From Harry’s Uber to Louis’ sarcastic clap: The Coronation moments you (probably) missed

You’ve got to love Britain. Honestly, you do – it’s not worth taking the risk while Suella Braverman’s spies are about. But you’ve especially got to love Britain on rare weekends like this. Because, when you think about it, which other country in the world could host a party with a 1,000 year-old religious ceremony at its heart, featuring an ancient spoon, a gospel choir and a septuagenarian momentarily embarking on a strip tease, with guests ranging from the Queen of Bhutan to the bloke off Repair Shop, before the day reaches its planned apotheosis with a family waving from their balcony at hundreds of thousands of sodden superfans?

We always knew the Coronation of King Charles III would have it all, but we had no idea that “all” included quite so many tiny moments of weirdness and delight. In the lead up, people on social media circulated rules for drinking games viewers could play to enliven the Big Day. “If Boris Johnson’s top button is undone, do a shot!”; “If the crown falls off, see your pint off!” – that sort of thing. I wonder what the appropriate punishment for “the entire of Twitter getting momentarily randy for the MP for Portsmouth North and 12th place finisher on Channel 4’s Splash! carrying a bejewelled sword while dressed as Ajak from Marvel: Eternals” would have been. Consume a whole off licence? Drink yourself to death?

What a day it was. What a majestic day it was. What a majestic, but utterly weird, day it was. That’s Britain, a country which makes absolutely no sense, and you’ve got to love it for that. Let’s look back on a historic day for inconsequential but amusing details.

A clap for Prince Louis

There was pressure on him, as Our Unproblematic King, Officially Everybody’s Favourite Member of the Royal Family, Even The Republicans’, but Prince Louis was always going to deliver the goods. He’s a born showman, an entertainer of the old school, a 3ft Ken Dodd with Jack Dee’s propensity to smile and a limitless wardrobe budget.

Speaking of clothing, the five year-old arrived – accompanied by his long-suffering straight woman, Charlotte – dressed as a navy Professor Snape, arguably the other great anti-hero of modern times, and conducted himself in a restrained, but nonetheless bored, manner during his grandfather’s Coronation ceremony. He pointed at stuff. He sighed. He rolled his head about as if to say, “Yadayadayada, Justin, cut to the shiny hat bit. Bluey’s on at two and I’m not f***ing missing that, let me tell you.”

But he was holding back. We didn’t know that, but he knew that. Because, as we’ve observed, he’s a showman. You can take the man out of the show but you can’t take the show out of the man. Does that make sense? No, but it’s been a long weekend.

Anyway, his moment came on the balcony. Maximum crowds, maximum exposure – he’s done this before. As the rest of his family waved like normal people, or at least like normal but very tired people who’ve been waving for an hour already, Louis decided to liven things up by wide-arm clapping like Jonathan Edwards about to try and break his own triple jump world record in Gothenburg in 1995. Slow-clap, slow-clap, slow-clap. Somehow, something about it was sarcastic.

This guy, honestly. The expectation on him growing up to be a “character” – be that the partying kind, the ending-up-in-prison kind, or the “set to host The Late Show” kind – as a young man possibly weighs heavier than the St Edward’s Crown. Vivat Louis.

Harry calling an Uber

Everybody saw the Duke of Sussex’s arrival to the Abbey, coming as it did just behind his cousins, Beatrice and Eugenie. The Marquess of Montecito had the confident stroll of a boy who keeps hanging around outside his old school, despite insisting everyone there is a loser and he has much better places to be now anyway.

In reality, he had to come back, but he didn’t have to hang around. So he didn’t. We’d heard all week about how he’ll fly straight back to California for Archie’s birthday party, but in the end it was practically an Irish goodbye. Not everybody saw his exit: some footage captured the moment he walked out of the Abbey and pointed straight to a waiting BMW, parked in front of the Royal limousines.

“Hi, Uber for H? Sorry, for Harry? Oh wait no sorry I’m on Dad’s account still, Uber for Charles? Great,” he probably said inside. “Yah is it OK if I change the destination? Cool cool so it’s not Buckingham Palace anymore, it’s now literally anywhere else. But maybe Heathrow? Further I know, but I’ll tip. Also, do you have an aux cable? I want to play you an audiobook on the M4 if it’s OK. You might recognise the voice… Yes it’s me doing Spare. No? Silence? OK cool yah no problem.”

Blasted pen: the sequel

It just wouldn’t be a big day in the life of King Charles without a minor hissy fit caught on camera. Saturday’s came in a quiet moment when he and the Queen were stationery in the Gold State Coach. He huffed and he puffed in the vehicle, like a dad who’s just realised somebody’s changed Radio 2 in his car to button 3, just to mess with him. The Queen looked on with regal patience. We will likely never know what was wrong, but here are some theories:

1) Camilla’s just told him he’s got his crown on backwards.

