Today I went to the State Opening of Parliament - not on my own account, of course, but as a result of being related to someone who has far more right than me to be there. Now I am aware that this is a popular culture blog and that the State Opening of Parliament doesn't really count as such, but it *is* something I have seen recently, and it will probably be the closest thing I get to going to a panto this year (although I only say that for effect, as I am already booked in to see one, maybe two, pantomimes. Bear with me, it's a metaphor that comes into its own later.)
There aren't that many people allowed into the public gallery of the SOOP, if I may call it that (and I'd like to - it's snappy) and I was lucky enough to be in the second row at what is essentially the business end of the gallery, where all the good stuff happens. When I say "all the good stuff", I mean people bring in the Crown and the Sword of State and a thing called the Cap of Maintenance, which looks like a hat that Father Christmas might wear to sleep in (yes: it does look like exactly what you are imagining, except on a stick), and put them down and pick them up and hand them from one important person to another and then leave the room with them again. If you are at the back of the far end of the gallery, you probably don't get to see that stuff. You also don't get to see the Queen's shoes, and I am getting ahead of myself here, but: surprisingly chic silver slingbacks. No wonder Vogue has named her the most glamorous woman ever to have sported solid hair, or something.
OK, so what basically happens is that you go past seventeen thousand police checkpoints, give or take one or two, and then you find the public gallery which is full of old ladies in hats, and when you sit down they give you a handy programme who tells you who everyone in the procession is. Didn't you always want to know who the Rouge Dragon Poursuivant is? That's assuming you knew that the Rouge Dragon Poursuivant is a person, and not a type of lipstick, or a really posh slang expression for shooting up heroin. Well, it is a person, and it's Clive Cheesman Esq. There. Also, according to my programme, The Cap of Maintenance is not only Santa Claus's sleepwear, it's also The Baroness Ashton of Upholland.
The programme also gives you a minute-by-minute itinerary for what is going to happen, so that you know that if the Gentlemen of Arms are proceeding to the Prince's Chamber, it must be 10.52, and therefore you are standing up, which is handy to know, because your mobile phone is switched off and you are not wearing a watch. Equally, if the Lord Privy Seal is proceeding to the top of the Sovereign's Staircase, it is 11.03 and you are sitting down. The Lord Privy Seal, in case you were wondering, is Harriet Harman, and maybe you don't think it is ridiculous that she gets refered to as a Lord, but until you get male Ladies in Waiting I still think they should rename the position.
As it happens, the Queen was late, throwing us out by minutes, but she looked so unexpected glorious and stylish that nobody minded, and if they minded they would probably have been beheaded and you don't want that. The second nearest anybody got to being beheaded was the little old lady in the red hat who was sitting right next to the ceremonial table they put the crown on when they are in the middle of bringing it is, handing it around and carrying it back out again. I saw her face. She wanted to nick it. The nearest anyone got to being beheaded was the last yeoman at the back, who stood a bit too close to the yeoman in front, and when the yeoman in front turned around with a spear over his shoulder, the last yeoman at the back had to duck to avoid being scalped.
Anyway all of this standing and marching and sitting and handing around of caps is just gilding, because none of what is important happens in the public gallery at all, although the none of what is important does happen in the public gallery for quite some time, in fact 41 minutes, if the Queen isn't tardy. What is important happens in a whole other room, and is apparently the Queen's speech, if you believe what you read in the papers, and what have I told you about that? Well, nothing. But I meant to.
In fact, what I think is the most important happens just before the Queen makes her speech. She is sitting on her throne, or a throne, I'm not sure if it is a special one. In front of her is the whole of Parliament, the judges, the Lords. And the Lord Chancellor steps forward and hands her the speech. Think about it. He steps forward and hands her the speech. Sure, he has to walk away backwards because something very bad would happen if the Queen ever saw anybody's back, but he could have given it to her earlier that day. But he doesn't. He hands it to her in front of everybody, so that everybody knows who is really in charge.
So the 41 minutes of standing and marching and sitting and handing around of caps is, as we knew all along, a total charade, a puppet show, yes, a panto. It means nothing. And I'm not really sure who it is for. Is it for us? Is it to make the Queen feel better? To keep the manufacturers of swords, crowns, and cute silver slingbacks in business? Is it because the nation would be imaginatively impoverished if The Gold Stick In Waiting, General The Lord Guthrie Of Craigiebank, was just plain old Charles Guthrie and we melted down the gold stick to help make up the NHS budget deficit? I think it would be, but does it matter? Does it matter enough?
After it was all over I got on the tube home and ate my lunch in front of Neighbours. And tomorrow I'm going to M&S to see if they've got anything in like the Queen's shoes.
