Noblesse Oblige And Other Dead Reckonings

Not that I think it causes you any worry but this blog is hard to write these days. I find myself mired in a contrary sludge of happiness and apathy. Happiness at my own good fortune and apathy about the state of local and global politics. We may be going to Hell in a handcart but at least Big Fat Pig has got a nice cart. 

I used to be an employer of a reasonable number of people. I hope I took my responsibilities seriously. Actually let's put false modesty aside, I know I did. Virtue, in this respect at least, is its own reward. Not a point that self-appointed class warriors ever appreciate. I do believe in noblesse oblige even if that makes me a patrician old fart. This is not a point that Donald Trump would understand, even if he could speak French.

His Vileness the Donald is on his second state visit to the UK. Realpolitk perhaps makes this necessary but I would prefer that the odious one not be here. We have, as a country, played host to plenty of worse dictators but we are entitled to expect better from our 'closest ally'. America should know better. Noblesse oblige.

Prince Harry and Meghan Markle - what a pair of tone deaf grifters. I won't bother wasting virtual ink on Prince Andrew and his horrendous ex-wife.

The rule of law. What happened to that as the underpinning of true sovereignty? 

Apathy overwhelms once again. I can't be arsed to moan any further. Take my advice - seek out healthy institutions of any size and concentrate your good offices on their survival. If we all refuse to be worn down by the mediocrities (this is being generous) who govern us and do our small bit, then hope exists.  

   

2021:5 - 6

I am not averse to taking some vicarious glory when fellow King's alumni distinguish themselves. So for every Desmond Tutu I suppose I have to acknowledge that we have had our share of wrong-uns. In May 2021 Martin Bashir was (to no one's surprise) officially confirmed as one such. He had deceived that flawed but (to many minds, though not this one) saintly personage, Diana, Princess of Wales. I have often wondered about what sort of social death-wish I have incubated. My first serious ambition was to be a journalist and only after I had failed in that sphere did I decide instead to be a lawyer. No one likes us - we don't care. Is this not, in a small but important way, the best explanation of what it is like to be English?

As I trawl through last year for this thread, I am perhaps hoping to account for how, by year's end, I had become a different person. Changed, not massively, but changed nonetheless. I have become happily resigned to  the certainty that even minor eminence has eluded me - only as this desire has ebbed to nothing do I understand how it fed my insecurity for all those years. How silly. Do you think Bashir may have been the same? 

June. John Bercow joined the Labour Party. John, son, nobody gives a shit any more. You were a preening pillock as Speaker. May you grow to be as big an embarrassment to your fellow travellers as you were to your erstwhile Tory bedfellows. Your recession into the background of public consciousness has been a delight.

2021:2 - 4

I am an unqualified admirer of our armed forces and I am grateful for the service they render us even when it is in the theatre of unworthy and politically misguided conflicts. By that score I am preared to cut Prince Andrew some slack for being a boorish mediocrity. I am not willing to grant him any credit against any sexual misfeasance. But it is not the ninth in line to the throne who concerns me when I look back at February. No it is his similarly courageous nephew and sixth in line, Prince Harry.

By February this near incumbent of the seat of Defender of the Faith had absconded to America with his winsome bride. They issued a sick-making statement that they had not retired from public service but that 'We can all live a life of service'. This may, taken at its most literal (and thereby meaningless), be true but it is drivel when scripted for the mouths of two participants in the great reality television show that is California. Harry's great-great-uncle married an American divorcee. He surrendered his right to be King. It will take a remarkable and sad turn of events for Harry to have to reign but if he does he (or those who advise him) might consider the spiritual vacuity of his 'Christmas' card which wished his viewers 'Happy Holidays'. 

I know that this sounds like the whining of an old lady at the bus-stop, but, really, the Queen deserves better. 

After which whining let's turn to meatier matters in March. The Cheltenham Festival (that's horse-racing not its poor relation the Literary Festival) went ahead without me, indeed without any spectators due to the continuing Covid pandemic. I watched on television but, and I hate to say this, it was a relatively joyless affair. The procession of Irish winners, the dominance of the mega-stables, and the smaller fields are the main reasons why I fear for this most special of sporting events. The corporates and the lads in shiny suits have already taken some of the lustre off things. As it happens other commitments will mean I can't go this year either. Hopefully another absence will make this heart grow fonder.  

In April the Duke of Edinburgh died. There was a moving but somehow apt symbolism to pictures of the Queen sitting solitary at the Covid-regulated funeral ceremony. Her dignity served to remind those of us who, despite all logic, believe in a constitutional monarchy that what we really believe in is this Queen in all her absurd magnificence.