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COLUMN

Robert Meadley

...let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings:
How some have been deposed, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed;
All murdered: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps DEATH his court, and there the ANTIC sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him a little breath, a little scene,
To monarchise, be feared, and killed with looks...

IT WAS THE MORNING OF DIANA’S FUNERAL...

It was a weird week. It was so quiet, and yet it seethed. I am told it was very English. Perhaps it was. A painter once said to me, ‘The English are no good at art because they think the world is surreal.’ How would we know? The world is what we think we see. (The World as Will and Idea.) I think he thought that because he hated having a natural gift for drawing dogs and horses and dead owls (there is a good dead owl of his above the fireplace as I write), but there you go. Pass the amyl nitrate, pal. I’m starting to nod off.

Weird? On the Wednesday, ITV cancelled Lethal Weapon 3 because it had a car chase in it and showed Field of Dreams instead. Do you know Field of Dreams? Kevin Costner, pursuing a strange and ritual reconciliation with his dead father, creates a baseball field on the family farm in the middle of nowhere. Famous ghosts come out of the corn to play on it. Not everyone can see them. To the venal and the dry of heart there is only a baseball diamond with benches and floodlights. Around, as far as the eye can see, the ripening maize stirs quietly in the wind.

It is a poetic madness. The bank is about to foreclose. The hustlers gather to be first in at the moment of death. The hero’s confidence is shaken by repeated disappointments. Only his daughter sits unperturbed, watching the game. ‘People will come,’ she says. ‘People will come.’

I switched over to the news, and there they were. People were coming. Quietly, patiently, remorselessly. People were coming. Dazed journalists wandered around recording vex pops. Everyone said the same thing: ‘We had to come.’

They came with flowers. They came with pain. They carried their children in their arms and thought about throwing stones through the windows of Buckingham Palace. It was orderly but uncontrolled, spontaneous but solemn; an eerie suburban Woodstock. They queued for hours, with anger but without rancour, to write letters to the dead princess like children writing to Father Christmas. The voices of mockery were strangely silent. We didn’t know what this was, but we knew it wasn’t over yet.

I hadn’t been paying attention at first (another rock’n’roll death, another media binge; spare me) but it began to dawn on me that this was something I hadn’t seen before.

People had visions. Panicking bank managers saw her image laughing in the right-hand comer of a portrait of Charles I. (Remember Charles I? He believed in the divine right of kings. We were very patient with him, but we had to lop his head off; he just wouldn’t be told.) ‘I’m not mad!’ they cried, ‘I saw it!’ I thought, This is mad, I want some of this.

People will come. Not just people, but the people. The people were coming to bury their own. Fuck you, palace. Fuck you, journalists. Fuck you, pundits. Fuck you, pretenders to the crown of King Punch. I didn’t know what this was, but I understood it was necessary. (You can’t show an old news junky something like this and expect him to stay sane.)

A strange negotiation began. We spoke to ourselves through television. Bemused journalists, strangely unlettered in the mysteries of their craft, asked us what we wanted.

There were calls for the Queen to come, but the protocolistas said she could not come, Buck House is closed, the court is at Balmoral. The court? We don’t have a court. We have a monarchy that we keep in a box. We know she is just a woman. All she needs is a bed and a chair and a kettle. Many of us have dealt with tragedy. You don’t need fucking courtiers to help you roll your sleeves up.

We called for the Queen to come, knowing she could not come. We called for the Queen to speak, knowing she could not speak. She was the prisoner of her own hubris. Her mouth could not form the magic words to celebrate this person in whose exploitation and public humiliation she had so obviously colluded.

They should have known it would end in tears. Their efforts to discredit her had been disastrous. They leaked the news that her secret vice was vomiting, only to find that half the nation knew the need to throw up at the thought of the royal family, and the other half were bulimic. They called her ‘a loose cannon’, and the shade of Tommy Cooper stalked the land. They said she wasn’t really ‘royal’, whatever that means; and now she was conveniently dead, the people crowned her with flowers. You have to love it.

Me? My heart lies bleeding upon Senlac field... (Although a fortnight before that I might have been on the other side at Stamford Bridge. It’s a long time ago, and my memory is hazy.) I might now be a republican, if the words President Thatcher didn’t set the dry rot fruiting in my bones. I might be a sentimental monarchist, if the name Edward the Confessor didn’t make the red mist rise behind my eyes.

