Chas and Cam's Big Day Out

Well, it was a nice day for a bit of British ceremonial, if you happen like that sort of thing.

Depending on your viewpoint, today's State Opening of Parliament and King's Speech (the first to be delivered for over seventy years), was either a key element of Britain's unwritten constitution and a dignified celebration of an ancient and time-honoured parliamentary system; or, as someone once described it, a sorry little summary of flummery and mummery (oh, that would be me!).

Either way, this was the Charles and Camilla Show; their biggest state occasion since their coronation and the only other one on which they get the opportunity to wear the crowns and regalia. There they both were, weighed down in all the glittering swag of Empire, the British bling, like two thieving magpies displaying the loot as they participated in a parliamentary pantomime with a cast of characters looking like they'd escaped from a deck of playing cards.

There was all the usual nonsense of state trumpeters, heralds, yeomen and gentlemen ushers of this-that-and-the-other, but the Lord President, Penny Mordaunt (she who so memorably brandished the Sword of State at the coronation like a latterday Boudicca), disappointingly never got to wield it on this occasion. The showstopper, of course, was Black Rod having the door of the House of Commons slammed in her face, which is about as exciting as things get. 

After banging on the door she is admitted to summon MPs to attend upon the Sovereign in the House of Lords. The MPs then dutifully troop through the Palace corridors, pretending to engage in animated conversation with their opposite numbers, but upon arrival they find the chamber packed with unelected Peers so the elected representatives of the people have to squint at proceedings through the back door. This tells you all you need to know about our democracy, really. Welcome to Ruritania.

Leaving aside the panoply of pseudo-medieval pageantry (oh, how I wish we would!) there is, supposedly at least, legislative substance behind all the pomp and circumstance of this state occasion. The monarch reads out, in as neutral a monotone as he or she can muster, a list of proposed Bills to be debated in parliament over the next twelve months. Some of the stuff proposed in their name must stick in their craw, though. 

Charles managed to resist raising an eyebrow as he intoned the bit about his goverment's energy security and net-zero commitments which, given his supposed environmental credentials, must have been painful. Maybe the weight of the Imperial State Crown made extraneous facial movement difficult or perhaps he was just keen to get through it and get home for lunch after his exhausting outing. The sacrifice of royal duty is so onerous.

The proposed legislative programme seemed quite light - anyone would think a general election was pending - but there were twenty-one measures outlined in the speech, though it is expected that others might actually be laid before parliament. I'm sure disillusioned MPs and Peers can hardly contain their lack of excitement. 

However, a commitment to housebuilding went unmentioned, which one might have thought a rather pressing matter, as did a previously promised (twice) commitment to banning LGBT+ conversion therapy. Shockingly, a mental health bill was also absent, as were AI controls - an odd omissions given all the hoo-ha at Bletchley Park the other day. The small print of the King's Speech, though, contains a crafty rider for the government of the day: 'other measures will be laid before you'. Plenty of wriggle room there so that's all good then - sod the King's Speech, the government can do whatever it likes whenever it likes.

Meanwhile, in the real world, it was good to see the Republic movement protesters out in force waving their Not My King placards as the state carriage passed by. Not that you would have spotted them in the state broadcaster (ie BBC1's) obsequious television coverage of the event. One thing their images did reveal, however, was the notable sparsity, indeed absence, of crowds. Maybe the weather, sunny but chilly, made loitering on street corners uncomfortable. Or maybe folk just couldn't be arsed. 

Then again, just possibly, the line we're spun about the monarchy's invaluable contribution to tourism is a little, how shall I put it, over-egged? 

Or maybe it's just naked propaganda.


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