Popcropolis loves Britain. In fact (you might have realised) Popcropolis is a British export, as British as Hugh Grant, or Hugh Laurie, or blackberry and apple pie. As a result, I’m sure that you’ll join this loyal British subject in being cockahoop about the forthcoming royal nuptials.
Here in Britain, we are thrilled, of course, and intrigued by an announcement from Buckingham Palace that the ceremony will (somehow) reflect current economic circumstances, much like the London Olympics of the same year. And pundits rejoin that the whole show will be a matter of “bread and circuses” – yes, they quote Juvenal on Roman emperors. We’re supposed to understand by this that the Royal Family might, in some cynical way, divert our attention from the mess we’re in.
To which I can only reply, so they should. Are we complaining that the Royal Family is somehow too glamorous? That bling doesn’t suit them? That a gold carriage is a little de trop? Phooey to that. They have a gold carriage anyway. What are they meant to do – leave it in the garage? And those poor horses to pull it – aren’t they allowed a trot to Westminster Abbey? It’s not such a long way (depending on the traffic).
These are probably the same people who mope about our cult of celebrity. The history of fame and the history of monarchy are the same, after all. And if you’re going to complain about people who are famous for not having done much, then royal families look like prime examples. They were famous even as babies, when they could barely roll around or walk: I mean, when they could achieve even less than the line-up of Jersey Shore.
And then they do grow up to be some use. At the risk of being serious, they fly helicopters, visit the sick and help people raise money. Usually in a good way (pace Sarah Ferguson). So we have a use for them, too. If they don’t benefit us directly in the ways above, then they are a focal point for our own feelings. That is to say, we gossip about them: “What great ones do, the less will prattle of.” They fulfil exactly that role of defining themselves by shining more brightly than the rest of us. Or, as the exchange so aptly has it in Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail: “How do you know he’s a king?” “Because he hasn’t got shit all over him.”
So they are uber-celebrities, and ur-celebrities (they’re less good at German than they used to be, though). Let them have the Abbey, and the horses, and let them eat really nice cake. But maybe not Elton John. That would be a little too much. How about Lily Allen?
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