Thankfully I won’t have to celebrate the forthcoming Platinum Jubilee celebrating 70 years of the reign of HM Queen Elizabeth. Luckily, I have the perfect excuse; my daughter is getting married on the same day so I will be celebrating that. But if that was not taking place, I doubt I could muster up much enthusiasm for the celebrations. I did watch the last shindig for the Golden Jubilee on the TV and who can forget the excellent job of compering that was provided by (then) Sir Rolf ‘The Nonce’ Harris? Whatever happened to him? Then there was that other famous knighted nonce on whom the Royal Family seemed to develop a strange dependency, Sir Jimmy Saville. I find it hard to believe that HM The Queen was not aware of what a couple of no goods these two were. Through contacts in the music industry, I was aware of Jimmy Saville’s predilections for little girls in the late 1970s. Mind you, when you have been harbouring a right royal nonce for decades, I guess that you become desensitised to the nonces around you.
I was in London a couple of weeks ago and walked up The Mall which was festooned with large Union Flags along its length. I find the sight of the Union Flag stirring not only for what it symbolises—our United Kingdom—but also for the fact that I know it will really upset the usual suspects in the likes of Black Lives Matter and the rest of the wokerati. But it still did not stir me enough to be enthusiastic about The Jubilee. I have been inclined to go along with the usual tropes about HM’s unblemished 70 year rein and, to be fair, if keeping one’s gob shut for the duration and keeping out of party politics is the standard by which such things are measured then she’s done OK. But look around her and what do we see? First that appalling man to who she was married for 73 years, one of the rudest people I have had the displeasure to meet. He seemed incapable of keeping his mouth shut on almost any issue.
Then there is the heir apparent who sounds more like The Fast Show character Rowley Birkin every time he opens his mouth. Perhaps this comes from years of talking to his plants. The Princess Royal works hard by all accounts, but she is her father’s daughter and has acquired many of his less pleasant traits. Nobody, including himself, can work out what purpose Prince Edward serves, and we all know about Randy Andy who, in addition to allegations of industrial levels of sex with underage girls, knowingly befriended a convicted paedophile. Yet HM The Queen saw fit to rub out national noses in it by allowing him to accompany her and to play a prominent role in the memorial service for Prince Philip. I’d not have minded if he’d slipped in the back door and sat at the back, but any sympathy I felt for her at her for having to sit alone at her husband’s funeral evaporated when he shamelessly appeared at Westminster Abbey.
I cannot bring myself to become a republican, although if the Royals don’t get a grip, then I may have no choice. If Charles steps aside in favour of his son William, in whom so many invest their hopes, it is unlikely to be any better. He has drunk the climate change cool aid and is clearly in the grip of the same globalists who had so much undue influence over his father and grandfather. Those of us who don’t want a President Blair, or a President Cameron have a dilemma and we also don’t have the answer. I thought Peter Hitchens put it nicely on TalkTV the other day when asked if he would be celebrating The Jubilee. He said he would not and claimed that, while he remained a monarchist, he was not a royalist. Perhaps there is some mileage in this; anoint a monarch and consign the rest of the Royals to the dustbin of history.
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