In 2002 I attended the lying-in-state of the Queen Mother. I did it as part of the grand old British tradition of faintly annoying all your left-wing friends. I also thought it might be an interesting dollop of history-in-the-making.
How right I was. Along the South Bank, round midnight, I joined the queue – quite drunk, I admit, but I was hardly alone in this. For two hours the jolly, chatty queue: a BBC screenwriter’s ideal mix of creeds, ethnicities, ages, jobs, disabilities, achievements, motivations, politics. A surprising number were definitely socialists. We swapped jokes, advice, stories; we shared sweet royal anecdotes, filthy royal gossip, pleasant ham sandwiches. And a couple of hot toddies.
Then, at about 2am, we finally reached the much-trodden threshold of venerable Westminster Hall, and we were allowed inside, and all jollity and chattiness fell instantly away. Because there she was. The Queen Mum, the nation’s granny.
Get Britain's best politics newsletters
Register to get The Spectator's insight and opinion straight to your inbox. You can then read two free articles each week.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in