The Queen had to apologise and could not. But then, why shouldn’t she apologise? Even the paparazzi postured with a grotesque humility. ‘We are just the rent-boys on the corner,’ they said. ‘We cannot read the road signs when we are bent double offering our arseholes.’

People will come. They kept on coming. Who knew how many would come for the funeral? Estimates spiralled. 2 million, 3 million, 5 million, 8 million... Panics swirled through the cornfields of the Establishment. Somewhere between 2 and 3 million the service infrastructure of London would break down. The national road network might be gridlocked from Hyde Park Corner to Carlisle. This was no longer Field of Dreams, this was Close Encounters of the Third Kind; were vengeful nannies and national insurance clerks sculpting voodoo Dianas out of mashed potato in the shadowed suburbs from Sydenham to Chorlton? Mutiny was in the air: I could taste it, like the smell of old burnt cordite in the empty shell case on the mantelpiece. The funeral route was not going to be long enough. The servants of protocol said nothing could be changed. But it was.

As a time-served member of the mob, I was getting the hang of this. We demanded that the national flag fly at half-mast over Buckingham Palace. The protocolistas protested again. This was anathema, this was blasphemy; only the royal standard ever flew there. We said our flag would fly there or no fucking flag would fly there again. It was brilliant, this. You could join in in the pub.

The Queen and her court cowered in Balmoral. Gestures were made, but they were payments of tribute, not expressions of grief. They said they were shielding Diana’s sons, and they held up those boys to shield themselves. The Queen made a speech on television, but few of us bothered to listen. She twittered with self-pity and excuses, as we knew she would. The royal family have grown fat at our expense, said the people, let them vomit themselves thin again as a penance.

On Friday I was plumbing in a bathroom for a friend. I was lying on my back, with my head under the bath, when I experienced a moment of satori. I became conscious of myself as what I am, a single cell, allowed to quiver briefly, fade and be replaced in the being of a vast, slow-moving beast, empowered by sloth and sentiment, grazing the lawns of Time. The beast was in pain. I could feel it.

Saturday was unreal. I watched the funeral in bed, but those who went out said the silence was uncanny. It began quietly enough, but it was the quiet of expectation. We were paying attention to see what we would do. A line from Chesterton, quoted by Martin Bell at Tatton earlier in the year, ran through my head:

Smile at us, pass us, pay us, but do not quite forget,
That we are people of England who have not spoken yet.

People will come. How many? We still did not know. Even the pundits, endorsing their cheques in the studio, were subdued.

I was only mildly hungover. Lucy was ironing some clothes to pack. She was flying out to Italy first thing tomorrow. Our two boys wandered in and out, bemused by our involvement in the event, wondering when it would be appropriate to ask for money. The young dog brought me a ball. The old dog gnawed a bone. The television was a black hole. I was passing the event horizon.

It began quietly. From a modest gate at Kensington Palace the coffin was brought out, borne on a gun-carriage, draped with the royal standard, crowned with lilies, escorted by a dozen or so unarmed soldiers. (Draped with the royal standard? So was she royal or wasn’t she? Protocol is invented by bridge-players; you have to pay attention.)

A wail of grief sighed upward from the crowd. The policemen lining the route stiffened. They faced the crowd. Was the coffin being protected or possessed? It wasn’t yet clear.

The wailing died away. It had shocked many, but few thought it was inappropriate. There were no rules. People responded in their own way. Some wept, some clapped, some cried out in their passion, some took snaps as if this was a family occasion.

The camera cut to Westminster Abbey. Al-Fayed, the Great Gatsby, had arrived. The crowd greeted him warmly. I was pleased by that. Whatever our children are worth in the great scheme of things, we pay a great price when we lose them.

After what seemed an age of solitude, the coffin was joined by Earl Spencer and Diana’s two boys. Charles and Philip, the heir and the consort, walked on the outside where the crowd could spit on them. This took some courage, as there had been fears of hostile demonstrations, but this was the Great Game. They were playing for the crown. And nothing happened. They were walking in the charmed circle of Diana’s glory.

