MUSINGS FROM FRANCE
My Mum Wouldn’t Like This Story, But I Can’t Help It. Viewed From Across The Channel, Britain Seems Bloody Bonkers. . .
Not that the rest of the world hasn't gone barmy too.
Britain does indeed seem to have gone bonkers, but it’s not alone. There’s a maniac in Moscow bombing the hell out of Ukraine in the name of rescuing it from Nazis, or something like that, daily gun massacres all over the US where a lunatic who tried to overturn the results of an election he lost is considered likely to make another presidential bid — and win.
France is probably bonkers too, the gilet jaunes demonstrations of a few years back — burned cars and smashed windows along the Champs Elysee, for what? But I live here and can only stand so much craziness, so let’s not talk about France. Instead, come join me on a trip across the channel to Boris Land,
But first a little background.
I’ve lived in France for nine years. Before that, I lived in the States for several decades and, before that, the UK. My mum, who died a few months after her 100th birthday, lived in the States for almost half her life.
She was never more proudly British than after she no longer lived in Britain. funny how that goes.
Just a short walk from her Seal Beach retirement community, palm trees swayed and surfers rode the Pacific waves. Inside her home, it was Little England. Union Jacks galore — printed on tea towels, decorating tea cosies, stuck into flower pots. A china cabinet full of coronation cups and assorted knickknacks from weddings and jubilees, teaspoons with royal crests.
A picture of the queen taped on the refrigerator smiled upon me every time I opened the door. One day, after removing a bottle of milk, I dropped a deep curtsey.
My mum was not amused.
My mum’s Britain was the Great (and great) Britain of her youth. A time when the glorious British Empire stretched over more than a quarter of the world’s surface and most of its 400 million loyal subjects lived outside the British Isles. Recalling Empire Day celebrations — the white dresses and red, white and blue hair ribbons, the parades and songs, my mum would tear up. Land of Hope and Glory reduced her to sobs, as did anything sung by Vera Lynn.
But my mum’s version of Britain was confined to England. Other than a few forays into Scotland shortly after her marriage to a Scotsman, my father, she’d never set foot in Wales or Northern Ireland. Couldn’t understand why anyone would want to.
This sceptred isle . . .this earth of majesty. . .This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.” (William Shakespeare, Richard II)
Royalty always seemed a bit grandiose and anachronistic to me — all the bowing and curtseying, the pomp and ceremony, the masses lining the streets, gazing up at the palace for a glimpse of the exalted few who, but for an accident of birth, were not that different from the adoring masses down in the street.
Except for more expensive clothes and a tiara or two.
I didn’t quite get it then, I still don’t. Which isn’t to say I don’t find it entertaining at times. Ask me my thoughts about Harry and Meghan, go on. Or what is it with Sarah Ferguson, the way she manages to hang on? And Katherine, I can’t believe she doesn’t have an eating disorder.
Living in France, I should probably watch French TV, but I don’t. The news on British TV is less challenging, more like watching satire, but a tad too over the top. I can only suspend disbelief to a point.
Covid dominated the news for months on end, but once that was tamed coverage turned to stories about Boris and his Merry Band of Cabinet Cronies whose various mishaps have created such dire poverty that children go to school hungry and the elderly are forced to choose whether to eat or heat.
You decide, luv. Fish and chips, or a nice warm house. Can’t have both.
Heartbreaking stories on the home front interspersed with heartbreaking stories from Ukraine. A nightly dirge of gloom and folly. Inadequate supplies of almost everything including medicine, a mad scheme to ship asylum seekers off to Rwanda — if I’d heard about that on April 1, I’d have sworn it was a joke. Unfortunately, it’s true.
Partygate coverage about Covid lockdowns observed by almost everyone but Boris and his gang fills the screen night after night. Obfuscation, verbal contortions and outright lies. Propaganda isn’t confined to Russia.
It’s depressing, even from a distance. But, not to worry, Boris has plenty of tricks up his sleeve. Like the one he announced just in time for the Queen’s Platinum jubilee. Let’s bring back the imperial measurement system, he said. Let’s allow British shops to sell food in pounds and ounces to coincide with celebrations for the monarch’s 70 years on the throne.
Brilliant. Hip, hip, hooray. My mum would have loved it. What a clever chap that Boris is, funny hair and all. Boris will make Britain great again, kind of like Trump making America great again, except Boris is considerably more eloquent which isn’t saying much. And, please, no negative coverage about hungry school children and destitute elderly not having money to buy food in the first place — pounds and ounces be damned.
Don’t be such a wet blanket. Come on, let’s have a chorus of God Save The Queen and watch some uplifting news for a change.
And here it is. The pièce de résistance — sorry for using a Frenchy phrase in this veddy British context. Enough of the dreary old news about people going without — let us celebrate a family who has never gone without.
The Royal Family that is. And the head of that family, Queen Elizabeth — long may she reign over us, as she has been doing for 70 years.
Just for one weekend, no more depressing coverage of starving children and freezing elderly — bring on pictures of Kate and William and their brood — well-fed, smiling, and nicely dressed in outfits that probably cost enough to have fed a few hundred hungry children, but that’s beside the point.
Bring on Princess Beatrice and Eugenie, best known for being princesses and the daughters of disgraced Prince Andrew who we won’t see because (wink, wink) he tested positive for Covid. Never mind about that though, let’s see the liveried footmen, the prancing horses, the golden coach and the other coaches carrying all the princesses and lords and ladies and earls and pearls and crown jewels. Let’s drool vicariously at the stately banquets.
And let’s have coverage of the masses, the commoners, celebrating in their own poverty-stricken yet merry ways. Recipes for Royal Trifle and Coronation chicken anyone? Looking for a knock-off dress like the £2,970 number Kate wore as she waved to her adoring subjects? We’ve got you covered.
Not a royal jubilee coverage stone unturned.
Whew, wasn’t that fun? All the huddled masses getting interviewed about how proud they are to be British. So touching. But all good things must come to an end and we will now return to our regularly scheduled coverage of hungry children and overworked health care staff and whether the elderly will freeze to death this winter. Boris is confident however that a return to the Imperial measure will fix all that.
And just before we go, a quick peek at Royal Ascott. Watch as sleek race horses gallop around the track and the lords and ladies and assorted dukes and duchesses and other people with lots of money preen and posture for the huddled masses to ogle on their TV screens. Oh and there’s Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall in the Royal Enclosure with the Prince of Wales, they’ve had a lovely day checking the racing form. Won’t be long now before they’re king and queen, will it? That’ll be a nice spectacle, won’t it? Make a nice break from all that depressing stuff.
Ah, Camilla just waved. Lovely, isn’t she?
Perhaps it’s living in France, but Marie Antoinette comes to mind,
Sorry, mum.
I write mostly about life in France with occasional forays across the channel. A few links to past stories.
If you’d like to take me along on your walk, or wherever you’d like to go. Just press the listen button at the top of the story to hear it read aloud.
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