10 years on - an aussie at the wedding

By Peter Charlton (1978 Harry Brittain Fellow) Published in the Courier-Mail, Queensland, Australia, 20 July 1991

AN AUSSIE AT THE WEDDING The Courier-Mail's associate editor Peter Charlton was one of 60 journalists from around the world inside St Paul's Cathedral for the wedding. He remembers that day well.

It was an offer I couldn't refuse. "Would you like a ticket to the wedding?" asked the lady in el Vino's. "I'm afraid it will cost you 50 pounds." El Vino's is a Fleet Street bar, much loved by journalists and lawyers and the model for Pommeroy's in John Mortimer's Rumpole. Despite, or perhaps because of its clientele, el Vino's is the kind of place where offers made over drinks need to be closely examined.

This offer, however, was kosher. The Commonwealth Press Union, which had tolerated me as the Australian fellow three years before, had been tasked by Buckingham Place with allocating tickets for the wedding. Dear old Lt-Col Terence Pierce-Goulding was having some problems with a fractious Nigerian who was both rude and overbearing. "You can have his ticket," said the colonel. His elderly female assistant, who did all the work anyway, was now making the formal offer in the back bar of el Vino's.

Money changed hands quickly and I was despatched, first to Moss Bros for a morning suit - striped trousers, black coat, top hat and the works - and then to the Palace to pick up the ticket, the program and an envelope of instructions. Getting the suit was a doddle, although the trousers sagged in an alarmingly elephantine way. Picking up the ticket was no harder. A quick "left, right, left, right" across the forecourt of Buckingham Palace and I was inside, waiting for a press office lackey to appear.

Then, a tap on the shoulder. "My dear chap. What on earth are you doing here?" It was an officer of the Scots Guards, whom I'd met at the Australian army's infantry centre the year before. He had been in Australia on exchange and we had introduced him to the delights of the Infantry Corps port at 5 cent a glass. Now, he decided to return the hospitality. Much braying of well-educated voices, much amusement at this colonial who'd managed to get a ticket to the wedding while these chaps would be sweating under serge and bearskin on the route the next day. Many, many gins-and-tonic later, I left the mess a mess.

Naturally, I didn't bother to read any of the material in the great envelope which the Palace had so thoughtfully provided. The morning of the wedding was superb, with a brilliant - for England - blue sky and a gentle cooling breeze. My host in London, a hospitable and considerate chap, had been solving the problem of how I would actually get to the cathedral. "My advice is take a taxi to Blackfriars Bridge and then walk," he said. "You'll never get to the cathedral. The police have blocked off all the roads." Who was I to argue? "Yes, Leo, a good idea, Leo. Do you have any Berocca about the house, Leo?"

My friends assembled to see me off. Flags were waved and Leo pressed a restorative glass of champagne and orange juice in my hand. "For the journey. You look like you need it."

The taxi dropped me on the southern approaches to Blackfriars Bridge. Across it, the route to the cathedral was packed solid, 5m-wide footpaths crammed with people who had camped for days for the occasion. There was only one way to go. Through the barricades and on to the road, folder of useful information under the arm, top hat on the head, gloves in hand, shoulders back, chest out and off I went. On foot.

And of course, all the time, the limousines kept going by: Rolls-Royces and Bentleys, all gleaming for the occasion, containing major and minor nobility, all the glittering prizes of British society. And as the toffs drove by, the crowd dutifully applauded, for the Brits know their position in life even if they don't tug too many forelocks any more. "Ooh, there goes the Duke of . . ." said one voice from the crowd.

All along the route, the Londoners played spot the celebrity. "Who's he then?" asked one voice, quite loudly. "I dunno. He can't be important. He's walking." "Oh, give him a clap," said another anonymous voice. "Poor fellow looks hot. Look, he's all red-faced." And he was too. It was hot under that topper, with the Gordon's wearing off. But much of the redness was due to simple embarrassment. Finally, I arrived at the steps of St Paul's, to be greeted by the largest Englishman I've ever seen. A police sergeant wearing a chestful of real ribbons, including a Military Medal. "Good morning, sir, he said. "I'm sure you have a pass. Would you mind if I saw it?" Not at all, sergeant. "Hmmm", he said, checking it closely for evidence of forgery, holding it to the light and flicking it with a fingernail. "You realise, of course, that you could have brought a taxi to this point."

"Of course, sergeant. But it is such a beautiful day, and I needed the exercise." "You'd be an Australian gentlemen then, would you sir?" he replied. There was no answer required, or even possible.