Assembly and prayers seemed to drag that day, our headmistress had more to say than usual. Sitting in rows along the length of the hall we sang the Lords Prayer, finally filing outside towards our classes and the beginning of the school day. It was nearly Christmas; always a time for celebration; as part of the schools annual festivities, our class had an appointment with God. We were due to go on a school trip to our local church, St Columba; a chat with the vicar and religious instruction was on the cards and I for one was looking forward to the journey ahead. In the 1970s, religion and church attendances were on the decline; an excursion to a Christian house of worship, would most certainly not be on the cards today. As a child I had always felt spiritual in some way, eulogising Christmas and Easter with gusto, even saying prayers before I went to bed, it was yet another difference between my peers and I; something that made me different and a part of my personality I still haven’t lost today.
Walking hand in hand we left the school, travelling along Hillson Drive towards the Church at the end of the road. Compared to children today, we were well behaved, listened eagerly to our teachers and never spoke until we were spoken to; a testament to the times we grew up in, a mark of respect unheard of in 2018. St Columba was large and imposing, a modern building built during the housing boom of the 1960s, The structure was surrounded by a large Council estate, well maintained with residents taking great pride in their homes, very different to the extensive developments we are used to in the 21st century. This is where I was Christened, celebrated Weddings, harvest festivals and sang Christmas Carols; it was an edifice I was very familiar with; friends and family living in and around the grounds in which it sat.
Walking inside the Church, I was amazed by the sheer size of the hall, eagerly looking around in every conceivable direction, trying to take in everything before me. Standing, still grabbing on to the back of the last row of pews, holding on for dear life, out of fear or incredulity, I contemplated this vast space, gazing straight ahead towards the alter; the letters IHS stood out, a monogram for Jesus Christ. The large white candles, the font, Bibles, stacked neatly on each chair and as I moved my head upwards, the open, monumental dark wooden ceiling, illuminated by spotlights on either side of the auditorium. This was a wondrous site for a young lad, unable to contain his excitement at this oar inspiring vision; wide eyed I continued to walk up the isle behind my class mates, turning towards the vestry beyond, briefly looking back towards the large wooden doors; it was a magical site, just as it was intended to be.
We all stood huddled in a group, facing the vicar as he gave a talk about the Church and St Columba. It was then he pointed to me, and asked if I would come to a large cupboard at the back of the small room. Not knowing what to say or do, I did as I was told, everyone turning their heads, following me as I walked across the parquet floor. He opened the door, revealing a row of vestments inside; robes, religious attire and cassocks, all neatly pressed, covered in plastic. Some were brightly coloured, embellished in gold, beautifully embroidered ruffs for the choir and a musty smelling cloak, looking as though it had seen better days. The vicar asked if I wouldn’t mind putting on one of the outfits to show the rest of the class, which I duty did; turning red in the face, looking down towards the floor, I stood, rather embarrassed as our mentor described the clothes I was wearing. I was a person who liked to blend into the background not wanting to stand on show; for me this was tantamount to hell, hardly religious.
Approaching school, after our religious outing, I was philosophical about my excursion to the Church. Back then I believed in God and for the brief stroll back to class I even thought about becoming a priest. My life took a very different path, one could hardly call me a saint, but I will always remember that day with fondness, when we went to meet God in his house, in the church at the end of the street.
Excitement had been building for days; sat in front of the television set, watching the early morning news, I was mesmerized, watching in ore at the people camped out along the wedding procession route. Under tarpaulin, make shift tents, sat in deck chairs, decorated in red, white and blue, they were all waving their union flags, sporting patriotic clothes, draped in flags; a sea of colour, up and down The Mall. Through the streets of London, in front of Buckingham Palace, every available spot was taken as dawn broke over the capital. The cameras were there, Interviewing the dedicated, early arrivals and anyone with a connection to the days proceedings! This was the day The Prince of Wales married Lady Diana Spencer and I like most of the country was waiting with anticipation, happy that our future King had found his bride; this wouldn’t be an experience I would ever forget; a Royalist then as I most certainly am now!
Today was a Bank Holiday, the whole country was able to take part in the Royal Wedding; I was thrilled at the prospect of watching the biggest national event since the Silver Jubilee in 1977. Not everyone was as happy as I, there were those who had no interest in the day and would rather be elsewhere, my Father was one such person.
Dad came down the stairs, he was in a grumpy mood, annoyed at the impending Marriage. As a ten year old boy, I had little concept of the reasons for his irritation, believing it was just a ‘Dad thing.’ I remember my Father talking about wasting tax payers money and the rumblings of republicanism under his breath, as he retorted his customary socialist rant. Dad was left wing in every sense of the word, a point of view that has never changed over the years. As Mother and I sat down in front of the box, Dad paced the room, still moaning about the costs involved in such a frivolous occasion. I however was more than happy, glued to the set.
‘I’m going out!’ said Dad, ‘I’m taking Kevin out for a game of football in the park, where I don’t have to watch this rubbish,’ he continued. I remember thinking to myself, how the park would be full of Fathers, kicking football’s around with their sons, equally miffed about the events running across every TV network. Football was never my thing anyway and I was just happy they were going out, leaving Mother and I at home, enjoying the day. Shortly afterwards, they were gone, with a slam of the front door, cursing the day ahead.
The carriage arrived at the entrance to Westminster Abbey, Princess Diana, gracefully stepped out, helped by her Father, the Earl Spencer. As she walked forwards, alighting the carriage, the train on her dress recoiled behind her. Like a meandering river, it stretched for what seemed like miles, light dancing off the shimmering white silk in the bright glow of the day; she looked radiant, her all too familiar smile beamed under her veil; sparkling tiara on top of her head, twinkling as she advanced up the aisle. I sat there open mouthed, taken aback by the majesty of Monarchy, the pomp and circumstance, the emotion stirring music and a vision of history in the making. This was the day I truly felt a bond with our Royal Family and realised just how important they were in all our daily lives. I felt proud to be British, content at my place in the World.
When Dad got in from the park, I continued to watch the reruns, highlights and repeats on my little black and white portable TV, lying on my bed upstairs. Again and again, I relived the wonderment of the day, cementing my growing adoration of an institution a thousand years old. Princess Diana was a powerful figure throughout my life, someone I was lucky enough to meet much later. Her Wedding was an important milestone for me, because I discovered who I really was, what made me tick and most importantly my connection to the Country I was born in, my home, wherever I am living, here or abroad. The Royal Wedding of 1981 gave all of us a brief escape from the austerity measures at the time. With unemployment high and discontent growing, this was a day to escape and enjoy an occasion that encompassed us all; this was a day that defined an era, this was a celebration that would galvanise a nation.
47 year old Author, Columnist and Blogger.