Where to stick your Jubilee bunting

Bunting-fever has hit the UK, and looks set to rise over the weekend as legions of brainwashed Britons stumble  into the streets to gorge themselves on cupcakes decorated with the sickly colours of the far-right-appropriated union flag, and join with the hobbled masses in thanking a posh old lady for another 60 years of oppression of their class.
“Thanks for the day off!” read the ‘ironic’ crown-bearing t-shirt of a man on the bus yesterday afternoon – although by the looks of him and his down-trodden family he’d probably be better served with bread than circuses.
But it is typically the working classes, and the poorest of them, who do most of the flag-waving around here. The council estate that Baby Face and I live on is riddled with flags, bunting, and plans for street parties. The SureStart nursery that our son, DEG GDH, attends is holding a Jubilee celebration tomorrow, and my innocent baby is going to endure displays of vicarious patriotism from the low-paid staff, many of whom are from nations the Queen’s husband wouldn’t piss on if they were burning.
And it makes me fume. I want to rip down the bunting and wrap it round the neck of our parasite Queen, and I want my proletarian neighbours to come to their fucking senses and realise that it’s NOT OK to be grateful to the boot that kicks you on a daily basis, just because you’ve been given a day off the kicking. And I want to spend the long weekend in France – they had the right idea in 1789, and they’re still proving themselves to be one of the few right[left]-thinking nations in Europe.

But I shalln’t. I shall take DEG GDH to nursery tomorrow to play with the other babies, and if someone puts a union flag in his hand it will mean no more to him that the Cardiff RFC flag that Baby Face has put in his bedroom. And we shall go to our friend’s Jubilee BBQ at the weekend and eat sausages with them because they are our friends and we love seeing them. And I shall have a day off work on Tuesday, enjoy whatever the British weather throws at me, practice for the DDR of R’n’B on Thursday, and peacefully refuse to allow the fucking Queen to make me any angrier. Because she certainly doesn’t give a shit what I think about her.
Besides. It’s a day off for a sideshow. She’s a relic from a mediaeval age. She’s not capitalism. Most of the rest of the capitalist world has ditched their versions of her. We’ve hung on to her as a source of diversionary entertainment. So we’ll enjoy the day off, ignore the hereditary principle it venerates, and continue to fight the fight that really matters.

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5 comments

  1. What about us care workers who never get a bank holiday off!! Carers day would be nice!! Bunting will not be on my house…

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    1. ignorant brain dead douche. why don’t you lodge yourself up the queens derriere and be her royal butt plug

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    2. This is a tremendous satirical response, surely. No one *actually* replies like this. Is it this week’s ‘why don’t you go and live in Russia?’. So the options are: a monarchy or Syria. Tell you what, let’s play the same game. Feel free to fuck off and live in Saudi.

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