by Sean Mallen
I interviewed Eric Jenkinson, an Afghan vet who came home with issues that were too personal to reveal to me, except to say that they were tough. He is a big guy who would admit that his figure is less than Adonis-like and that a cycling trip like this was a challenge.
“I’d been planning for the physical,” he told me. “We’d been biking 350 miles over six days. But the emotional I wasn’t ready for.”
For him, the tears didn’t flow until after the ceremony when the group gathered off to one side and belted out a loud, off-key, and heartfelt version of “O Canada.” Even the Brits got misty-eyed at that moment.
“For me they were tears of pride,” said Jenkinson.
We finished our interview and I was about to say goodbye when I realized I had failed to pose an essential question. Nicolas moved in close again with his camera.
“Was this experience therapeutic?” I asked. “Or did it bring back memories of things best forgotten?”
Jenkinson was emphatic. “It was very, very therapeutic for me. Quite honestly, this is one item that’s off the bucket list.”
Me, too, I guess.
It is true: If you are Canadian and you can come to France, you should go to Vimy Ridge.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Queen’s business card, if she ever had one, would need its own external hard drive to contain all her many titles.
For Canadians, it’s officially:
Her Majesty Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom, Canada and Her Other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith.
Aside from also being head of state of a clutch of other places, from Belize to Australia, she carries several other unofficial handles:
British Columbia: Mother of All People
Jamaica: Missis Queen
New Zealand: Kotuku (Maori for “white heron”)
Nebraska: Admiral — a gag title from the landlocked state (Not sure if she ever visited Lincoln to pick it up.)
The list goes on. When you are queen as long as she has been, people give you stuff. My London posting coincided with her sixtieth anniversary and a host of events to mark her Diamond Jubilee.
Victoria was the only other British monarch to last long enough for a Diamond Jubilee. (George III fell a few months short but did not even effectively reign over his last ten years due to declining health, dementia, and some say madness.)
They held a huge parade to mark Victoria’s Jubilee in 1897, but because of her arthritis she could not climb stairs and the service at St. Paul’s had to be said outside. Elizabeth, by comparison, was still hale and astonishingly active at eighty-six. She was able to be a participant in an extravaganza that lasted a whole weekend. The biggest event was to be a thousand-vessel “Pageant on the Thames.” There were a few Canadian participants, and my task was to prepare a story on a group of breast cancer survivors from British Columbia who would be paddling a dragon boat.
I arranged for our Vancouver crew to shoot interviews with some participants and video of them training, which I would blend in with elements we gathered in London talking about the overall event. It was to be an easy Friday for Nicolas and me — simply take a taxi to the east end to shoot a panoramic stand-up with Tower Bridge in the backdrop and head back to the bureau for a leisurely writing and edit of our preview story. Stu Greer was arriving as well to assist with coverage of the big weekend, and was looking to a quiet day of catching up on paperwork.
News intervened.
As I scanned Twitter while we were in the taxi, the headline from the Sun tabloid blared at me: “I’ll Kill Again.” A notorious and sensational Canadian murder investigation now had a U.K. angle.
The gory details included a young Chinese immigrant murdered and dismembered in Montreal, with body parts mailed to political offices. The suspect, Luka Magnotta, was irresistible to the tabloid press (and mainstream, too) because he was also a former gay porn actor, had auditioned for a reality program, and expressed interest in another notorious Canadian sex criminal: Karla Homolka.
Now it seemed that Magnotta had spent time in London a few months earlier. The Sun’s revelation was that he had shown up at their offices to complain about a story in which they reported on his alleged tendencies to torture cats. Later he sent the paper an email warning, “In the near future you will be hearing from me again. This time, however, the victims won’t be small animals.”
Given that there was an international manhunt underway for him, our easy day was about to be turned upside down.
I woke up the folks back in the newsroom in Canada with the revelation.
Nic and I quickly knocked off the required stand-up beside the Thames and I got into a taxi to our live studio location (we could not go live from our office), while he headed back to the bureau to meet Stu, who would now be scrambling after this story. They had to hop on a train to Windsor to meet and interview the Sun reporter who broke the Magnotta angle.
My task was to do several live interviews with Global morning shows across the country, effectively just reporting what had been in the tabloid.
By early afternoon I was back in the office where I returned to Plan A and easily finished and delivered my Thames pageant story in plenty of time. Stu and Nic were running flat out all afternoon and were barely able to get their piece done in time.
Stu’s Royal weekend was ruined as he immediately headed off to Paris and then Berlin in pursuit of Magnotta (who was caught in the German capital) — a story that ended up winning him an award, which he deserved not only for the journalism, but the fortitude in keeping up a crushing pace.
As for Nic and me, it was back to the grand boat show.
The previous record holder for marine displays on the Thames was a spectacle that was staged 350 years earlier by King Charles II in honour of his new queen, Catherine of Braganza.
The great diarist Samuel Pepys reported that there must have been a thousand boats on the river, which fairly disappeared beneath them. Among the crowds lining the banks to observe the spectacle and to welcome the king’s wife was the king’s mistress, Barbara Villiers, who ensured that she not only had a good view, but that the crowds had a good look at her.
