Diamond Jubilee? Who needs it? by Jacob Armstrong

Think of the Diamond Jubilee and what do you imagine? National unity? Proud tradition? Well think again. Multitudes of crazed plebs will gather on the banks of some far-off river, desperate to pay homage to an eighty-odd-year-old woman and her infamous husband. After months of this drivel occupying the news, the skivvies of government will put on a disgustingly opulent show, desperate to instil some form of national pride, and conceal the fact that the economy is in deep doo-doo. Hordes of citizens will sit in front of the box, mindlessly waving little flags because, frankly, there’s nowt else on the telly.


“She went up that tree a princess, and came down a queen”” a plethora of former royal correspondents have repeated ad nauseum on breakfast television, bringing to mind Elizabeth II as an obese royal caterpillar fixing herself on a Kenyan tree-branch and emerging from her chrysalis as a lurid Red Monarch. Shame a giant fly-swatter didn’t thrash her to oblivion back then, rather than continue the obscene pomp and pageantry which serve only as a lingering symbol of past failures.


“A fitting recognition of our monarch’s enduring legacy and service.” will be adopted as the adulatory mantra of the media. Strange that I have yet to see Liz demonstrate any skill other than being born and spending sixty years feining interest in the unadulterated tat with which her subjects present her.


Ma’am can naff off back to Buckingham Palace, as far as I’m concerned. She can retreat through the putrid waters of the Thames, and relax in her luxurious house which is nine hundred times the average size of her subjects’.


The Queen costs everyone in Britain a loaf of bread a year, and, to be honest, spending four hours fixated on a Kingsmill ‘Best of Both’ would be a much greater pleasure than the Diamond Jubilee. And so, unlike the street party attendees and flag wavers, I will recline on the sofa and watch back-to-back episodes of the ‘Fresh Prince of Bel-Air’, chilling out, maxing, relaxing all cool and feeling sorry for the monarchists.