The rising fervour over the next royal wedding reminds me of an incident around the time of a previous one.
That of the Queen’s sister, Margaret and a certain commoner named Mr Anthony Armstrong-Jones.
The year 1960
I was drifting around London’s West End one hot, cloudless blue sky day – the sort of day that nowadays proves to general satisfaction that the climate is definitely getting warmer – when I happened on a large, buzzing crowd assembled in, I think, Hyde Park.
I was just about to ask someone what was going on when the entire horde surged forward, cheering and screaming, towards a distant balcony on which had appeared some tiny mannequins.
And I realised I was for the first – and as it happened, the last – time, seeing Our Royal Family in the flesh. Liza was there, with her Old Man ,and Marge alongside young Anthony.
A royal engagement?
I don’t know the occasion. The official announcement of the engagement perhaps. Whatever, the hysteria was intense, the cheers deafening, the flags on sticks a forest.
Now this was all a bit of a surprise to me. At that period anti-royal feeling was rampant, with newspaper columnists demanding to know why money was being wasted on such parasites, why all sorts of regal hangers-on were living rent free in posh homes. Why they couldn’t pay for everything themselves, the rich pampered drones, etc?
There was even a particularly useless Member Of Parliament who spent almost his entire tax-payers time ranting on about the immediate need for a republic and finding The Royal Layabouts something useful to do.
Nice work if you can get it
Personally I didn’t subscribe to any of this. My view then, as now, is it’s nice work if you can get it.
That if any of the moaners could wangle such a position for themselves they’d quickly stop whingeing and cheerfully scoff their fish egg and goosegut sandwiches along with the best.
My scorn was reserved instead for the hooraying mob and their mindless baying. What on earth did they think they were cheering I wondered. And why?
Overtaken by elation
But then, just as I could feel the contempt for such naivety curling my young, know-it-all lips, something unexpected happened.
As if infected by the atmosphere of fervent worship I was breathing, I found myself imbued with feelings of joy, of elation, of patriotic fervour. I didn’t burst into cheers, but I wasn’t far off.
I stood there, half of me wanting to join in the celebration and half wondering what was happening to me, and why.
Defy you to remain detatched
Looking back it was plain I had been swamped by exactly the same enthusiasm that affects football crowds when our side scores a goal, the emotion generals invoke when they tell their army we’re the good guys and they’re the nasties, and for the sake of all that’s decent we have to go over there and slaughter them to a man woman and child. And the emotion surging up when someone posh rolls by to the tune of ‘There’ll Always Be An England’.
I defy anyone, no matter how disillusioned or cynical, to remain detached amid such a sea of instinctive emotion. It’s something entirely beyond logical thought. It’s the reason folk all over the planet look forward to the Great Day
And it’s the reason all arguments about getting rid of the Royal Family are utterly futile.
A parting word
I want to thank all those who said nice things about my scribblings, not only last week but at various times throughout the year. I am hugely grateful for your kindness and you are welcome to a ride on my Zimmer frame anytime.
To the majority of you, who read or did not read, agreed or disagreed, or simply shrugged of my pieces, – well, that’s as it should be of course. Thanks for your time.
And to those who don’t actually read any of the Blog entries but like to scan them for bits they can use to show off their superior knowledge – thanks for your forbearance on this occasion at least.
