Showing posts with label Death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Death. Show all posts

Friday, August 31, 2007

Diana

Hello, dear reader. I love you!

I'm back from the brink. Yes. Back! Back!! Back!!! Etc. On returning from Bournemouth, I seem to have shaken off my melancholia and left my inner gypsy on the apron at Prestwick airport.

I do plan on writing some more on my Summer soon, my extended trips to Dorset (Bournemouth, Bourne Free and Polly's baptism), my week in Ireland and the odd day spent here in the Athens of the North. But for now, I want to talk about the ramifications of the events from ten years ago; the death of Diana.

Curious, how only yesterday I was sorting through some books and old tat and putting them up for sale on ebay when I came across The Royal Baby Album and images of the late Princess of Wales. All through the night and with resonating clarity on each waking mo
ment (and there were many) Diana was on my mind. More curious, then, in a slow week for news when most bulletins have gone ignored, I wake up to a world awash with news about the people's princess.

Without getting bogg
ed down in how or why, it can be said, quite simply, that Britain is a strange place, indeed, a very strange place. And what of the British? A strange society. If opinion polls are to be believed, the majority of us like living under a constitutional monarchy. We like the Royal Family to be something they cannot be; the same as us but different. We like to see The Queen wearing ermine, we like her to deliver a speech to Parliament with jewels worth millions of pounds perched upon her head, we like to see the changing of the guard, we like to see a Royal wedding, we like to see an elderly couple living in a palace that could house thousands. We liked to see The Queen Mother wandering around the East End of London after a WWII bombing raid, we don't like to see Harry smoking dope and dressing as a Nazi, we don't like Windsorial infidelity, we don't like to see a family of toffs running out into the countryside to kill hundreds of wild animals for a bit of fun and we don't like to see Her Majesty getting away without paying tax.

We seem to like the Royal Family, on some level, being above us, but we want them to act as if they weren't.

The current bunch do not fulfil that rôle. But Diana did. And that's where
, for all of us, it went horribly wrong. The bridge between the corporeal and aethereal was always a weak one. When it collapsed and was swept away, no-one seemed to know what to do.

Cubans admire Castro, Americans adore Washington and some Russians still have a thing for Lenin but you'll be hard pressed, dear reader, to find any Briton who has a good word to say about Oliver Cromwell.

Cromwell is hated, actually. Revolution? Cutting off the King's head? Not very British, is it.

As much as Cromwell is hated, Darwin is admired, even loved. You see, my lamb, Britain doesn't really like revolution. We're more keen on evolution. And in the days after Diana's death, The Queen instinctively knew this. She chose to play along with the masses who seemed to be damanding her presence in London and in some way acted as though she were being dragged back to the capital kicking and screaming.

She was not. She knew that the mood of the country was for change, but she knew it was a blip and not a powder keg under the House of Lords. She understood our desire for slow and methodical adjustment. She knew, to survive, she had to appear to bow to pressure, although to keep her authority, she had to be the author of that change. One has a glimpse of this in her metaphorical stamping of the royal foot when she addressed the nation shortly before Diana's funeral, "As your queen..." and, for good measure, reitterating the same but different mantra, "...and a grandmother..."

There have been blips before, of course, wobbles, if you like. In 1917 when most if not all British people thought the only good German were a dead one, the Royal Family dropped all their German titles and in the PR stunt of the century, changed their name to Windsor. How very, very, very British.

In 1936, the government preempted the country at large not being in favour of the King's choice of wife. With some mutual decision making, it must be said, Edward VIII and his gay divorcée were quickly dispatched and replaced with the epitome of perfect British family life.

The Queen is a clever woman and she's used her family history to teach her some very important lessons, the most important of which is to watch for a right Royal mess and how to clear it up.

Very often, we Britons can't tell the difference between what's important and what's impressive. Perhaps uniquely among Royals, Diana was both and loved by everyone. We realised a lot through Diana's life. We were a sentimental nation, we were imaginative and loved a wee bit of rebellion.

"Hey! Queen! Get down here to London! Hey! Queen! Get that Union Jack up at half mast! Hey! Queen! Do what you're bloody well told."

The Queen liked us to think she was doing what she was told. In fact, I'd bet everything I own that coming back to London was her dcision and her decision alone, therefore her victory and not our victory; the Monarchy being stronger and more stable now than at any time during Elizabeth's reign.

What's my point? Not sure that there is one. This has been less a rant more a pseudo-drunken ramble, but there must be a point...

...Perhaps this: That the Royal Family and Diana (inside and out of it) can never and could never be what we want them to be. That people scheme. That a national sadness could be born out of the guilt of a people who perhaps expected a wee bit too much from such a young and fragile life.

