Coronation Chicken…

Can I open my eyes? Is it over yet – the festival of privilege?
The TV has been off, I’ve been maintaining radio silence, trying to avoid the nonsense that has been going on in my name, but not with my consent. I didn’t need to see it of course; I already know what it’s all about- what has happened…

On Saturday, the bumbling head of a dysfunctional family got dressed up like a dog’s dinner, walked into a magnificent ancient building, and swore an oath of allegiance, not to the people upon which he is being imposed, but to his imaginary friend. Afterwards he emerged into a dull, grey, rainy city (at least I hope it rained – the forecast was promising). The cry will have gone out, ‘long live the king!’ And, just like his parents before him, he will. Maybe there’s something to be said for in-breeding after all. Or could it be the result of a life lived with the best of everything – including health care?

For the last coronation a special dish was concocted – ‘Coronation chicken’. This time it was ‘Coronation quiche’ – presumably the royal family and the aristocracy having a joke at our expense in a process in which they demand that we ‘quiche’ their arses. It’s at times like these when it becomes clear who is really in charge in our supposed democracy. The media went into full propaganda mode, with blanket coverage and barely a dissenting voice to be heard (with the exception of the excellent Frankie Boyle, who talked of marking the event by raising a bottle…with a burning rag hanging out of it).

In a rather sweet act of nostalgia, the arch bishop of Canterbury invited us all to reconnect with our serfdom of the middle ages by swearing an oath of allegiance to the new king (an oath to an oaf?) The king swears allegiance to god, we swear allegiance to the king, and hey presto, the Church of England has us all firmly by the balls. Except, they’re forgetting that around half the population have seen through their coercive fantasy.

The coronation was carefully designed and choreographed by the Church of England as a propaganda tool to remind us of just how much power this freedom-suppressing, kiddy-fiddling crime cartel still wields.

You might have thought the old queen dying after seventy-odd (in more ways than one) years of ‘reigning over us’ might have triggered a period of reflection, during which we could consider what it means to have a monarch, and whether we still want our country to be organised along those lines. Not a chance. Instead, the shady characters who really control our country (and have done so, yea unto the middle ages) used it as an opportunity to stamp down on us ordinary folk. Not only were we not allowed the chance to debate the monarchy, any attempts to protest against it were banned, and peaceful protesters rounded up and taken away. Exactly how does twenty-first century Britain differ from Putin’s Russia? We are the only nation in the world where religious representatives sit in the legislature, unelected, by right. Oh, apart from Iran, that is. And now we have another unelected head of state, also there by right, and swearing to maintain the church’s privilege.

In France, when the president recently announced his intention to raise the retirement age from sixty-two to sixty-four, the people took to the streets in protest (raising a bottle with a burning rag hanging from it) in such numbers, and with such determination the state couldn’t stop them. In contrast, in Britain, when the retirement age was increased from sixty-five to sixty-eight, a few people wrote letters to their favourite newspaper. At the time of the gulf wars, the French were unfairly (but amusingly) referred to as ‘cheese-eating surrender monkeys’. The reality is that the French people have got far more guts than us British ‘coronation chickens’.

You may not be surprised to hear that I haven’t sworn the arch bishop’s oath of allegiance. Here’s my oath – I do solemnly swear that if I’m ever unfortunate enough to meet the new king, I’ll tell him he’s an anathema, and address him not as ‘your Royal Highness’, but as ‘Charlie-Boy’. Or, if I’m feeling particularly aggrieved, ‘oi, wing-nut!’…

text & image ©graham wright 2023


About literarylad

Graham Wright is a freelance writer and author. His first novel, Single Point Perspective, is set in and around the city of Manchester, where he lived and worked for more than fifteen years. His second, Moojara, is set in and around the world, but mostly centres on Perth, Western Australia. Both are works of dramatic literary fiction - imaginative, serious and thoughtful, but with a sense of humour. Graham is currently living in north Shropshire, where he is busy working on novel number three.
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