The Death Parade
Andrew O’Hagan
‘Some people are close to tears,’ said Mark Easton, the BBC’s home editor, from his premium spot outside the palace. ‘This is a very difficult and dangerous moment for the United Kingdom.’ Then it was the bell-ringing turn of Nicholas Witchell, who comes with a look so mournful you’d think half of humanity had just expired. ‘Everyone will have their words, as they pay their tributes,’ he said, and Charles III will be keen to ‘set the right tone’ during this ‘disorientating time’, when people need to be ‘reassured’.
It’s really quite unfair that Charles Dickens is not available at this hour, because his pen would ooze with rapid invention if confronted by the BBC’s royal correspondent. On a good day – and this, sad to say, is as good a day as Witchell’s ever going to get – he makes Uriah Heep look like Brad Pitt at his easy-going peak, the reporter’s face a gravitational field bringing his mouth into the saddest of all rictuses. He spent his long hours before the camera masticating fresh delights of toadyism. It was terrific to watch, in the same way that it’s terrific to watch a snake being fed live mice.
Then came Tony Blair, just in case the oleaginous delights weren’t yet up to snuff. He spoke of the ‘matriarch of the nation’. Blair’s always ready with these lines, and I wonder if he rehearses them in his sleep, perhaps waking up to look in the mirror, to see if he can still do the face. Meanwhile, the ‘show us you care’ merchants gathered outside the palace. The scene was set for the ripest show of journalistic knee-bending in a generation.
Huw Edwards had his black tie tightly knotted early in the day. I think he might have been first to gussy up, and the first to use the phrase ‘the Elizabethan era’, which was soon more popular than iPhones down at the scene. Edwards has the journalistic gift of saying nothing for very long periods of time, while still talking. And Witchell was close to hand. He kept speaking about a ‘period of national mourning’, as if he’d long since crossed over from being a journalist to become the Comptroller of Royal Etiquette and Emotional Expenditure. The nation was sure to ‘feel that mourning very keenly and very personally. The crown has passed invisibly and imperceptibly to Charles’ (‘glaringly’ and ‘super-obviously’ more like). ‘Bells will be rung and guns will be sounded … Flowers will be laid on a scale we have not seen since the death of Diana, the Princess of Wales.’
Before midnight, the reporters were dropping with emotional exhaustion. A new man appeared whom I’d never seen before, and to an almost shocking degree he lacked the lachrymose impetus that seemed so essential in his colleagues. This guy was historical, factual, interesting, but then … oh fuck, here comes Nicholas Witchell, in a package about the royalness of the royals that he must’ve recorded, I’m guessing, some time in the 1950s, or maybe the 1850s, in full expectation that Her Majesty would one day die and the occasion would call for words bigger than any normal human feeling. When did British reporters begin emoting for a living, broadcasting as if the words themselves were the news?
‘It’s a privilege to see how we all behave,’ Naga Munchetty said on Breakfast. What a remarkable sentence. The British love the spectacle of Britons getting emotional, and, indeed, we live in a place where it has become a privilege, now and then, to see how we all behave, the opportunity to take pride in a spot of mass belief in our own nonsense. It is self-watching as a national sport, and every other broadcast, along with every other book, could these days be called How am I today? It was a trait Elizabeth II famously detested, but it sprung up instantly on her death along with the plastic-wrapped garage flowers of England, the ones that make a glinting shrine of every disaster spot in the land.
Overnight, the newspapers got in on the act, behaving as if history were simply a concatenation of our large feelings. ‘Our Hearts Are Broken,’ the Daily Mail screams. ‘How to find the words? Our grief is a hundred different emotions, all of them hard to grasp.’ (Is shame an emotion, and is it hard to grasp?) ‘We Loved You, Ma’am,’ roars the Sun, which changed its banner from red to purple. It seems consistent with the general nullity that the papers emoting most extravagantly are the ones that made the queen suffer the most.
The Express reports on huge crowds weeping in the street. Modern journalism loves the idea that a nation has a heart and that a heart can break, as if there were a requirement to confect a sort of togetherness out of national torpor, the quivering lip having long since replaced the stiff upper one as a symbol of our essential nature. It won’t matter for very long, but today it all seems part of the workaday hysteria of British life, yet perfectly at odds with the quiet, persevering woman on the postage stamp.
Listen to James Butler and Florence Sutcliffe-Braithwaite talk to Thomas Jones about the death of the Queen on the LRB Podcast.
Comments
MDD
Let us sneer at the media supporting the emotion of others. Let this outlet wink praise of contrarian superiority.
Let time pass and most fevers pass. Why not observe and be amused or perhaps humanely engaged by others?