Our head of state claimed lessons would be and had been learned over Diana's death. So how come the monarchy's in no different place now ten years after said claims were made? Because the Royal Family don't want change? Or because Britons are disinclined to accept it?

Revolution, dear reader, or evolution?

Or stagnation?

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Dead


A meme stolen from Kapitano...

What do you think happens after you die?

You join a club.


Do you believe in heaven?

Yes!


Do you believe in hell?

Unsure.


Do you think you will be judged after you die?

Yes, by all the people I've left behind.


How many people will attend your funeral?

A dozen, at a guess. Unless I die in an accident with all my friends and family. Then no-one will come.


Would you rather that people cry or laugh at your funeral?

Cry. I want them to sob, break their hearts.


What's better? A shot in the head or downing pills?

A shot in the head. Quicker and less painful if done correctly.


What should be written on your tombstone?

Looking rude.


Would you rather die childless or divorced?

I couldn't care less.


Do you want to die in the morning, afternoon, or night?

At night, in bed, fast asleep.


If you had a million pounds to leave, who would you leave it to?

50/50 between Cats Protection and Dogs Trust.


What kind of flowers do you want at your funeral?

Pansies, nasturtiums and roses. I like the cottage garden look.


On your deathbed, which moment will you most remember?

Dying.


Have you ever watched someone die?

Yes, my poor Aunt.


What's the most gruesome death you can imagine?

Being eaten alive.

How often do you think about death?

Twenty or thirty times a day.


Is fear of dying your number one fear?

Possibly. Though, actually, how it happens is more scary.


Do you believe in reincarnation?

I think so, not sure.


Have you ever wished someone you loved were dead?

Yes.


Do you consider life short or long?

Short, far too short.


Do you think you have a soul?

Yes! Nice to have an inner Minge! Exciting!


Assisted suicide for a terminally ill person is:

A dignified ending.


If you were cremated, where would you like your ashes?

Bournemouth beach.


Would you choose to be immortal, if you could be?

Yes, but only if I could call others back from the dead or keep people from dying.

What do you think of ouija boards?

They are dangerous.

I'm tagging:

A Novelist
JAG
Dert
Bitch
Gab
Rand
Conor
Enda
Brighton David
American David
Cheeser
Alan
Matty
Brett
Dan
Nomad
Lewis
Brian
Bill
China
Michèle
Zona



Friday, March 16, 2007

Sauce

Friday, February 02, 2007

Six

I saw two shooting stars last night. I wished on them but they were only satellites. And artificial ones, to boot.

I feel I should be on a quest, either to find a new England or a new Minge. A trip to the lakes is in order. It should help me make up my mind.

I've decided, dear reader, insanity aside, that I'm a bit weird. You'll imagine my delight, then, when I read this. I wanted to join in, and here we have it. Six thi
ngs other people might find a little odd about me:

I pick at my eyebrows. The left one is quite sparse at the moment. I started doing it, I think, when I was about six years old. Mum took me to the GP. He tol
d her that some children cry, some hide under their beds, some pinch other children, some bite themselves, some have tantrums, some vomit. I pick at my eyebrows. Weird, because I also used to cry a lot as well. But it took a lot to make me cry. I used to see children crying at the slightest thing and think they were idiots. It took a flying punch from my Father or to see my Mum knocked out on the lounge floor to make me cry.

So, that's number one. Number two...?

I often photograph my stools in the toilet. Sometimes I send them to pe
ople. The photographs, not the stools. I love it. It's great that we're able to flout convention with such aplomb these days.

Three: I sometimes talk to the dogs like they're human beings, furthermore, like they can understand me (for, indeed, dear reader, some humans cannot). I wonder what my dear daughters might say to me if they could speak. I think their most common response would be, "Never mind."

My refusal to answer the telephone is number four. You might catch me, dear reader, if you call me at a time when I'm expecting a call I'd normally take. I don't like surprises and I don't like coping with situations I can't get out of like engaging in conversations on the telephone that make me uncomfortable. Usually, the conversations are with people I like and we cover topics I generally ap
prove of. So I don't really know what I'm worried about, but worry I do and answer the telephone, I don't.

I find the topic of masturbation quite upsetting. Sometimes I have inappropriate thoughts. When I'm stood talking with someone, I'll suddenly think you've been masturbating and I'll admit that sometimes these thoughts are pictorial. I shan't be watching wank week. Five.

My sixth and final odd fact: I used to encourage my niece, when six years old, to tell stories of murder and witchcraft and to draw pictures of beheadings. I thought it might make her arty. She's turned out a lesbian. Do you think the two are related, dear reader?

Take it easy, take a sisi.