Representatives of the charities she had sponsored fell in behind them. Some in wheelchairs, some on crutches; some leprous, some with Aids. This too was appropriate. She had stood the medieval test of monarchy - she could touch the scrofulous.

The coffin passed through the memorial arch by Apsley House. ‘The angel of peace below and the angel of peace above,’ said the commentator. The angel of peace below was home on a gun-carriage. The angel of peace above, an immense winged woman with the posture of a valkyrie, bestrode a chariot with careering horses. I was beginning to feel at home here.

At the gates of Buckingham Palace a rabble of crow-black royals milled around, uncertain what to do. As the coffin passed, the Queen nodded. It seemed a perfunctory gesture to me, but the commentator was ecstatic: ‘The Queen bows only to God, and she has bowed to Diana.’

I began to understand how protocol could become like heroin. How its dry powder once ignited could become the warm enveloping smoke of dreams. Victory in death. Turbulent beauty victorious in death. It felt warm. It felt familiar. Then a shadow winked at me from between the gun-carriage wheels. Mr Punch was there. It was, after all, a national occasion.

(After the cortege had passed, the royals drove off to the abbey. There was a murmur from the crowd. Over the palace the royal standard came down and the national flag was raised to half mast. A cheer erupted that must have bounced around the royal ears as they fled down Birdcage Walk. It was a curious moment. I had never seen this before, and yet it was traditional. This was the mild version of how we treated our monarchs before the brief vanity of empire. We were starting to slip back in time. We just didn’t know it yet.)

We were still watching. At the abbey, the coffin had arrived. Eight guardsmen - big lads - carried the half ton coffin in. There were gasps and sobs but mainly there was silence. The service began formally. It was the usual stuff. We would have fallen asleep if we hadn’t known that something odd was going to happen. A million people sat on the grass in the sunshine in Hyde Park, watching on giant screens. We who watched them knew how hot it was. We had scan the heat haze shimmering off the road around the coffin. It had added to the effect of mirage.

The odd thing was that Elton John was going to sing. Someone had written new words to ‘Candle in the Wind’, a tribute to Marilyn Monroe. We had seen some of the words a day or so before - I’m not sure when, time had become elastic over the last few days - and to me, sunk in senility, this song had seemed one of the most absurd things of the week.

The Prime Minister read the lesson. His voice was all over the place, as if he thought that only his performance could infuse the words with meaning. ‘...we are as tinkling cymbals,’ he said, waving his head with a wild solemnity, ‘...we see through a glass darkly.’ It seemed appropriate.

Elton began to sing. Great swathes of the nation stirred. The crowd in Hyde Park rose spontaneously to its feet. In front of their TV shrines from Mousehole to Cape Wrath, millions of people began to weep. The national anthem hadn’t stirred us, we had snoozed through Verdi’s Requiem, but a gay glam rocker, wearing the hideous toupee of a deranged car salesman, was rousing the spirit of the nation from its coma. I began to think old and understand. It was pure karaoke, and it would have had the sentimental and the sloshed weeping in the music halls for a generation. We are still, after all, a vaguely well-meaning people who like big aunties, a bottle of stout and a knees-up, and a brawl now and then.

Ripples of applause gathered into waves and washed down Constitution Hill to lap around the abbey walls. What is the sound of a million people clapping? It was applause, it was release, but it was also a definite signal. This was a public event. We were going to join in.

What else could happen? What could channel the seething, subterranean forces of this almost silent mutiny?

Earl Spencer stood up to speak. I knew nothing of Earl Spencer. I don’t waste much thought on the so-called aristocracy, most of who are only a granny away from being brewers, grocers and insurance salesmen. My instinct, like many of my countrymen, is to hang a few every now and then to teach them some manners, but they are too few to be seriously annoying and we are too lazy to organise the hunt.

Earl Spencer spoke with brevity and passion. He stood in the proudest pulpit of the Established Church and told them they could not have his sister for a saint because they would steal her sense of mischief. He stood in the presence of the Queen and his peers and told her she could not have Diana’s carcass for a stage prop because she had dealt dishonourably with the live Diana.

