This King Charles coronation moment froze my pacemaker’d heart

King Charles III stands after being crowned during his coronation ceremony in Westminster Abbey. Picture: Getty Images

Antiques Roadshow is a pommy program that’s been running on the BBC forever, wandering the countryside visiting castles and stately homes. Locals queue with stuff they’ve found in their cellar or attic – and from time to time someone hits the jackpot. “I can see this Royal Doulton chamber pot fetching a thousand pounds at auction,” the expert will tell the lucky person, as onlookers gasp.

A couple of weeks ago the Beeb ran an edition of the show at Westminster Abbey, an old church in London. Crowds flocked to hear experts evaluate a battered stone, rusty swords and a thing called an orb that looked like a hand-grenade. “Where did you get this?” they asked an old chappie holding it as if it were about to explode. “Oh, it’s been in the family for hundreds of years,” he replied. Ditto half a dozen sceptres and jewel-encrusted party hats.

Poor Charles. Weighed down by his cloaks, he looked like an oldie in his dressing gown. The King of England reminded me of Sandy Stone of Glen Iris. He looked so frail and wobbly, I worried that he wouldn’t last the distance – that he’d die on the throne, right in the middle of a rousing chorus of Long Live the King. Fortunately both heir and spare were nearby, so there was probably a Plan B.

But the Brits have grit. And very strong bladders. There was not one loo break in three hours! Charles and the missus probably had incontinence pads under their regalia.

I was equally concerned for Archie, aka the Archbishop of Canterbury. On a number of occasions he lost the plot and could be seen shuffling desperately through the script. And according to the subtitles (needed by this deaf and abject subject) he missed not only words but entire sentences. I’m told he also forgot one of the crucial anointments with holy oil. And neither he or Charles seemed entirely sure when His Majesty should stand, sit or kneel.

Fortunately, the signing of a key document went well – the royal biro actually worked. We remember Charles throwing a tanty on a previous royal engagement when the pen he was handed didn’t work properly.

Both His Majesty and myself nodded off from time to time – as we oldies do – so I didn’t see everything. But I woke for the key moment when Archie tried to put the crown on the noble noggin and had some problems, requiring a couple of goes. My pacemaker’d heart froze – as it did at the opening ceremony of the Sydney Olympics when they had trouble igniting the cauldron. But with a final emphatic wriggle, the crown was deemed donned! Phew.

Earlier we saw a moment of pure provincial patriotic pride: the Cinderella coach that carried Charles and Camilla to the abbey (she’s a Cinderella if ever there was one) was made in Australia. Three cheers for our manufacturing industry. We don’t make cars any more. No Fords, no Holdens. But we’ve cornered the booming market for royal coaches, which run on actual horsepower and are thus even better environmentally than Elon’s Teslas.

While our virtually anonymous Governor-General attended the coronation, Charles would of course have preferred John Kerr – to whom he wrote that famous fan letter after the Dismissal.

God Save the King?