The 2012 event would set a new standard for spectacle, if lacking the salaciousness that marked the reign of the louche Charles II. The ever-quotable Boris Johnson, mayor of London, said, “It’s going to be a joyful, successful version of Dunkirk.”
It would, however, be wet.
Mindful of the massive crowds, Nic and I headed out early on the Tube to Westminster, the closest stop to the Lambeth Bridge, where I had reserved a camera spot, reasoning that it would offer a great view of Big Ben. The trains were jammed, as were all the banks of the river, spectators at least ten deep.
The bridge was just as bad, and I worried that we would be stuck with a view of the backs of people’s heads. But then we found the media pen and grabbed the last bit of available real estate next to the rail, approximately two square feet, elbow to elbow with other cameras and civilians, but good enough for our needs, facing east toward Parliament.
The skies were slate, with occasional raindrops and a brisk breeze that made everyone do up their jackets. A perfect day to celebrate English culture.
Beside us were three generations of the Williams family from Essex, who got their prime viewing spot thanks to a relative’s connection. The grandfather choked up at the sight of it all, and his grandson had eyes as wide as saucers. He was not alone.
No one does spectacle and pageantry quite like the Brits.
The first sign of the flotilla’s approach was a deafening ringing — a floating belfry passed underneath us, carrying several custom-made bells that pealed out an overture for what was to come.
It was followed by the muscle-powered boats, which provided the grandest vista of the day — hundreds of them large and small filling the river. There was the QRB (Queen’s Rowbarge) Gloriana, a replica of the vessels that were once th
e maritime limousines of kings, queens, and the occasional defunct hero, like Lord Nelson. Gloriana was rowed by a selection of former British Olympians.
We spotted and filmed our Canadian dragon boat, as well as an antique canoe sporting the Maple Leaf flag with the paddlers dressed as voyageurs — thus fulfilling our duty to include fellow citizens in our story.
A crowd of guys on the other side of the bridge started belting out an off-key “God Save the Queen,” so we knew the star of the show was approaching. She was riding aboard the royal barge Spirit of Chartwell, which actually began life as a luxury Rhine riverboat called Vincent Van Gogh.
The Queen and her family passed directly underneath us, offering a brief glimpse of the back of her head before chugging on downriver, where they would be mooring to allow her to watch the entire passing show.
As crowded as our location already was, a Filipino crew now wedged their way in beside us. Their reporter, clearly unaccustomed to English June weather, was bundled up in a heavy coat, gloves, and woolen cap. She shot a lengthy stand-up, without apparently bothering to gather any video of the passing show and then posed for several still shots and selfies.
Nic and I rolled our eyes.
Then we realized this was a once-in-a-lifetime resumé shot and took turns snapping pics of ourselves with the procession below and Big Ben behind. I used my picture incessantly on all forms of social media and it became my calling card for the London assignment.
Important work done, Nic asked, “Do you think we should go?”
Realizing that the pageant was about half done, that the biggest names in the show had already passed, and that in about forty-five minutes approximately 1.2 million people would be all headed for the Tube, it seemed like a good time to beat it.
Lots of others had the same idea and the surrounding streets were teeming. A couple of blocks from the Thames, and still within the no-traffic zone, we spotted a cab dropping off a fare and hopped in.
Asked how he got past the barricades, he simply said, “You just need to know where to go, mate.” Part of the cab drivers’ “knowledge,” evidently.
No sooner did we close the door than the skies opened into a full-on English deluge.
My favourite image of the day, and the one I used to open my story, was a group of plucky opera singers, all drenched and freezing, with hair plastered to their heads, belting out “Land of Hope and Glory” in front of their monarch. Cannot get much more English than that.
They deservedly won much acclaim, although one paper unkindly dubbed them “the drowned rats.”
The pageant was the highlight of the weekend, but there was still one more show to wrap up the Jubilee — an all-star concert in front of Buckingham Palace on the Monday. As is the way with these things, thousands of people camped out all night on The Mall to save a spot. And as is the way with reporters covering these things, Nic and I went down in search of Canadians.
We spotted a woman with a Maple Leaf flag draped over her shoulder, who despite a Cockney accent so heavy that I could barely understand her, insisted that she was indeed Canadian. Due to the language barrier, I had to ask her to repeat her hometown several times before I could discern that it was Burlington, Ontario.
“How’s it been here?” I asked, camera rolling.
“Worst possible night to be camping out. Let’s just say I’ll be happy to get home.”
As we worked down The Mall toward the palace, we searched for the tent of the inevitable Bernadette Christie from Grande Prairie, Alberta. The same Bernadette I had interviewed outside Westminster Abbey at the Royal Wedding in 2011. She had asked our Alberta correspondent, Francis, to tip us off that she would be back in London for the Jubilee. Francis met her when she was chasing Will and Kate in Yellowknife, during their honeymoon tour of the Northwest Territories.
Bernadette had a way of making herself ubiquitous at these kinds of events.
I rang her on her cellphone and she directed us to her campsite close to the front of the crowd. As she was giving us directions, I heard a neighbour bark at her to not bring in any interlopers. The campers are understandably territorial at these things.
