God Save My Mum: A Not So Warm and Fuzzy Take on the Queen of England's Jubilee
by A. E. McCann
Like it or not, the Queen's Jubilee celebrations claimed hours of television coverage in June. Ughh! Four days of flag waving for an auld woman in a hat, whoop-de-doo!
How about a jubilee celebration for my own Mum who just had a big birthday? I think Mum, and millions of others like her, deserve the "royal treatment", but I don't think she'd be that fussed. I think she'd have settled for better treatment from Lizzie's government through the years instead. Sheer luck and ruthlessness, with a dash of a canniness for manipulating people, is how Lizzie's ancestors laid the ground for this English rose to flourish along with the rest of the hot house flowers.
All the love and adulation heaped upon this o.a.p.(old age pensioner) by an admiring public and government, should have been heaped upon my Mum, in the form of respect—not condescension—and upon the other widows and ever-dwindling number of veterans who were once conscripted into Her Majesty's Armed Forces and shipped off to an obscure place called Christmas Island. And let me tell you, dear reader, Santa Claus wasn't dropping prezzies for these troops, but nuclear bombs on my future dad and his mates, Her Majesty's guinea pigs in the mid- to late nineteen fifties. My future parents were going together, if not engaged, and under the cloak of National Security, families' lives would be changed forever, along with the other fellas who were on that island in the sun with no explanations given. Deliberate foot-dragging has been par for the course since my Frank, my Dad, died at about age thirty-two.
Pensions tied to the cost of living, top of the line health care when he fell ill, et cetera... Oh, aye, and a bloody big apology would have been nice. So excuse me if my family wasn't festooned with bunting to wish Liz congrats!
Born, and growing up, in Scotland, we all knew the score. As far as the Royals and their class were concerned, we were nothing to be too concerned about. I know that they looked upon us with disdain and contempt, and the feeling was(and is) mutual. But Her Majesty's government showed this in how they treated my Dad and his young widow. He wasn't cannon fodder like those who've served in wars past and present, but bloody good "test material" to be exposed to nuclear bombs, dropped at close range off the shore of idyllic Christmas Island.
When ever I reread Dickens Bleak House I think he knew (in the endless legal case Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce) of what he spoke, for he showed how slowly the wheels of justice roll for the common man, a practice continuing to this day. Last year the cases of the Christmas Island Veterans and Families was up before the Law Lords in London, and was kicked around like a dead goat's carcass in a boisterous game of polo in its original form. Her Majesty's Government f#$%ed us once again.
So the powers that be, Lizzie and her spawn, can go f#$% themselves, their jubilee and the many horses they've rode in on over the past sixty odd years.
I can't stand how the British public fall for this s*%t rallying round H.R.H., and go along with all the monies that were spent on this royal love fest. And then after it's all over, the majority go back to struggling to keep their heads above water whilst "the quality" continue to float along on their taxpayer-supported "floaties", enjoying the staus quo. Which is where this Queen's Jubilee b.s. comes in handy, for keeping the masses dumb and happy.
So pardon me if people like my Mum and I are sick to the back teeth with it all. As the member of the Opposition said in the movie "The Madness Of King George", God grant us the wisdom of the Americans. Uh oh.
The poor old people of good old Blighty missed the boat on that one. So God Save My Mum, and forget to throw a lifebuoy to you-know-who.
Just kiddin'; I'm not that evil. Or am I?
A. E. McCann is a Scot, an artist and a rock n' roll singer.