s why we invented bunting.

I had barely been in the country for a couple of hours when I found myself sitting with mum supervisin dad as he filled the bac arden with nion ac s husband had succumbed to the jet lag that I was staving off with copious cups of tea. earest m father called out to m mum would it be bad to use the a s from the jubilee?” ust put them up the top no one will see replied mother before returnin to put ting the world to rights.

“And what about the ones from the last Olympics?” ust shove them in with the pansies ou honestl can t et more ritish than that My own experience of the coronation, or cor-re-nashe as the locals “huns” have christened it, will be very biased toward the royals. My parents’ home is in the southernmost point of London, a deliciously rural village that celebrates every big event with street fairs and a special hat for the red post box knitted by the Cupcakes, a local women’s group.

On Friday we dared to leave the village and head into the local town. The entire bus journey we could see the school children wearing paper crowns, but the coronation barely got mentioned by our friends that evening. Any grumbles were soothed with the reminder of an extra day off but its intended use as a day of service will no doubt be sidelined in favor of a day of recovery.

The British really don’t need an excuse to drink, though it probably hasn’t helped that many have predicted we’ll be doing this again very shortly.

King Charles’s reign was never meant to be as illustrious as his mother’s, but he’s in danger of beating her record of 16 prime ministers. He’s kept things as unoffensive as possible, though Harry may disagree with that. The most controversial decision so far has been choosing quiche as the celebratory dish, a far cry from the British staple that is coronation chicken.

“I’m just not sure about the broad bean element,” muttered mother as she opened up the Quiche Lorraine.

And there we have it, because even though this is all about welcoming in a new era the coronation is also about reminding ourselves of the traditions that make us British.

Don’t try anything new.

As Saturday’s coverage made way for a news report on the event we just watched, my mum recomposed herself, having gotten a little emotional as Charles had his quiet chat with od he screen filled with the epublican protests in rafal ar uare

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said mother with disdain, “if they want a republic so much then why don’t they just bugger off to France?”

And I think that just about sums it all up.