Nobbut Laiking, by Ross Brewster
No, not for me thank you. It’s a step too far.
This Saturday millions of us will be watching the Coronation of King Charles III. However I will not be prostrating myself and swearing allegiance to the monarch. More likely I will be viewing the buffet table and wine that come later.
Because I choose not to be part of some ludicrous ritual does not make me any less patriotic than the next man and woman.
When we are invited to say the words “I swear that I will pay true allegiance to Your Majesty,” I will politely sit on my hands in silence.
I am not anti-monarchy. I’m not a supporter of those who shout “Not my King.” In fact I hope lots of people have a lovely and memorable day. But the whole expensive parade is not for me.
I’ve been invited to join with pensioner neighbours in watching the ceremony on TV as part of a bring and share buffet. I will bring and share. Those who want nothing at all to do with the Coronation are entitled to that opinion. I’m not a big fan of the royals, but it would be churlish to spoil it for those who are.
Older people, who lived in wartime or just after, have an old-fashioned patriotism that I admire. It was a time of greater deference to one’s elders and betters.
But this is 2023, like it or not, and having our King’s breast and head rubbed with oil while wearing a linen tunic, is like something out of a weird old film.
It is a religious ceremony and I can’t claim to be religious. Plus, I covered enough royal visits in my working life to have no pretext of joining the so-called million voices in the Homage of the People.
Mind you, I still prefer King Charles to a president. Save me from President Blair, President Johnson, even, Lord help us, Liz Truss or that ghastly London mayor.
If they had a public vote tomorrow, and King Charles’s name was on the polling card, he’d win hands down. I can’t deny him that. Now where’s the sausage rolls?
Alarming situation
There is an instantly obvious flaw in sending messages to our smartphones informing us of impending disaster.
If the Russians are spotted marching over Latrigg and up Main Street, it’s reasonable to assume they will first have cut off all means of communication — including our phone networks.
Being inherently suspicious, most people I’ve spoken to think there is some sinister threat behind the trial messages.
If they are a warning of nuclear attack then, by the time we’ve found our phone which we lost down the back of the sofa, and digested the message, there’s not going to be a lot of time left to hide in the toilet.
Looking on the bleak side of life, is this Government warning us there is a real and present threat of nuclear attack?
Once over they talked of a nuclear deterrent. That phrase seems to have disappeared as the rhetoric is ramped up.
I suppose there could be some benefit to the alarms in areas of the country like ours, where we’ve experienced floods and wildfires.
But I think there’s a better way of getting the public’s attention, one that does not make it an essential to own a fancy smartphone.
As a kid I remember the siren on the roof of the police courts. When that went off you could hear it for miles around.
It was actually used to call out the fire brigade. These days I presume they all have pagers. Back then the wailing of the siren meant just one thing, grab your bike and pedal furiously to the fire station.
Short of dropping a bomb on it, our local siren never failed. It may have been a bit Heath-Robinson, but it worked every time there was a fire or a flood.
I would sometimes watch our local fire service practising in the park, drawing water from the nearby river and pumping it back under the supervision of a chief who was notorious for his expansive use of Anglo-Saxon language.
I learnt many a new swear word just listening to him giving instructions. They nicknamed him the Vicar. I can’t imagine why.
As for smartphones, I struggle with mine. I’m the eternal Luddite. At least I received the alarm, albeit 20 seconds after the 3 o’clock promised time. I’ve met a few people who did not hear the sound so you could not call it a 100 per cent success.
Unlike our old siren which faithfully called the firemen to their duty and whose only technology was the handle used to wind it up.
BBC redundancies
No better illustration of how the BBC is no longer a great institution.
Several of its top reporters were recently handed letters inviting them to apply for redundancy, including the recently returned from Ukraine Clive Myrie.
Thanks for getting shot at Clive. How was Kyiv? By the way, here’s a letter for you. Have a read when you’ve got time.
