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The Year in Flags: A Review of 2012

30 Dec

Old GloriesSadly, this year, the American flag seems to have spent quite a lot of time at half-mast. In July, it was lowered for the victims of the Aurora shooting; in August, for the victims of the Oak Creek shooting; in September, for the victims of the attack in Libya; and now for the victims in Newtown. Flying the flag at half-mast symbolically honours those who died, but I can’t help thinking that preventing future tragedies might be a more meaningful tribute. Unfortunately, that would require big picture thinking—not always a popular choice as evidenced by this year’s Presidential election. Thankfully, the right man won, but enough voted for Romney to show that many Americans are confused by issues of class. “Middle class” seems to be interpreted as “not homeless” and ultra-rich means “me, not at the moment, of course, but any day now.” One’s actual lifestyle and the reality of how it and the country would be affected were inconsequential. A bit like what’s happening with the current debates on gun control. And on mental health care. And on who should have won The Voice.

Surely, there’s got to have been something positive in America over the last twelve months . . . let me think . . . oh yeah, more states and even the President spoke up in support of marriage equality. Oops, I forgot, it was that which directly led to shooting in Sandy Hook, right, Rev. James Dobson?

Union JacksCloser to home, though, things looked much cheerier: the Union Jack was flying all over the damn place. We waved the flag for the Queen’s Jubilee, for a successful London Olympics and for William’s good work in promptly impregnating the wife. Well done to us all!

Of course, the Tories still want to continue with their obviously-successful-so-far austerity cuts (after all, those Jubilee and Olympic celebrations don’t come cheap, you know), but luckily, this year the BBC taught us that if you close your eyes to the bad stuff, it goes away—never to return. So as long as you’re not young, old, unemployed, working or a Christian woman who wants to serve her church, 2012’s been champion for you!

Now, my dears, I know this sounds quite gloomy and doomy. (Perhaps I should have warned you in advance to delay reading until you’re sober, I apologise.) If you were expecting a bit of harmless fun, I’m afraid you may have confused me with black tar heroin. I’m all about the harsh truth, you know that, so put your seatbelt on, baby, because you’re about to get hit with the harshest truth of all: I’ve still got faith in humanity. You, yes, you, the one sitting on the chair, your continued commitment to keeping my books in circulation bettering yourselves and our world is proof that, despite the bad news, there is goodness out there, my friends.

So together let’s make next year a better one, yeah?

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Over the River and Through The Woods: The Season of Giving

21 Nov

Although one should be charitable all year, we are of course entering the season of giving. I do confess to missing my American holidays in the autumn. Both Halloween and Thanksgiving perpetuate the pleasures of graciousness and generosity that have made America famous all over the world. Somehow the English holiday of Bonfire Night, where effigies of baddies are burnt in public fires, seems just too barbaric compared to the simple pleasure of opening one’s door to appreciative children all dressed up, thoughtfully raising their hands to request a single sweet on All Hallows Eve.

Thanksgiving is the most American of American holidays. For those unfamiliar with it, its name is derived from the English words “thanks” and “giving.” It’s a time when Americans pause and reflect on all that they have received over the year (excluding, of course, court subpoenas and STDs).  Oh, how I used to love to sit at a fine table, covered with the fruits of my hard labour. It was a time to stop and be thankful for my incredible talent which allowed me to provide such sustenance to myself and those lucky enough to spend the holiday with me. The scrumptious meal was always a sight to behold. The fat turkey carcass so packed with chestnut stuffing that it fell in clumps from between its legs; the preternaturally magenta display of congealed cranberries; the sweet potatoes bathing in an almost solidified river of syrup, holding tightly to marshmallow flotation devices; and the lard dumplings so filling that my great grandfather used the very same recipe as mortar to bond the bricks of his bomb shelter. Beautiful food for a beautiful nation. Thanksgiving reminds us to look outside of ourselves and appreciate all the people who have helped us to reap such a harvest.

