Off with his Head.

I have always been more of a Royalist than a Republican. I think the monarchy brings many benefits to the country in terms of tourism and prestige and I'm sure other countries are quietly jealous of our excuse for pageantry and excessive nationalism. The Commonwealth countries are bound together by the Queen and it's a unique institution in the world; a very exclusive club and there are unlikely to be any new members. I'm not an ardent Monarchist and won't be lining any streets to wave flags but I wish them well. Then there are the natty outfits, I would rather be a dashing, debonair cavalier flaunting my rakishness at the ladies than a dull roundhead foot soldier in a tin hat.

Dearly Beloved and I visited Windsor Castle last weekend to indulge ourselves in a little cultural heritage and see what the royals have been doing with themselves for the last thousand years. The castle itself is huge so we expected to be there sometime but it transpired that the areas of public access are severely limited. It might be our cultural heritage but they're not keen to share it. 

We collected our audio commentary machines and set off. The commentary seemed to be timed for a zimmer wielding octogenarian as we managed to get round the whole accessible grounds area before the introduction had finished. We piled into St Georges Chapel with the other hoi polloi and were suitably impressed by the opulence and grandeur. Immense sums have been spent on the decor and paintings. The chapel is home to the Knights of the Garter which is England's highest order and includes the reigning monarch and twenty four of his mates including the incumbent Prince of Wales. George III was so concerned his other sons were missing out on the fun that he created a sub membership so they could join but not be counted towards the twenty four. It seems huge sums were spent celebrating a cronies club with barely enough members to fill a double decker bus while thousands sweated and died to pay for it. It still goes on but no doubt these days it all for 'charity'. They did have collection plates out; I didn't contribute.

You are allowed to wander round the state apartments. The entrance is a cavernous room filled with treasures collected over the years and designed to show off our military might. They preferred the word collected rather than stolen burgled or robbed. It's a bit like a school bullies treasure chest but on a larger scale. There follows room after room of paintings by Van Dyke, Rubens and Rembrandt which also contain exquisite furniture one piece of which would buy a small African country. I expect the paintings were copies as they would be too valuable to allow the great unwashed to breath over them and us ignoramuses could never spot the difference. 

In the Queens' Rooms where George III's consort, Queen Charlotte entertained her guests there are elaborate ceiling paintings with Queen Charlotte herself as the main figure raining wisdom and beneficence down on the heads of a grateful public. I expect even the likes of Madonna and Maria Carey with their inflated ego's would balk at such blatant self-aggrandizement. Mind you, Queen Charlotte was a contemporary of Marie Antionette and clearly neither had the benefit of a PR adviser. 

If you follow the corridor around you come to a huge room the size of a terraced house which is dedicated to cocking a snook at the French. The room was adapted and decorated after we trounced the froggies at Waterloo to reflect our great glory. The walls are lined with portraits commissioned from the great artists of the day and feature the leaders who helped to defeat Napoleon. No mention of the ordinary soldiers of course and the money invested in the ornate carpet could probably have feed a battalion for a year. It makes you wonder if our current monarch has ever entertained the prime minister or president of France in there.

One of our previous kings decided the central tower wasn't imposing enough so he had it raised a further eight feet. (What's that people say about men with small willies?) I expect he was trying to impress the local peasants and the heads of friendly nations as none of our enemies ever got close enough to see it. Just in case you felt the unending display of priceless artefacts and giant egos was somehow underwhelming, dotted around there are a number of shops where you can buy tourist trinkets and inflate the royal coffers a little more.

You find yourself back out on the street in a surprisingly short time and left with the impression that the whole point in is to remind you of your lowly position and to encourage you in vigorous forelock tugging. It's a master class in how to big yourself up with wealth extracted from your subjects. Of course the royals have been subjugating the Peasants for centuries and our current Queen can't be held responsible for her ancestors' actions but you can't help feeling that the French Revolutionists had a point. Is it too late to sign up?

PS. If there is no blog next week I'll be in the Tower of London.

'Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair'

Stuck in the Middle Ages.

Last week's post was a little depressing. It was about how the world seems to lose its magic as you get older but it's not all bad. There are distinct benefits to becoming middle aged. Instead of being an uphill struggle through the treacherous foothills of life, the path seems to flatten out and things become a little easier. You have time to catch your breath and take in the scenery. You can see the summit shrouded in mist in the far off distance but you are still a long way from being over the hill. You're in a position to look back on the path you've travelled and congratulate yourself on your achievements and how far you've come. You can also look back on those poor sods travelling behind you and throw stones at them while mocking them mercilessly.

There are some excellent advantages to being slightly the wrong side of young. For example, you are not put under any peer pressure because you are too weird and cranky to have any peers. You can be as uncool as you like because you don't give a toss which then makes you ubercool and sophisticated, and, if you are still hopelessly uncool, no one cares. If you want to wear green tartan trousers with beige shoes crack on. No one will laugh at you, well not to your face anyway.

Then there's the stress and strain of the career ladder. There you are climbing for the sky when you notice that your particular ladder only has two rungs on it and you've barely made it off the ground. You reach a point where you come to realise that your employers have been taking advantage of you for years and you've probably progressed as far as you're going to. You stop trying to impress the boss and start wondering if you should take more sickies. You come to understand that the 'work life balance' actually means being at work as little as possible.

It's much easier to be a crook when you're middle aged because everybody knows all criminals are under thirty and wear hoodies. Nobody expects the nice man with greying hair to shoplift or steal a wallet. You can quite literally get away with murder, just look at Harold Shipman. The only exceptions to this are Irish travellers who are deemed automatically guilty or, if you are a paunchy, male singleton with a comb-over then you're probably a paedophile. Everyone else is in the clear.

