As a longstanding reporter for a republican-leaning newspaper that has just exposed the outrageous cost of the crown, it may raise some eyebrows that I helped organise the biggest coronation street party in Stockport.
Some very good friends were disgusted. “Pidd. Stop this right now,” ordered a pal from Belfast after I posted a photograph of papier-mache busts of Charles and Camilla that my stepdaughter and I were crafting in the run-up to the big day. “Not my king,” replied an Aussie when invited to join in the fun. Others shook their heads in horror when they learned I had bought lifesize cutouts of the major royals (no Prince Andrew, but a Meghan) for the occasion.
I wouldn’t say I’m a monarchist. As Frederick the Great once said, “A crown is no more than a hat that lets in the rain.” I am all in favour of the royals being treated like ordinary people, paying their own way and their taxes, and ideally travelling by bicycle rather than gilded carriage, like in the Netherlands. But I do enjoy a national occasion, and the chance to close our main road for a big bash was too tempting to resist. It’s surprising what you can get away with if you wrap it in the union flag.
Our organising committee decided to run a dual theme that referenced our identity as Greater Mancunians as much as any monarchist leanings. It was to be a Coronation Street party – note caps – with revellers encouraged to dress either as their favourite Corrie character or a royal. I decided to go as a regal Deirdre Barlow, a tiara atop a permed wig, my usual specs substituted for an outsize pair reminiscent of the Weatherfield One.
Loads of businesses chipped in so that we didn’t have to charge for entry. A local celebrity, the recently crowned Miss Stockport, agreed to judge the dog show. There were automatic rosettes for all King Charles spaniels, with prizes for the most regal pups as well as the waggiest tail. Romiley WI played a blinder, digging out a mile of bunting from last year’s platinum jubilee and putting on a crown-making workshop and a “jarbola” – their take on a tombola, where people played to win jars of sweets and trinkets. NK Theatre Arts, a local theatre group, provided the entertainment including a performance from a group with learning disabilities.
There was a stall where children could plant seeds, and I’d roped my husband – Jack Duckworth for the day – into making a Splat the Rat game out of an old piece of drainpipe, a decorator’s roller standing in for the rodent in this surprisingly fiendish test of reaction.
Much of the organising was at the less glamorous end. Getting quotes for portable toilets, transporting tables from the church hall and being the killjoy who said no to a bouncy castle (not with my name on the public liability insurance). But there is something very cheering about seeing your whole community come together to picnic on a usually traffic-clogged road for one afternoon only – monarchists, republicans, soap fans and everyone in between.