However, those people are not acknowledged just on one Thursday of November because Thanksgiving is also the official opening of the Christmas season, when we give them gifts to show our thanks.  Of course, I don’t mean that we literally buy presents for those who have grown and harvested our food; those people make plenty of money off me already with the ridiculous price of fresh pineapple and mangoes. Instead we symbolize our appreciation of those people through gifts to friends and family, people we actually care about.

As we are on the cusp of Thanksgiving, I know my American compatriots are busily stocking their cupboards and refrigerators with food that they will undoubtedly end up throwing in the bin by next Monday. I imagine the shopping lists and the car boots filled to the rim. I miss such rituals! As a way to ease my homesickness, Christopher has promised to dine with me tomorrow, having arranged a turkey supper to be delivered from the Rose and Crown. He has also been working all weekend to construct a cornucopia in my drinks cabinets to symbolize the abundance of my earthly rewards. I can say without hesitation that I am very thankful for Christopher, and I only hope that the generous pay packet I give him each week goes some way in showing my gratitude. It’s never quite the same, though, having a Thanksgiving dinner just for two; I only wish more of my neighbours could join me in the feast. However, they are mostly dicks and therefore I do not invite them.

But I hope all my readers, whether American or not, will follow my model of wishing the world a wonderful holiday season. Please be charitable to those less fortunate and give thanks to those you appreciate!

NOTE: To donate to the “I’m So Thankful for Miss Agatha Whitt-Wellington that I’d Like to Help Her Retile Her Roof” Fund, please contact Christopher directly with your credit card details.

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The Olympics: The World Coming Together To Do Something Nice For Once In Its Life

26 Jul

The Olympic brouhaha: yes, it exists. We all knew it would and we were right. Babies need their own tickets but might not be sitting with their parents? Check. Budget issues? Check. Will.i.am carrying the torch? Of course. Security bungles? Got ’em. Confusing the South Korean flag for North Korean one? Yup. Boris Johnson? Obviously.

However, as the old man who appears to be living in an empty shed behind the primary school told me as I passed him this morning, “Catch the Olympic spirit, duck! Why not?” He has a point. Why not get excited for something that at least kind of temporarily unifies the world in the spirit of goodwill, dedication and sportsmanship? Before I had a chance to respond to him, he shouted, “Go for the gold!” then tipped over and fell asleep in a puddle of urine (I presume his own). I think we can find inspiration in his unintentionally wise words.

I shan’t be attending any of the events myself. I entered the lottery and did receive a few tickets, but I decided to be generous and donate them to a charity to make some poor kiddy’s Olympic dream come true. (A little boy from Laos received them, though I’ve got no idea who’s paying for his and his family’s flight to London but I can tell you for sure it ain’t gonna be me). I feel like my act of kindness is a perfect example of the positivity that the Olympic games can foster.

If you’re not much a sports fan, it’s easy to feel intimidated (read: bored) by the event, but there really is something for everyone at the Games. You’ve got twenty-four hours left, so use it wisely to learn something about what’s going to be happening here over the next few weeks. Stop being so difficult and just get with the programme, why don’t you?

Five Things Olympic Skeptics Should Consider:

  • Most of the athletes’ bodies are pretty damn easy on the eye and are usually displayed in tight and/or skimpy clothing. Those of you who normally have to shamefacedly ogle sexy, young things can do so openly during the Olympics. Cheer while you’re ogling, and you’ll earn respect for your patriotism.
  • The BBC will be broadcasting 2,500 hours of TV, radio and online coverage of the Olympics, none of which will be fronted by Fearne Cotton. That fact alone is bound to bring joy to the entire viewing public.
  • I don’t support gambling, as you know, but there’s some good money to be made if you place your bets wisely. For some insider information, look no further than this: I’d stake Christopher’s inheritance on Cyrek Nazwisko from Poland taking home the gold in Men’s Singles Synchronized Swimming. Apparently his precision is impeccable, and he’s an underdog as well which always makes for a happy ending (and large cash payout).
  • The Olympics are an ideal educational experience for children and adults alike. Two hundred and five nations are sending more than 10,000 athletes to London so there will be ample opportunities for learning about different cultures and customs while laughing at their silly names and ridiculous national anthems.
  • Basically, every copper in the country is going to be occupied elsewhere so if you’ve been meaning to have it out with that bloke who borrowed your ladder but never returned it, now might be a good time to break into his garage and take it back. You can thank the Olympians for helping you resolve that issue.

