Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer announced their engagement in February 1981 and preparations for the largest royal wedding of their time began on July 29th at St. Paul’s Cathedral.
A number of briefings and dress rehearsals were arranged for the national and regional press, some of which – including myself – sat off camera in a cramped and tautological mini-gallery in the south transept, meters away from the Queen and the Royal Family.
Watching the ceremony was one thing. But in an age before cell phones and digital cameras, how are we supposed to get our copies and photos out of the cathedral and back home in time for our afternoon appointments? The solution agreed between the media and the St. Paul authorities was charmingly medieval.
We writers were each given a small velvet drawstring pouch – the kind of bag you’d expect Maundy Money to be in – and a string. The idea was that we would write our wedding report on notepaper, put the story in the velvet pouch, and hand it over to the waiting clergy downstairs, who would hand it over to another reporter who would then find a phone booth and dictate our immortal prose to a typist at the newspaper’s headquarters .
As he was handing out the small velvet bags, a clergyman informed us of the importance of not only observing the ceremony but also of participating in it.
It was our duty, he said reverently, to sing the hymns. We smiled politely. Journalists just love being told how to do their job.
Reporters were hidden in the south transept of the royal wedding 40 years ago this month
It was a cute plan, but I couldn’t imagine it would work, and there was no way I wanted to experiment with small bags and lengths of cord as the deadline approached.
I still had time at the end of the service to storm out the back door of the cathedral and run to the CET office in London, a few hundred yards from Fleet Street, and use the phone there.
But as a precaution, the evening before the wedding I took a so-called stop at a leisurely pace from my hotel room near Green Park, wrote and made a phone call.
In theory, the clip is disposable, used for an issue or two, but then thrown away to make room for the main piece, which is submitted as briefly as possible with the latest news. The reality is that editors and sub-editors keep getting nervous as the deadline approaches and stick to the article on hold by slipping the live story into the remaining space.
And that’s exactly what happened on that glorious July day in ’81. Before entering St. Paul’s, I had put on a thousand-word background, which in Coventry was entitled: “Shared Day of Joy”, based on interviews among the huge crowds that line the streets, with additional anecdotes, a powerful one Splashes of color and a few lines stolen from great literature.
I believe that I am leaning on the writings of the great. It’s a win-win option.
If the reader doesn’t recognize the quote, they’re assuming you made it up, and what a brilliantly original twist it is. When he recognizes the quote, he feels related to the author. See? We both know where this comes from – aren’t we taught?
This is how the play ended: “This joyous flood in men’s affairs is sweeping the excited people by the hundreds of thousands … The wedding of life draws the eyes of the world and benevolence must be seen here to be believed. It’s like Christmas goes on forever. And we here, in the middle of it all, have a story for our children and grandchildren. Because when Prince Charles promised undying love to the blushing English rose of his heart, we were there – by God, we were there! “
My live report from the cathedral was shorter and, after my heroic, sweaty run through the streets of London against the clock, dictated not as good as it could have been. Even so, the subs put the headline “Dazzled, We All blinked the tears away,” cut it to fit, and matched it at the top of the page with my color patch at the bottom. Job done.
Guest Spike Milligan was late for the ceremony Horse-drawn carriages left their mark on the streets
Unfortunately there was no space for a small vignette from the media gallery in St. Paul’s, where two American reporters behind me had difficulty identifying the guests. Part of the problem is that easily identifiable and important politicians are not so important at a royal wedding, where the Blood King, no matter which royal family he comes from, is always superior to the democratic decisions of the people.
An Arab prince in traditional robes and headdresses entered and took his place in the cathedral. “Who is he?” hissed one of the Americans.
In a moment of nonsense, I told her it was Yasser Arafat, the leader of the Palestine Liberation Organization and then one of the most wanted terrorists in the world. She shared this information with a colleague. They discussed it in sharp whispers.
There was a thoughtful pause. Then she leaned forward to ask, “So why is Yasser Arafat sitting in front of Nancy Reagan?”
I couldn’t wait to go on TV that evening and really see the ceremony.
From our much-envied press seats, we only had a glimpse of the cathedral.
I could hear Kiri Te Kanawa singing, but all I could see of her was her feathered hat shaking and flapping in the distance like a parakeet had flown in St. Paul’s.
Ceremony finished, report submitted, I walked back from Fleet Street to the cathedral in time to watch the last rows of the huge crowd disappear down the hill to Buckingham Palace, shimmering in the heat haze. The entrances to the cathedral were littered with horse manure from the many carriages. The place stank.
The uniforms, the wedding dress, the band and the guests in all their glory were gone, leaving the torment behind.
Years later, when Charles’ “undying love” turned out to be less immortal, I was reminded of this scene as a metaphor for the fairy tale. Above glamor, glitter, pomp and privileges, including horse ***.
Excerpt from Peter Rhodes’ new book Bloody Adjectives (Brewin Books, £ 8.95).
