Mark reflects on the passing of Queen Elizabeth II.

Author:  Mark Seymour.

Date: 20 September 2022.

Original URL: N/A.

Article Text

Between the long drawn shots of pigeons landing on the roof of Buckingham Palace, the endless analysis of all the possible reasons why a certain royal had his/her eyes closed during the 21 gun salute.. and the state of my feelings

well, I gotta tell ya..

There was lot of ground to cover.

I mean, she was pretty wonderful and all that, the great fulcrum of decency, kept things calm etc, so it’s sad she had to go right? But really isn’t that the way of all things? Death comes to us all.

My problem was and dare I speak for many others, the sheer wall to wall of forensic commentary as journalist cockroaches crawled all over the stone work of Windsor castle day in day out..

Sifting through every obscure mediaeval ritual that meant absolutely zilch to me, I had to ask, what was the point of it all?

What a friggin’ yawn.

Forgive me but my feelings simply haven’t measured up. How else can I explain it? I’ve tried hard to be gracious and respectful, but you know what?

In the end I switched over to Disney plus..

Bring on the howls of outrage..

Seymour. You insensitive bastard.

I’ll admit, I’m a Republican but that’s a technicality, a legal correction. A belief that there is a more truthful and accurate way of reflecting our national identity. Sadly though, no republic in history has ever been forged by force of argument alone. Social upheaval, bloodshed and violence came first.. without exception.

Or, at the very least, an acknowledgement that lethal violence did actually occur here. In your backyard most probably. Before your house was even there. Problem is, not enough of us have heard the truth. We do have reasons to change. And until enough of us accept those reasons, we will never become a republic.

Still, Republicanism has nothing to do with my feelings and everything to do with the simple truth that her reign, as it was called, really didn’t mean that much to me. For all of those years, getting on with my life while the silver-tailed efficiency of global charities carried on quietly, along with the smooth running of royal privilege, the bestowing of knighthoods and special awards for services to whatever, I gawked mindlessly at the occasional scandal, but who gave a rats really? Who were these people I wondered? What possible relevance could their lives have to mine, as I listened to the vague murmurings of some Royal watcher ruminating on ABC radio, as to the ‘damage’ done to the monarch by the scandalous confessions of a disinherited princess.. while I changed a tyre on the side of the Calder, somewhere between Ouyen and Mildura?

Caring matters of course. I care a lot. About many things. If you care, you feel and if you feel you love. Which is why I listened closely while my sparring partner Nick, spoke of his love for the Queen, tearing up as he did it..

But see, Nick was born and raised in South London, did time in the Royal Marines, was a London Bobbie and in his words would have ‘taken a bullet for her’. And right then his vehemence had to be respected..

Nick’s streets were the streets where victorious mediaeval kings and queens returned from battle, declared divine sovereignty in their blood spattered armour and swore they would protect the safety of their loyal subjects for ever more..

Because somebody had to..

What’s more, the Nation of Britain has been one of the most warlike regions in human history, forged over hundreds of years by brawling families, locked and loaded by water on all sides, who became really good at winning through mortal violence. So good in fact, that with great economic success, they exported their expertise elsewhere. And kept winning.. In Ireland, India, Africa, America and HERE..

So how to explain the difference between Nick’s feelings and mine?

Two things matter.

Land to begin with and who dies defending it, because therein lies sovereignty. Theirs and ours.

And the other thing?

HERE is not THERE.

I’m fond of Nick my sparring partner but his beliefs remain connected to his culture, the culture he was born and raised in.

But it’s his culture. Not mine.

Not anymore.

Comments

N/A.