The death of the Queen has, inevitably, had me rethinking my attitude to the monarchy.
Anti-royalist, my dad always left a place – the British Legion, theatre or cinema – before the national anthem was played, refusing to stand.
The concept of inherited wealth and power went against the grain of his passionate socialism. By osmosis, I suppose, I had to agree when he’d point to the Windsors, asking: “Why should they have so much and others so little?”
So, I have to admit, there were some parts of the two weeks’ coverage of national mourning which jarred. Like the constant praise by commentators and the public of the Queen’s selflessness and dutiful service. Let’s not forget, there have been scores of women and men down the decades, from the tenements of Aberdeen to the cottages of the shires, who’ve also spent years in the selfless duty of others – damnt hard service, too. The unsung royalty of our land.
However, none of those reservations stopped me being riveted to the ceremonies and processions of the last couple of weeks. The spectacular events even helped me control my obsession with the Harry and Meghan moger, and Prince Andrew’s efforts to slink back into public life.
For once, the Duchess of Sussex seemed to realise some people and events were more important than her and hers. And seeing the rogue princes condemned to mufti when surrounded by hundreds in uniforms made the al’ grizzler in me quite fulfilled. But, oh, that funeral service. Breathtaking, unforgettable, and two star turns.
Samson-like soldiers stole the show
The moment the massed pipe bands struck up, my hairtie was wheeched awa’. Everything about it was fascinating, from the amazing precision of the military, to little things like US president Joe Biden having to wait while the parade of British “heroes” (honours holders) took their seats.
Loved bossy wee Lottie instructing big bro Doddie when to bow – so like her great-auntie Anne
But I was transfixed by my champions of the day: the eight Grenadier Guard pallbearers with the crucial task of lifting, carrying and replacing the coffin – lead-lined, 500lb (nearly 38 stone) – 10 times.
Seeing the effort on their determined faces, the occasional glisten of beads of sweat, I kept expecting the first eight to be relieved by another team. But, no. The same Samson-like soldiers – four only days back from Afghanistan – carried on to the end, and the final challenge of the steep steps to St George’s Chapel.
My other stars were Prince George and Princess Charlotte, who’re almost as adorable as my grandtoots. Only nine and seven, they were perfectly poised during the services. Loved bossy wee Lottie instructing big bro Doddie when to bow – so like her great-auntie Anne.
In spite of my reservations about the monarchy, I’m an admirer of most of our new King’s family, and wish him well in his reign. (Just wish Millie had persuaded oor King to have a haircut.)
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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