She made her way out of the sea of humanity to talk to us on the side.
“Why do you do this?” I asked, with genuine curiosity and an element of human concern.
“Because it’s so much fun!”
I was scheduled to be live from outside the palace at 10:30 London time, just as the concert was ending and just as the Queen was to light the last of four thousand Jubilee beacons. The tone of the day darkened with the news that Prince Philip had been admitted to hospital with a bladder infection, with much tongue clucking about how he had stood outside for hours on Sunday watching the pageant. The speculation was that he was made ill not so much by the cold and damp but by his stubborn refusal to go below deck to pee.
I made my way down on the Tube and my press pass got me through the hordes of people to the media position off to the side of stage, just as Elton John was wrapping up “Crocodile Rock.” I did not have much of a view of the performers but it was a great vantage point to see all the projections on the palace.
The Queen missed the first hour and had a stoic look on her face when she arrived. A comedian on the stage noted her presence with, “You missed Tom Jones!”
The AP producer overseeing my live hit warned I would not be able to do it if the concert was still going at 10:30, given the BBC had the rights to the broadcast. But she had been told definitely by the organizers that the Queen was most certainly lighting the beacon at the bottom of the hour and the music by Royal command had to be done by then.
Somebody neglected to inform Sir Paul McCartney because he was going long. One would have thought he would wrap up with a soulful rendition of “Let It Be,” but for unknown reasons had made “Live and Let Die” his closing number, complete with a thunderous pyrotechnical display. He was still singing at 10:30.
However, a couple of lurid crime stories were leading the show (including the aforementioned Magnotta case) and I was to get on the air closer to 10:37. The producer shrugged, smiled, and said go ahead. We would just neglect to inform the BBC. As it turned out, Sir Paul had finished, but the last bit of pageantry still had not played out when I did my bit. My TV job was done.
Moments after I spoke to Canada, the Queen, now no longer suppressing a smile, walked out on stage with Prince Charles. With McCartney, Tom Jones, Elton John, and other loyal subjects as a living backdrop, he called her “Mummy” in his tribute, which drew a look from HM that in an earlier era might have been a prelude to decapitation. But it was a passing cloud and she genuinely seemed to be enjoying herself.
Even the most rock-ribbed republican would have to admit that this was a genuine and large-scale show of affection as the thousands raised their voices in “God Save the Queen” and a giant, waving Union Jack was projected on Buckingham Palace.
If I am ever given the chance on voting on the subject, I would choose to not have her or her successors as Canada’s head of state. But the British Royal Industry does put on a pretty impressive show.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It is well known that St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland. Lower down on his list of credits was his role in bringing surfers in.
The story is convoluted and a bit of a stretch, but involves a legendary race of pagans who, angered at the introduction of Christianity, turned themselves into foals and jumped off the majestic Cliffs of Moher on the west coast — a spot since named Aill na Searrach (pony’s cliff in Gaelic).
Where mythical heathens once met their end, surfer dudes from around the world are now drawn to challenge the reality of a wave dubbed “Aileen,” a monster that only appears about a dozen times a year and that can reach fifteen metres in height.
It was the chance to write about that wave and those surfers (as well as the chance to visit my cousin Sheila and her Irish husband, Tom) that brought us out to Stansted Airport before dawn. It wou
ld also be my wife and daughter’s first visit to Ireland.
Part of our journey would be the experience of a modern form of Irish culture: airline humiliation. We would be once again flying on the Celtic Tiger of budget aviation: Ryanair. With the fare already rock bottom, I paid a bit extra to check a couple of bags and to get us to the front of the line so we would have a better chance of getting three seats together.
Knowing the strictness of the carry-on regulations, we had carefully packed in advance to ensure all would go smoothly. Sadly, few of our fellow travellers were as well prepared. As with our first Ryanair experience, the lineup for check-in was long and tortuously slow as frantic passengers opened up their overstuffed bags on the floor to madly rearrange their undies, socks, and essentials to try to comply with the edicts of Ryanair policy for carry-ons.
When we finally got to the front, we sailed through — veterans of the trials of budget air travel that we were. But we did not account for the endlessly inventive methods of torture that could be dreamed up by those who will fly you for less than the cost of a bus fare.
At the gate, we stood near the front of the “priority” line and were among the first to be called through to board. Except we would not be boarding. The thoughtful folks at Ryanair pointed us through a door and to a stairway that led to the tarmac. Just ahead of us was a young mother, carrying her three-year-old son who chose that moment to throw a tantrum and refuse to walk himself. She was also burdened with two carry-on bags and a stroller. A triathlete would have been challenged by less.
The service-impaired Ryanair staff paid no attention. Isabella picked up the mother’s stroller and I grabbed one of her bags, allowing her to hoist her recalcitrant son and other suitcase and struggle down the stairs — where we were stopped partway down.
Dear reader, you might well ask why the airline would wave us through the gate and down the stairs if they had no intention of letting us board the plane. We can only surmise that it was the result of extensive market research and long, billable hours of consultation with experts in the field of consumer humiliation.