This was tremendous stuff. The head of one of the very few genuinely ancient families in our mushroom nobility had defied Queen and church in front of the whole nation. That he looked like Beowulfs younger brother when he did it was an immense and powerful bonus. We were hurtling back in time at a breakneck speed now. I saw the signs to Runnymede and the New Forest flash past. A verse from a poem about William Rufus that my father used to recite with relish to express his sentiments about the monarchy ran through my head:

His red hair he got from his mother,
The crown what he wore were his dad’s,
And the arrow he got at the end of his reign
Were a well-deserved gift from the lads.

Then Earl Spencer spoke the magic word. He expressed his sympathy for the bereaved boys, and with his gaze fixed on his sister’s coffin he bound his blood family to defy the Queen if she tried to deform these two boys as she had her own children.

Blood. The word rang. It’s echo hung in the air like the savoury smoke of bale fires.

A friend from Canada phoned. They were watching it live as well. ‘That was it, wasn’t it?’ he babbled. ‘That was the real thing, that was the blood oath...’ It was.

Great waves of applause rolled down towards the abbey. Those who were inside have described it as being like the sound of rain. One said it started like the patter of a shower and grew insistently until it was like the drumming of rain on a tin roof, but he knew it couldn’t be rain because the sun was burning through the stained glass windows.

Golden rain!

The self-styled ‘great and good’ sat silent in the abbey; their hands like frozen claws, their mouths deformed with sneers. We could see them on the telly. They were sneering at us. They didn’t know yet but we knew that they would drink from this strange Grail or they would wander naked in the wilderness. As they cowered in the fortress of their mimsy god, something huge and ancient reared in the air above and pissed on them from a great height. They thought they were safe, but the doors were open. There were too many among them who might be famous, but were born in ordinary homes. These understood and joined in. The yellow tide sloshed gleefully inside the abbey walls. Those who could weep were cleansed; those who could not sat in their stench and writhed. You can watch them on the replays. You can see the idea dawning in their hollow eyes that the yellow tide would take no prisoners. You can see their twisted hands being forced to clap. You can see their sneers being straightened into subservience. Power. It felt good.

VOX POPULI, VOX DEI! The voice of the people is the voice of God. God moves in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform... It was fitting that we used the coronation abbey for our amplifier. That’s the way to do it!

It was all over bar the weeping, but there were still things to do. The coffin was returned to the people and to Earl Spencer. He would not let them bury her in the abbey. He was going to take her home and bury her on an island in a lake where they had played as children. It was Marylin Monroe meets Le Morte d’Arthur, it was Morte d’Arthur meets Swallows and Amazons, it was Swallows and Amazons meets Marylin Monroe. We wept for its completeness. (Don’t panic; we will be vile and vain and hypocritical again tomorrow.) The hearse, six or eight police outriders, and one car with her brother in it, was all the panoply she needed. We wept, we threw flowers, we remembered the war. When the British are deeply moved, we remember how good it felt to be bombed, although not many of us were. It is more than our eccentricity, it is our shibboleth.

A couple of million people turned out to escort her home. They lined the route from Westminster to Althorp, 70 odd miles of it. It wasn’t organised. No-one told them to do it. They offered flowers. No-one told them to do that. It was just what they did. They had been doing the same thing largely unnoticed at the sites of small tragedies and the homes of dead pop stars for years. For thousands of years. It was just that we had never seen so many of ourselves doing it together before. It was extraordinary. On the route out of London we expected crowds, and there they were. The roof and bonnet of the hearse grew mounds of flowers. At the start of the motorway they stopped for the driver of the hearse to remove several armfuls of flowers from the bonnet. I don’t know what else I expected, but I wasn’t ready for the lines of people to continue endlessly along the motorway. The flowers continued to rain down. They rained in showers from bridges as she passed. They grew in flesh mounds on the hearse’s bonnet. They dangled crazily from the motorcycles of the police escort. The oddest thing was that no-one was silly. (You don’t like this? You might be happier over there. The limping accountants at the shrine of Saint Thatcher will suck your sores for you.)

This mass orderliness hypnotised me. A couple of million people washing around in an extremely heightened emotion, and everyone behaved quite sensibly.

I suppose we didn’t need to riot. No one was telling us what to do.

