Hearts of Oak

Hearts of Oak

 

Next week I will go to the Thatcher funeral and on the Friday  with half a dozen friends have a celebration breakfast  in Smithfield. Three cheers.

But  London is a ceremonial city where the funeral of the great and the good are part of its tradition, part of its history and part of the  metropolitan culture.

One of my first memories was of the funeral of George VI in 1952. The  grey coated guards with their towering busbies, the rifles pointed towards the ground, the  sadness and dampness in the air. For a young lad of six, no doubt in his Clarks shoes and snake belt, creased short trousers, long socks, possibly a belted Mack, freckles, no doubt in the dense crowd holding grimly onto his Dad ,it  is a memory that in all its vagueness has stayed. Did I hear the band or did I put the sound track on later? Did I see ladies with black veils or am I am confusing this with another film?

 I have just watched the Youtube film and it was raining and it was sombre and slow  moving, so this is one memory that has played few tricks.

1965 and the funeral of Winston Churchill is one of my greatest regrets. A  pimply undergrad at Keele in Staffordshire, why would I want to go down and see  some antiquated stiff, well past his sell by date being  ferried around town. How wrong I was , this was the funeral of an Empire, the  stately laying in state of the triumphant era of our country and to have missed the pure and total   symbolism of that moment ,the thanks and the tears, I can only put down to pure folly.

Princess Diana’s funeral and its aftermath have been written about ad nauseum. If Churchill’s was the end of the stiff upper lip, heroic, zipped up Britain;  Princess Di’s was the birth of the touchy feely, in touch with our feminine side ,real men cry , multi cultural nation. Such was the madness and the desire for symbolism, ritual and sainthood that Cardinal Hume(bless) would state that the funeral marked the end of the Reformation in Britain. Dream on Basil.

 The madness at the time was such that I was convinced some grief crazed citizen was  going to commit suttee and throw themselves under the funereal cortege. Some how we got through it and the rivers of tears did little but clean the streets.

Not being a racing man or a  someone likes spirits I never  got the Queen Mother.

But the funeral I would have gone to would have been Nelson’s full ceremonial on 9 January 1806. While Thatcher will have her 700 servicemen representing the main units who triumphed  in the Falkland’s, Nelson had 10,000 escorting his specially built(to look like a ship)  hearse in which  rested his coffin   created out of the wood of one of his prizes. By the time the first servicemen were arriving at St Pauls the last were just leaving the Admiralty. The only sound outside of the fifes and drums, playing  the Dead March, was the  wave like sound of a grieving nation taking off their hats as  their God of War passed on his way to Valhalla.

But the unscripted  climax came when the sailors from the Victory who had been proudly carrying the bullet torn flag from that great ship were scripted to fold the flag on the coffin. They couldn’t. They ripped it to pieces , a blood soaked souvenir .

Hearts of Oak are our Ships ,Jolly Tars are our Men. Steady boys Steady. Margaret Thatcher showed that the oak may be old and  does not grow in such abundance ,but, its still there. On Wednesday I will weep. North Korea threatens.

 

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Hearts of Oak

  1. David Fangen says:

    Thommo, you will remember she despised men who blubbed!
    You old softie.
    Those who blub over Maggie must be pals!

  2. itwonthurt says:

    Sometimes a man has got to do…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s