Your seven-day guide to how this Jubilee bullshit plays out


THERE’S a full week of Platinum Jubilee bollocks ahead, and it gets worse from today onwards. This is how it’s going to go: 

Monday

Arrive at work feeling vaguely patriotic, as after all it’s a three-day week. Union Jack bunting in workplace. Vera Lynn playing in canteen. Spam fritters on canteen menu. Start to feel dread.

Tuesday-Wednesday

Patriotic fervour gathering pace. Entire world waiting to see how Meghan ruins it this time. Jubilee on telly confined to breakfast TV and The One Show, but swelling alarmingly. No work can be done.

Thursday

Jubilee fever breaks. Flick telly on after a lie-in and it’s Trooping the Colour, which has been on your entire life and you’ve never understood. Stock up on Union Jack paper plates and plastic bowler hats before a show about lighting Jubilee beacons around the world. Try to imagine this pleasing you if you were the Queen.

Friday

With a Platinum Jubilee service on BBC1 like it’s f**king Christmas, you battle a HMS Victory Naval Strength Gin hangover. See Prince Andrew next to his mother in the church and throw up into the kitchen bin. All radio stations broadcasting timeline of Queen’s achievements, all the time.

Saturday

Awake hoping that since the two days off are over, so’s the Jubilee. A documentary about the Jubilee pudding proves you wrong. Everything you see is now red, white and blue. Walking to the shop for beer, you hallucinate Suez Crisis victory parades and the Red Arrows.

Platinum Party at the Palace kicks off. Prince Andrew takes centre-stage for the We Will Rock You guitar solo, announcing ‘I’m back, babyyyy,’ as his approving mother looks on. Time ceases to have meaning. Is it the Coronation? Is this the first time you’ve seen a colour TV?

Sunday

You awake to the sound of your bedside table solemnly narrating the Queen’s annus horriblis. The wallpaper are showing Silver Jubilee parades. The kettle is reminding you she was nicknamed Lilibet.

The street party begins, as exhausted Britons summon the strength for one more tribute. Passes in a blur of warm lager and weak drizzle. Propose a toast to ‘Her f**king Madge’, to cheers. Vomit into plastic Union Jack bowler hat. Hope she hangs on for the rest of the year because you can’t handle this again.



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