It wasn’t sobriety. No-one was drunk, but all were awash with intense chemical reactions. With hindsight it reminded me of the mindset you get when you’re tripping and you realise you have to organise a dinner party. You do everything with a strangely manufactured calm, because you know if you don’t, life is likely to get very, very weird. It was orderly because it was out of control. The motorway became a waterslide. On a tide of our own tears we were hurtling down the twisting flumes of Time.

We were trapped in the phonebox of Earl Spencer’s romantic vision. It had been intended that Diana would be buried with her ancestors in the family vault in the village churchyard, but there were fears that these sacred places might be vandalised by ecstatic pilgrims. So he decided to bury her on the estate. The moment he did that he unleashed the hounds of myth. She would become for the new millennium the lady in the lake; the shape-shifter, the seducer, the mad hag’s lovely daughter, the giver of chivalrous swords to a corrupt knighthood, the masturbatory image that trapped Merlin in a cloud, the ambiguous one, the singer of secret blood, the bringer of fountains. (It was settling time. She said she wanted to be Queen in people’s hearts. If you bet she couldn’t do it, pay up now. Let’s see who the welshers are.) Whatever it was, it was profoundly moving. Whatever she was, she was a phenomenon.

Walk with me a little further. There are still mysteries to be unfurled.

Later I watched the replays. I watched them sober; I watched them stoned. I watched them on all the various news channels my cable company provides. I wanted to understand what I had seen.

People began to talk in very large numbers. 630 million people watched the event on Sky. I70 million Americans watched it live. That’s more than half the population of the USA. (We were shown Times Square, grid-locked, with weeping clubbers and taxi drivers watching the funeral on giant screens. It was the middle of the night.) Figures began to spiral in a now familiar way. The worldwide audience was I billion, 2 billion, 2 billion. Another half a billion might have watched if the Chinese government hadn’t banned it. (The apparatchiks of Beijing afraid of a dead princess?) These figures were truly astronomical. 2 billion people is a third of the world’s population. 2 billion light years is more than half way to Arcturus. I got lost somewhere out in the beyond. Anything over a billion seems a long way away to me.

The pundits - such as were allowed to put their heads above the parapet - were strangely subdued. They didn’t know what had happened either. It was too big. The resonances were too many. For an exquisite moment the enemies of diversity were confounded. Mostly the channels just showed you versions of the event, variously edited but with little or no commentary. From midnight Sky just re-ran their entire live footage, without interruption from the studio.

I was watching Earl Spencer’s speech for the third or fourth time. He spurned the church, he spurned the crown, he lashed the fourth estate. The lad did well, as he did each time, but it seemed unlikely there were any surprises left. And then I saw it...

It had been a short speech but to the point. He spoke passionately for his sister. And as he finished, without moving his hands, he drew the sword from the stone and laid it at his sister’s feet. He who could speak her name with love had drawn the sword from the stone. He who could not, King Tampax, the prince of welshers, he who had stood on this very spot before and sworn false oaths to her, knowing they were false, he stood exposed, shrivelling where he stood. (King Tampax. There it is again, blood seeking its own level...)

And when Earl Spencer laid this ancient and illusory blade on his sister’s coffin, something else happened. The crown got up and walked. It transferred itself effortlessly and unobtrusively from the house of Windsor to the house of Spencer. I don’t mean the bauble - the Queen can keep that for a tea cosy - but the magic circle that the bauble represents. If either of those boys enjoys a future reign, it will be as her sons, and as the nephews of Earl Spencer, not as the progeny of Prince Tampon the Pretender.

No wonder we cheered. It was brilliant. The laziest and most elegant of revolutions. We had reclaimed the monarchy. We could dismiss the Windsors without the effort of replacing them. Charles may yet reign, he probably will, but only as a caretaker, only by courtesy of the wife he scorned, only by gift of the people he has yet to court. We like that sort of thing. We like Eastenders.

No wonder we wept. It been a good year. We had thrown out a corrupt and demented Tory party, and replaced it with a reformed, neurotic one, which we will watch mature new forms of arrogance until we clap it too into oblivion. We had grown restless with a moribund monarchy, and restored the wild suburban magic, the blood and beauty and bouquets to it. And all with no more than the fling of our fingers. Move a matchbox and you change the world - these were excellently existential triumphs.

