© Leon Neal/AFP/Getty ImagesA kiss for ‘Mummy’ … Prince Charles’s term of filial endearment got the biggest laugh of the night at the jubilee concert.
The public discourse on the jubilee did not so much defy analysis as run screaming from it, presumably to hang itself on a string of bunting. Millions of words were written about a woman sitting for 60 years on an inherited throne, and most of them felt insane. The media eventually bashed itself round the head for its treatment of Princess Diana's mortification and deification - it wrote a story about the story - and this was the same but inverse: life, not death. Six million parties,
said the Daily Mail - can that really be true? Who cares? It sounded true and most of the media felt like a manic depressive on an up day last weekend, so drunk with pomp that even the prime minister managed to look middle class. (Perhaps he planned it.) It was too much. Even HM looked embarrassed.
How did they play it? The BBC chose light entertainment duh-speak and was punched by the rightwing press for lacking knowledge of every damp dignitary and seagull on the flotilla, which is fair comment if you want an intellectual framework poised over a reverse lynching. Where, they cried, were the superhero Dimblebys, flying through the air with their gravitas machines? That same rightwing press was so prostrate, so drooling, so repulsively horizontal that its coverage felt like a spoof, a four-day-long Chris Morris gag. When national newspapers and broadcasters fight over exactly how to kiss the royal arse, you wonder if the Enlightenment ever happened, and if we must really walk with the gods and monsters again. This courtier factionalism felt rather Tudor. Which Elizabethan age are we in, again? What is affection worth when it is so indiscriminate?
I did pull one strand of meaning out, but it was entirely unconscious. When Prince Philip developed cystitis after standing in the rain - this was too much detail, although it passed for an international story in these crazy days, and I felt for him - the coverage swung, like a ghostly Britannia, from Beloved Queen to Cystitis Explained to Lonely Queen, positioned somewhere between Henry IV - "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown" - and Ozymandias with big hair. Was it guilt? Because we did this to her? We placed a 26-year-old girl at the head of the state and made her a vessel - for what? Our own inadequacies, obviously. Even a perfectly sane friend of mine, when faced with the flesh-Queen as opposed to the dream-Queen said to her: "I love you." It cannot be easy, reading your retrospective obituary at breakfast. Even so, the ecstasy accelerated. The phrase "Elizabethist" was coined. By Monday, no one looked more of a victim than the Queen.
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