Loathing and Not Much Else: London '73
A new dawn has broken over this country today, as the long night of the black shirted chief comes rapidly to an end. Far more rapidly than we of the Foreign Press were expecting, as the wire has just come in: The King Is Dead. Long Live whatever comes next? No one at this moment is sure, least of all the scum-suckers that at present sit in Whitehall Palace.
We, that is the Foreign Press have descended on the usual haunts, waiting. The doors are all tightly shut at this point and there’s no way that any of our connections are going to be able to pass anything on to us yet. Not at least until they figure out whats going to happen and then figure out who in the British Press is worth talking to first, second, and last before anyone decides to talk to the utterly respectable papers of the New York Times, the Washington Post, or as you know dear reader,
Rolling Stone Magazine.
I’ve avoided that awful parade for some time, building connections with those who know that this is a paper worth talking about and that the beers I’ll buy are a solemn pact that I can at least go out of my way not to rat their names to the system that would get mad at line-cutting. But even I know its not yet time to hit these good, hardworking men and women up yet.
And so its off to the streets, my beer finished, to try and see what I can find out. The first thing’s first: The bunting is not coming out. Its not that the death of the Bonnie King Eddie is a shock, he’s been hospitalized publically for over a week. Its that these hardworking, uptight folks remember everything.
Everything.
Everything that their dearly departed king ever said, ever snubbed about, ever skipped out on a flight to Canada during. Who is chums were. What his games were. And how much he seemed to have liked those Black uniforms, even if people say, there is no photo.
Morning comes, morning goes. The Prime Minister addresses the nation, great sadness at the passing of the man. He fidgets a lot with his glasses. The Conservative’s Republican wing is weak compared to the rest of the country, they’re the only place where Monarchists have to go after all. He is a reactionary being dragged out by the tide and its obvious, no matter how many folks around town want to brand him as being reasoned or calculating.
“Oh and Australia and Canada are going to be Republic's tomorrow” is left unmentioned in the brief address. And then its back to meetings and silence.
On this most British of days it seems necessary for me to have a true English lunch. And so it is that I stagger about and find myself in my usual little dive eating Fish and Chips unlike anything you can ever really get in America, no matter how many times restaurants try to capture the likeness. And its there I meet and chat with the people of London about the news. There’s no need to try and focus on anything, there’s nothing else to talk about on a day like this.
“You Americans had the right idea back in seventeen-seventy-six.” One old ‘bloke’ in a three piece suit tells me. This discussion goes on long enough he starts paying for my beers, like God Intended. The crux of the matter is simple. “We might as well have someone sitting around cutting ribbons up top we can get rid of, rather than causing all this trouble.” I ask about the housewife with all the charities and I’m bluntly told. “The Princess is all right and good, but I’ll be damned if I ever want to go through the whole sordid process again.”
Like any good son of the Republic, all I can do is nod knowingly.
That afternoon the wire does come in and its official: The Hophead PM over in Ottawa just declared a Republic. So long and thanks for making sure we didn’t wind up in Kennedy Kountry. Lucky them.
The Canucks will have some sort of honorary President by the end of the week.
It doesn’t take long for that news to spread about, and the vibe in town is very much a rocky one, that is to say, lots of quiet nodding.
I check back in with the noble Foreign Press, they’re all politely typing up reports based on the Canadians and what might follow up here and elsewhere, and with the official press releases. None of that for me thank you, they’re missing the truth of the matter and I’ve got no time for that sort of cheap nonsense. If I did you, my dear readers wouldn’t be bothering with a magazine of such political acumen and esteem the likes of
Rolling Stone.
And so its off, more conversations. The shock is wearing off, I wind up debating the finer points of the Plastic Ono sound coming from the other side of the Pond with some kids whose only thoughts on the passing of the monarch was that he was “Fascist Scum.” None of the decent people around them who notice even bother to try and tell them that he was just friends with Moseley.
Eventually I find an old fellow who actually served in the late War against the Nazi shittes, and we chat for quite a while. This sonofabitch fought his way out of France in 1940 and then Burma from 1942 to well past VJ day. This is just the kind of man to offer a glimpse into the experience of the King’s most famous moments.
“It was Eden’s job I reckon, to have at least suggested it. ‘Tour of the Dominions’ and all of that.” The old fellow shrugs. “He didn’t have to go though. And he didn’t have to stay over there as long as he did. Not while we were fighting for our lives.”
That's the main feeling around town from the generation that holds all the cards these days. When the Prime Minister finally walks out with the spare they have in this country in case the other party has to take over, the address is short and clear. There will be a vote in the Commons and then, the golden word:
“Referendum”.
The would-be Queen says a vote is in the National Interest and she’s glad to refrain from any titles until the results are in, whatever that result is. “She drove a truck in France.” Someone says as we’re listening to the broadcast. More nodding. The Lady knows she’s going to lose, but she’s playing her part none the less. it would be nice if a certain American President felt the same way, but then last November was last November.
More beers, this civilization is based solely on pints. Trans-Atlantic Call from the Editorial Staff, asking how soon I can have a piece sent over on the news. The Revolution is coming home to roost finally, everyone wants to know.
So I run a poll. At this pub below the flat I stay in and the result is clear: the monarchy is kaput. The Princess better find herself a day job. I cannot guess though what the uptights will do. But I know the young population of this country is shedding no tears.
And the question really is will the younger members of Labour, these Anti-Politicians actually deliver?
A Republic, government by the people, from the people, for the people, is a real tool for change. We can’t even imagine what its like, back in the United States to have this sort of option laid out.
We settle for Pete McCloskey turning a revolution into a corporate pitch. Will these young little ex-aristocrats actually deliver and remake the country?
Or will they allow these old establishment types allow for a President Lord Louie?
Or worse a continuation of things with a Queen now on the throne?
I can’t say, this isn’t my country, I’m an exile.
Word comes in that Vice President Connally is flying over for the funeral service, God help these poor people, for they know not what's coming for them. That said, they wouldn’t have taken the President too well, being as his Father was so Pro-Adolf back in 1940.
Eden, the man of the year back in 1940 gives an interview later that day. So have Gaitskell and Churchill but Eden’s the one that matters. Its really amazing how few ex Prime Ministers are walking with us at this point in this country, but that's irrelevant.
The Old Man has as much reason as anyone else to take this chance for a good old hate secession, it was the King who sent him into the political wilderness before VE Day after the triumph in the failures of the Blitzkreig.
But he is nothing but polite. The monarch is the monarch to men of this age. One can actually hear people laughing down stairs to the radio when he calls Edward VIII a “Great Leader”. The 1944 elections being a “Preservation of Democracy” is laughable at best, and all the fun that followed, Mistresses in Paris, rah-rahing the Army to go harder in Kenya. Or applauding the ‘59 Coup in France, everything is just swept under the rug as part of “Strong opinion and a great abundance of Patriotism.”
Eden was the world’s hero once, probably because when push came to shove he was willing to tell the King to ‘keep mum’. Now he simply is stating the time in this country.
Its not that crazy if you believe the stories though. Blackshits and “The King’s Party” in thirty-eight, and the supposed messages via Stockholm.
Just whatever happened to Rudolf Hess in 1941.
Or just what he may or may not have said in Paris behind closed doors. Or what he’s said to Labour here, every chance he’s gotten.
The game is up for the old establishment, the King’s sins were theirs too, more often than not. And if the people of these rainy isles are lucky, his passing is going to mark there’s as well. We’ll have to see Dear Readers, when they announce the referendum date.