And while we wept and cheered we calmly discussed whether we would keep the monarchy. We have repainted it, but are still unsure whether we will give it house room. We are a dour as well as a deliquescent people. We wear our pragmatism next to our skin like flannel drawers beneath our dress of sentiment. But do not mistake our seriousness. We like dressing up.

Who needs surrealism? We have pantomime.

It was round about two in the morning - I was watching them carry the coffin into the abbey for the nth time - when I started to think about Edward the Confessor and I knew that I had gone mad, that a lifetime of casual shamanism had finally trapped me in the mittelland where blood and dreams get drunk.

You may not remember Edward the Confessor. (You are not as old as I am.) Edward the Confessor was almost the last English king of England. He died in 1066. (Does that ring any bells?) He had to marry an English Queen; she was beautiful and popular, but he wouldn’t sleep with her. He laid a curse on the English because they threw out his grandfather, Ethelred the Unready. He gave us the Roman Church for a fetter, and gave us to the Normans to make us accept it. The Normans came and slaughtered us into submission. In the north, where I come from, they obliterated over a thousand towns. They burnt everything. They slaughtered thousands, and then tens of thousand died of famine. And then the priests came to sell us indulgences. I remember Edward the Confessor. His monument is Westminster Abbey; he founded it.

It’s strange how you return to where you have never been. Here we are, back at the abbey. It was eerie to think that she couldn’t be buried in the abbey because she was not an anointed Queen, but a Queen by acclamation, the way we did it before the Christians sold us holy oil. And now she is the lady of the lake.

I looked at the clock and decided it was time to have myself put down.

In the aftershock we wandered around dazed. The atmosphere in Tesco’s was subdued, solemn. We knew we had seen something. We knew we had done something. But we didn’t know what it was.

The pundits crept warily out from under their stones to assist us. They were subdued. They listened to each other. It was heartwarming. The realisation slowly crept about that there were a million versions of this event and each contained some particles of truth, like shrapnel from a huge explosion, like the handful of old hydrogen atoms that each of us carried from the Big Bang. I was right about the sword in the stone, though. I hadn’t imagined that. The Daily Mail likened Charles to ‘one whose hand, like the base Indian, threw a pearl away, richer than all his tribe’. That’s from Othello, the one about the foreign hireling who murders his native wife out of jealousy.

Earl Spencer was invited to Downing Street to discuss press freedom, public memorials and postage stamps. The Windsors offered to restore Diana’s titles. They were trying to scramble aboard the hearse. Earl Spencer, astride the coffin, very politely stamped on their hands and kicked them back into the gutter with the homeless. Diana lay silent on her island heaped with flowers. It was fitting that she should lie alone, on her island at the heart of the family estate, with her ancestors buried like sentinels in the churchyard at the gate. She was the greatest of the Spencers. She brought the crown home to this family of robber barons.

Slowly, warmly, we emerged from our dream. We looked at our ratings and felt rather pleased. Who said we had forgotten how to do this? Britain is a foreign country, we said, we do things differently here. It was like drinking Horlicks when you’re feeling sad. The beast had been in pain. It had heaved. Now it was making itself comfortable.

Lord Byron wandered by. He said, ‘I guess we learned something since Queen Caroline, eh?’ She was the wife of George IV. He didn’t like her. At his coronation she was kept out of the abbey by a brigade of prizefighters. She took the point and ran off with the Great Belzoni, strongman, showman and Egyptologist. She spent the rest of her life embarrassing the royals and annoying foreigners. She was OK.

The atmosphere was Sunday-morningish. Newspapers were piled everywhere; covered in pictures of Diana, the way they used to be. Something was nagging somewhere far down the crowded and chaotic corridors of my brain.

1988. The Tricentenary of the Glorious Revolution when we sent James II packing. He put poison in his wife’s drinking chocolate and invented the boot, a sort of thumbscrew for crushing feet. We didn’t like him. Was it his wife or his mistress he poisoned? I’m not sure, now you ask. It seems a long time ago. He hid a dead baby in a warming pan, that I do remember. That wasn’t popular.

1988. Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. Bill S. Preston, Esquire, and Ted ‘Theodore’ Logan went back in time and rescued two from the British Royal Ugly Dudes! Damn! We were led into revolution by Keanu Reeves and we didn’t even tear the seats up.

HOW ARE THE MIGHTY FALLEN! •

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