If you’re not interested in the Olympics, you’re not interested, and I’m not going to fight you over it. If you want to be stubborn and throw away a chance to enjoy something nice for a change, you’ve got that right.

But I’ll just leave you with this thought: the Olympic motto is “Faster, Higher, Stronger.” Remember the last time you heard those words and chose to ignore them? That’s right, it was the night before your ex girlfriend chucked you and told the whole town how crap you are in bed. Think about it.

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My Father: No Cary Grant, But Still

17 Jun

All children look up to their fathers; this is obvious as most men are at least a good two feet taller than your average five-year-old. I’m not sure I’d go as far as saying my father was my hero—by the time I met him, he had been somewhat beaten down by life (read: his wife). However, to this day, I admire his wisdom, patience and the way his hair flicks up over his left ear (but not his right). He’s a man of few words, but I’ve learned a lot from him. Here are a few of my favourite fatherly gems:

1. Keeping a precise scorecard of a baseball game deserves as much respect as hitting a game-winning grand slam.

2. Never use your teeth to do anything but chew.

3. If you can’t be bothered to lace up your shoes, just buy loafers.

4. A good man keeps a tidy garage.

5. Any boy with a spitting habit should never be invited into the house.

6. Animals are better than most people.

7. When it’s your turn to talk, speak up. When it’s someone else’s turn to talk, listen.

8. Always return your library books on time.

9. Be kind.

10. Crime doesn’t pay (I’m not sure this one was originally his).

Of course, no man is perfect. He’s not a great dancer, occasionally wears trousers an inch too short, and married my mother.  But I can only think of one or two other men who would have been preferable as a father figure so overall I feel quite lucky.

Happy Father’s Day.

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Big Girls Need Big Diamonds

1 Jun

I have never celebrated sixty years of my reign over a kingdom, and I’m certainly not implying I have. However, I have celebrated six consecutive triumphs as Spelling Bee Champion at Al Herpin School for Exceptional Children (no mean feat, I assure you) so I do know a little bit about marking important milestones appropriately.

So far the Royal Household has been doing a bang up job with the festivities. I have been loving everything so far (top marks for the Yellow Duckmarine ride in Liverpool).

 

Here’s what’s coming up this Central Weekend.

Saturday, 2 June

The Queen is heading to the Epson Derby. Far be it from me to offer Her Majesty any advice (and besides there’s no grey running) so I assume she’ll be calling on the spirit of the Queen Mum before placing any bets.

Sunday, 3 June

I love the concept of the Big Jubilee Lunch, though I confess I won’t be participating (I’m sure she’d understand if she met the twats who live in my neighbourhood). However, I shall be buntifying the house to show my support.

 

I’m slightly less interested in the boat-related activities (The Thames Diamond Jubilee Pageant and the Royal Barge rides) but hey, that’s me.

Monday, 4 June

It’s always lovely to involve music in any celebration, hence the BBC Concert at Buckingham Palace. However my concern can be summarised in two words: Gary and Barlow.

On the other hand, I’m well excited for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee Beacons—two thousand and twelve beacons lit around the Commonwealth topped off by the Queen’s lighting the National Beacon. Brilliant idea! I would suggest refilling the Royal Zippo that morning (or having the Olympic mother flame near) just in case. One can never be too prepared.

Tuesday, 5 June

A service at St Paul’s makes sense, as does lunch at Westminster Hall. Of course, there will then be a Carriage Procession because carriages are pretty much synonymous with the grace and elegance of royalty.

Once back at Buckingham Palace, she’ll make a balcony appearance, and there will be a fancypants flypast by the RAF.