Another advantage to being more mature is the ability to lie outrageously due to the natural authority and gravitas granted by age. You can talk convincingly about things you have the barest grasp of and the younger generations will always believe you. People would rather hear news from a person who looks the part than a younger person with experience or qualifications, that's how politicians get away with it. No one takes young doctors, teachers or policeman seriously.

Your children will always be your children they say but there comes a time when they have jobs of their own, can pay their own way and they can look after themselves, up to a point. The worries of childcare arrangements become a distant memory and you can take your holidays outside of term time when it's considerably cheaper, hence more holidays. No more do you have to face the guilt-ridden choice of a new handbag or new school shoes for little Johnny. Now you're older, the handbag wins every time.

Probably one of the fun things about being older is that you can constantly abuse and belittle the younger generations with phrases that begin with the words ' in my day' or ' you don't know your born'. You can point out that their useless, lazy and ungrateful by inventing Dickensian style hardships that you used to endure when you were young and they will never be in a position to prove you wrong. It's a well-known fact that everything was better in the old days and who from the younger generations is in a position to say different.

Ps. it's also much easier to frighten small children. 

The Colour of Magic

I've always loved books, films and music, they spirit me away and provide escapism. When I was in junior school I won a prize for using the library more than anyone else. I didn't see the point in getting rewarded for something that took no effort and I really enjoyed. It's like winning a years worth of free beer just for being the biggest drunkard. I think it was more to snub my less literary class mates and reinforce the positivity of reading but I didn't think like that at the time. I've always enjoyed being carried away by my imagination but it becomes more difficult as I get older.

There was a time when I could listen to music and it would touch me emotionally but then I learned to play an instrument and create my own compositions. Now I hear music in its component parts and the sounds that used to touch me has become an interesting bass line or a particular swell in the string section. It's like looking at a painting and seeing the brush strokes and not the picture.

We went to see the musical 'Wicked' last week. It was very well done with excellent costumes, great choreography and plenty of action. The songs were forgettable but the singing was generally top quality although the blonde bird was a bit shrill. Everyone seemed to have a good time but was it magical for me and was I transported to Oz? Sadly not. Many years ago I'm sure I would have been gobsmacked and awestruck by the spectacle, not any more. One of my colleagues was also there and she had already seen it once before, she loves it and it's her favourite musical. Unfortunately I can't share her enthusiasm

I watch a lot of films and I'm pleased to say a good film still carries me away but they are becoming hard to find as most are depressingly average. I have just watched Oblivion starring Tom Cruise. Fabulous special effects but more holes in the plot than a tramps Y fronts. I wouldn't have even noticed a few years ago. When I was a lad I wanted to be James Bond, then Indiana Jones even Michael Douglas's character out of Romancing the Stone. It's a long time since I felt like that.

I still read a lot and I am toying with a kindle at the moment. I find I'm reading more and it does have advantages over the printed page but the experience is not the same. No doubt I will get used to it but, like the difference between vinyl and CD, something gets lost in the translation and it's just not a good. It's like one step further away from the magic.

I've no doubt it's because I'm older, more sophisticated (don't laugh) and cynical but the world is definitely losing its magic.

Occupational Hazard

The lock on our car boot is broken. It still works but I have to fiddle with the key in the lock to get it to open. This presents the possibility of breaking the key off in the lock which would be a disaster so I need to get it fixed. I have been outside trying to get the internal panelling off to be able to get to the mechanism. It's a very fiddly job, my fingers were numb from the cold and it was starting to rain. Of all the possible occupations I could have done, messing with cars would be my least favourite.

Like most people I didn't have a clue what I wanted to do for a career but I quickly figured out what I didn't want to do. When I was a mere spring chicken
my friends all had mopeds and we used to hang around in draughty, cold garages tinkering with engines. I didn't see the attraction of having your hands covered in grease and oil while your toes freeze into ice-blocks so I quickly knocked that pastime on the head. My friends seemed to really enjoy it but I couldn't see the attraction then and I still can't.

Number two on my personal list of worst jobs is farming. Wading about in mud and excrement up to your eyebrows can't be anyone's idea of fun. Nor can ploughing a field for hour after hour with no one to talk to but yourself and no signal on your Ipad. No wonder Farmers have the highest suicide rate. I don't even like animals unless they are on plate with a dollop of sauce.

Number three would have to be paramedic. I have total respect for people who deal with blood and guts every day and take care of the coffin dodgers but it's not for me. I know people who like that kind of work (Hi Christine) but I would find it too depressing. You may have noticed a running theme here; basically, I'm a people person as long as they are healthy and can still pull up their own trousers.

On the other hand, my Dearly Beloved tried working with the public once and hated it so much she became a bookkeeper so she wouldn't have to speak to the buggers anymore. Mind you, when she was much younger she wanted to be a nun, now that would have been interesting. I have a distant memory of when my eldest sister (yes, you Lizzypuff) decided she didn't want to be a princess. We were watching Chaz and Di's pre royal wedding day fireworks on TV when the announcer stated that Diana had to leave early for her big day tomorrow. My sister decided then and there she didn't want to be a princess if you had to go to bed early.

My previous career options were a marine biologist but I didn't make it to university, merchant navy officer but I failed the exam in spectacular style and booze addled rock star which I am still working on. At least I didn't want to be a football player, train driver or hairdresser. I have known people who have a clear idea of what they want to do and strive to achieve it but I suspect I shall hit retirement still wondering what I should do with my life. I expect it's the same for most people.