2) The Gold State Coach beeping noise won’t stop going off until he puts his seatbelt on.

3) He thought he told the Coronation organisers he’s always hated choral music and is more of an old school RnB guy? Hadn’t he? Every time. Every. Time.

4) He’s still embarrassed for unthinkingly stripping entirely naked behind the shroud in the Abbey. They should have made it different from bath time!

5) He’s just realised Harry used his Uber account again, and to go to bloody Heathrow of all bloody places.

Poor old Sir Karl Jenkins

A legendary Welsh composer and multi-instrumentalist whose own music featured in the Coronation, but try telling that to anybody who wasn’t aware what he looks like – which, it seems, judging by reactions from viewers, is everybody.

Jenkins is a man with a particular look. Mod-style mop of grey hair, loose handlebar moustache, those glasses that Gwyneth Paltrow wore at her ski-assault trial… In the best possible way, he’s like if a Tolkein dwarf fronted an ELO tribute band. It all came together to look like the kind of disguise a production department with limited finances might give a middle aged actor when they have to quickly play elderly, like Dick Van Dyke when he’s Mr Dawes Senior.

All of which is to say: he looked the coolest there. Never change, Karl.

Truss against the world

Ah, a state occasion. There were all our living prime ministers. Sir John Major, of course, the elder statesman among the statesmen. Sir Tony Blair and Cherie, who you sense are very much the organising force in the gang, administering the WhatsApp group, hosting the dinner parties, encouraging the car keys in the bowl, and so on. The Camerons, looking forever the same age and happy in the knowledge that they’d have been invited anyway, even if he’d never been PM, because they’re just those sorts of people.

Theresa May, as quiet as her outfit wasn’t. The Johnsons, still absolutely livid they weren’t in Number 10 for this or the last big thing. And that’s it, of course. Because Rishi Sunak’s giving a reading and probably up at the front alre–

What? No, no, that’s it. Trust me, that’s absolutely it, I counted them all in. Look, I work for the Telegraph, I think I’d remember another Tory prime minister from the last 10 years. You’re seriously trying to claim this? I think you might be thinking of Hugh Grant in Love, Actually or some other fictional one. Are you OK?

Wait, Liz Truss! Of course! The pub quiz answer of premiers. She’s going to have this happen for the rest of her life, isn’t she? And that. Is. A. Disgrace. “Now, Liz Truss, prime minister for a very short time,” Huw Edwards intoned, as she arrived. If anyone can remember her at King William’s, I’ll eat my crown.

The entirely random celebrity guestlist

All right, not entirely random. They all had reasons to be there, and most of them were to do with the fact they’ve worked with the King on various charitable endeavours. Or, at the very least, they’re American and due to play the Coronation Concert in Windsor on Sunday, so could do with finding out which one is Charles and which one is Camilla, in case they’re quizzed by anyone.

Still, it was as if somebody had started listing their dream dinner party guests, then taken acid halfway through the list: “Stephen Fry, Dame Emma Thompson and Greg Wise, Dames Judi Dench, Maggie Smith and Joanna Lumley, Nick Cave…. Who else, er, Katy Perry? Ant and Dec?… Wait no, Lionel Richie? Jay… Blades, from the repair thing? The Boy In A Tent, from Covid? Um… The Vogue guy seems cool? And er, how about Dynamo, that street magician who’s never really on TV anymore? Do we need to invite him or will he just find a way in anyway?”

The highlight was Katy Perry spinning around the Abbey floor unable to find her seat. She was hot, then she was cold…

Penny for our thoughts

Well, I say penny for our thoughts, but there was no mistaking everybody’s thoughts during the ceremony on Saturday. They were variations of: “Why is Penny Mordaunt there?” “Why is she carrying a massive sword?” “She looks fantastic, but why is she dressed [as my colleague Madeline Grant pointed out] like Britney Spears in the “Toxic” video?” And judging by a lot of online comments, if you were an older gentleman of a certain background: “Why do I feel like I need a lie down, and keep thinking of my boarding school nurse all of a sudden?”

The sword carrying – part of her role as the Lord President of the Council, but also just the perfect accessory to set off that outfit – was incredible. The one-time magician’s assistant had been doing press-ups, we hear, and trained for two weeks with a weighted replica. Still, why did she waste all that time doing Splash! when she has such a clear aptitude for the pole vault? Mordaunt held the Sword of State in the Abbey for what felt like a decade. When she was finally allowed to put it down, we cheered as if she’d just walked across a ravine on a high-wire. When she was then instantly handed another, different sword to hold, we howled.

Had this all happened a year ago, it was pointed out, Jacob Rees-Mogg, a man who has never had to carry anything heavier than an umbrella without outsourcing it to his domestic staff, would have had the role. By the end of Saturday, people decided Mordaunt must be the next prime minister. As I keep saying, Britain is a truly ludicrous country.

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