Lastly, there will be a feu de joie. I confess I’m a bit disappointed that the celebration is ending on this note: I don’t support violence and am concerned the rifles may frighten the Corgis. But I guess it’s just the done thing in these circumstances. I suppose wrapping up everything with a make-your-own-sundae party at an ice cream parlour (as I did after my sixth spelling bee win) might be seen as a bit of an anti-climax.

I’m glad Lord Mandelson announced an additional bank holiday so that everyone can thoroughly enjoy the extended weekend. However, I wish he had demanded it be a day of service, namely asking citizens to clean up the litter and vomit revelers will have left throughout the streets (yes, I’m looking at you, Camilla). I myself charitably will be hosting a small garden party for local dignitaries where I’ll be giving a talk on highlights from my writing career. It’s just another of the little ways I like to help the less fortunate of my community.

The Queen has always been a very important mentor to me, so it was a struggle to choose just the right gift to send her (in the end, I went with a book token). Even though she’s so busy, she blessed me with a quick thank you card—it’s so lovely to see that, despite her prestige, manners still matter to ER II.

I wish everyone—from the Queen and her family to Piss Stain Charlie, the tramp who lives at our bus depot—a wonderful Diamond Jubilee.

God save our Gracious Queen,
We mean it, man!

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Surely Such Grace is Worth 69p?

31 May

I would just like to take a moment to say just how great our Queen is. Seriously, I think she’s just swell. I am proud to be one of her subjects and I defy anyone to suggest the UK’s had a better queen in the last one hundred and eleven years.

I appreciate that my view of royalty is not unrelated to the fact that I was born abroad.  In America, we use the word king to describe cigarette lengths and the word queen to describe bossy bees and thin men who wear wigs and paint their lips to extend well down their chins. So, while my childhood was not dominated by forced reverence to any monarch (which, by the by, in America means a butterfly and would therefore be inappropriate to curtsy to or rearrange our Christmas dinner time for), my adulthood has not been affected by outrage over the fact that the royals are draining the public purse with their fancy pants palaces and crown jewels. I am therefore unencumbered by any outside influence on my decision of whether to cherish or condemn our Queen.

I choose to cherish. Here is why: she’s got a great head on her shoulders, does our Elizabeth. She’s smart enough to have been made Queen, after all. And she continues to be re-elected, so clearly she must have the public’s support. She also has a strange, lingering sort of beauty. Regardless of your age or sexual preference, you must admit that if you bumped into her at the Sainsbury’s petrol station, you’d stop to stare. My guess is you wouldn’t be able to take your eyes off of her. I know I wouldn’t.

ER II is also worth celebrating for the very fact that she keeps going in the face of adversity. Would you have the balls to keep going when newspaper columns are calling for you to literally be dissolved? I shudder to think how I would cope (and pray thanks that the media continues to praise me and my work). How many of us would be able to organise our time successfully so that we could open a bridge in the morning, wave at distance to retarded children midday and then count our swans by tea-time? Our Queen has a tough job, and it is a job. Do not think that having one’s face appear on every stamp, every note, every coin and the occasional Sex Pistols’ album isn’t hard work. It must be exhausting. Yet, every morning she gets up and goes to work, just like the rest of us.

The Royal Highness is one hell of a gal and when I swore allegiance to her, by golly I meant it. I think she is a great role model for young women today. Like Barack Obama she shows that it is possible for underrepresented minorities to reach the top of their professions. But more than that, she teaches girls that, with a little hard work and determination and a dash of inbreeding, they too can grow up to be leader of a once-great empire. And possibly have a pub named after them to boot.

So I say, long live the Queen and the inspiration she spreads like haemophilia!

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Mother Needs Something Today

13 May

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Happy St George’s Day

23 Apr

Today we honour St George, the Patron Saint of England. Unlike St Patrick’s Day, traditional celebrations do not centre around getting pissed out of our gourds. Instead we spend the day trying not to seem racist.

As a naturalised citizen, I bear no guilt from the evils of the Empire nor shame from the loss of it.  I embrace my new country and can display my Cross of Saint George. However, I am not naive to the world around me, which explains why I’ll be flying my flag indoors (which sounds like a euphemism but is meant literally).