After all, you could be in America.
Despite Truss saying that Elizabeth is one of the greatest leaders the world has ever known, here she is remembered for saying and doing nothing about Aberfan for over a week. The investiture of Charles, however, was seen as a gift to Plaid and the Welsh Language Society. The next PoW may or may not be the star of a show in Caernarfon. Might be the very thing for Andrew Lloyd Webber, but Valentin Schwarz may well be available as director of ceremonies as I doubt that German or French opera houses are troubling his agent very much.
Distinguished LRB contributors O'Hagan and Toibin probably went to comprehensive schools in Hampstead or Norwich, freeing them from cultural baggage. . I was sent to be educated by Jesuits. This had the fortunate effect of making me an intellectually snobbish atheist from about the age of eleven. Being free of religion lasted until I lived and worked in the West of Scotland, where I rapidly became aware of the frequency, and significance, of the questions, how do you spell your name, and what was the name of your school? If Charles sits upon the throne for as long as his mama, Scotland will probably be independent, and Ireland united. If he does not last that long, the lack of cultural sensitivity or political awareness of the House of Windsor will see the possibility of there being a new King Billy. Oh the bonfires of joy in certain streets of Derry and Belfast, and outside Ibrox, not to mention Larkhall and Kilwinning. Responses elsewhere, however, may be very different.
https://www.lemonde.fr/international/article/2022/09/10/dans-les-anciennes-colonies-britanniques-la-mort-d-elizabeth-ii-suscite-aussi-des-commentaires-amers_6141061_3210.html#xtor=AL-32280270-%5Bdefault%5D-%5Bios%5D
It's amazing how often we British congratulate ourselves for being so British about things, by which we mean not making a spectacle of ourselves
The death of Elizabeth II is an interesting and significant event but you’d never know it from UK coverage.
It’s just endless descriptions of the pomp and ceremonies and tearful crowds.
It makes a mockery of the word 'grief' if that feeling- go on, think about it for a moment- you got that never left when your parent, or best friend, grandparent, child, died, can be applied to a woman you never met and who had no tangible effect on your life other than to have entrenched the class system deep enough you could never be socially mobile.
A litany of the Queen's personality traits have been thrust upon us, despite the fact she was prized by these same sycophants in life for never saying anything and being above it all. Most egregious is the attempt to have us all believe she was funny and witty. Any banal quip that left her lips would have been met with guffaws for obvious reasons...she's the friggin queen.
The papers telling us how to feel as well as how we actually are feeling is to out it simply, bizarre, like they can leave no room for error, and don't trust that we'd all feel suitably bereft. More irksome are the citizens-sorry, subjects,- who are policing how we are to behave and insisting now is not the time to discuss abolishing the charade or to criticise her reign, which is the same excuse as when she was alive. Too disrespectful then, too disrespectful now. Presumably any republican discussion to come will be squashed lest we hurt Charles' feelings. The throne passes to the next before you can blink, in an instant, because they know even ten seconds of contemplation would have is wake up to the sheer batshit craziness of it all.
Charles should decalre himself the last King, which would have need resonance after the constitutional crises his namesakes etched into history. Very tidy. And it would rescue his own son from having to carry on with it in a time which should surely, for the love of God, make this all seem ludicrous.
I gave up on the papers when I read a headline informing us that the rainbow that had formed 'over' Buckingham palace was a sign from her that she'd 'always be with us'. Presumably nothing to do with the fact it had been raining all day.
Sure, it's sad. Sure, she did a great job. Not doing a great job when that job is to cut ribbons, read someone's short script, and the feign interest in the lives of the saddos who come to you for absolution you can't provide, would be incrediblt difficult. I'd wager it would be more hard work to screw it up than it would be to get it done satisfactorily.
The royals are turned into stange hybrid... earthly deities, perhaps.
The reason people are mistaking sadness for grief is because the sense of loss is really a gut-wrenching reminder of our own mortality. If even the deity queen can die, we surely will too. She was old my entire life (34 years) and so her constant 'thereness' did in fact make her seem immortal. Her perceived deathlessness was reassuring. Her death makes our own seem more likely.
It would be grotesque to keep his presumably taxidermied remains on the throne for 70 years! He's already 75. If he lives to 100 (which is unlikely), your talking about another 45 years of his lifeless body sitting on the throne. Of course, it might be difficult for the royalty worshippers to detect whether he's still alive or not - and it may not matter much to them, except for missing the outpouring of national grief at his death.
Maybe it’s the great anxiety they appear to be feeling as they face the challenge of figuring out the ‘new words’ that will be appearing in their national anthem that is leaving them at a loss for words.