Unfortunately England’s flag—which should represent our entire country, good and bad—has been co-opted by what most sensible people would call the bad.  Apparently, 24% of the English consider their own flag to be racist, according to a report called This Sceptred Isle.

This is unfair. There are still many things English to take pride in. David Beckham is properly lovely and you know it.  Our citizens are incredibly charitable. The NHS may not be perfect, but I’m grateful for it. We’ve got terrific architecture, art, comedy, music: I mean, we got a lot good going on here, people. It’s a shame that those who want to appropriately celebrate these things are too afraid to do so, for fear of being associated with racist ignorance. Is there a way to have national pride without being nationalistic?

I don’t know and I’m not in a position to make that call anyway. But I do hope we can all remember old St George on his day. Who cares that he wasn’t really English and that his greatest feat was killing an imaginary creature? I mean, we’ve all got our own personal dragons that need slaying and he can inspire us to do that. And our saint did tons of brilliant things, including bringing himself and others (even oxen) back from the dead, which is no mean feat, I can tell you.

As the song goes, “I’ve been dreaming of a time when to be English is not to be baneful, to be standing by the flag not feeling shameful, racist or partial.” God knows, Morrissey’s got his issues but let’s make his dream come true today, just for a minute, in the privacy of our own sitting rooms. Then tomorrow when we wake to the hate and violence in the streets, the dire economic picture and the idiots who run our country, we can return to feeling ashamed once again.

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Do Right To Me, Baby

5 Apr

Today is “Golden Rule Day,” sponsored by the Charter for Compassion.

Regardless of your religious persuasion, I’ve not doubt you’ve heard of the Golden Rule. The truth is most spiritual traditions have a form of it, and even those people who define themselves as atheist (or those who hilariously write in “Jedi” for the religion question on the census) would say they support the Golden Rule, which is To Treat Others As You Wish To Be Treated.

I think it’s champion that we’ve finally found a policy we can all stand behind. Somehow, though, I’m thinking that just because we say we believe it doesn’t necessarily mean we act as if we believe it.

If we did act according to the Golden Rule, it would mean Rupert Murdoch wants us to invade his privacy. It would mean some American newscasters want us to blame them if they are killed while walking home from a convenience store. It would mean that that dickhead who pushed me in the queue wants me to shove him despite the fact that all he’s doing is innocently trying to buy a box of envelopes. That’s how it works—what you do to others must be what you want done to you; that’s the Golden Rule we all believe, yes?

Now I’m not perfect, of course, and I’ve no doubt I’ve sometimes let the Golden Rule slip my mind. I take responsibility for the times I’ve acted without compassion (I’m thinking of the time I rejected the advances of a certain silver-haired gentleman, and I confess being turned down is not something I want done to me—and thank goodness, it’s yet to have happened). I decided to use today to remind myself to be more mindful of the Golden Rule so I surprised Christopher with a mixed bouquet of lilacs, honeysuckle and freesia and a beautiful silk slip. I’m hoping he gets the message.

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You Might As Well Keep Living

4 Mar

Today is the birthday of a dear lady friend of mine, and I spent the eve of it with her. This year is a milestone birthday for her (I’ll be generous and not specify which as I do not want to contradict her online dating advertisement), and she was feeling ambivalent about this news. I decided to offer her a few words of my wisdom, which I shall now give to you here (even if your birthday is not today, this should be considered a gift and therefore you needn’t expect a card from me this year).

Many say “age is just a number” and they are right: age is the number of years that you have been alive and as that number grows, it’s likely that the number of years you have left to live is also decreasing. In other words, every birthday essentially signals death closing in. Think about this, though: actually, every single day you live is  moving you nearer to the grave. While this may bring us comfort when thinking of our enemies, it’s unlikely we think it about ourselves every morning as we wake. So why dwell on it once a year, especially on your “special day”?

Therefore, my advice to anyone celebrating a birthday today is to blow out your candles and open your presents without any thought of the fact that soon you’ll be dead.

Have a drink on me, birthday boys and girls!*

_______________________________

*Drinks will not be reimbursed.

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