Bubblehammerblog

I took my 6 year old grandson Snorri to school this morning, and discovered that his class was being taken into the city centre this afternoon to see Lizzie Windsor. I’d overheard groups of mothers twittering about something like this, but had no idea that it was about to happen. So far as I know the school hasn’t asked permission of his family, which I certainly would have refused. Snorri has no interest in such things, and it’s saddening to picture him standing in a row among his classmates, looking bewildered and waving a little paper Butcher’s Apron. If he brings such a thing home as a souvenir I intend to amuse him by urinating on it.

As I was leaving the school one of the fathers remarked to me cheerily, ‘They’re off to see the queen this afternoon, eh?’ I replied as pleasantly as I could, ‘I don’t hold with such things myself. I’m a republican.’ He marched off without comment. Now I’m marked out as a weirdo, but I don’t care.

How times have changed. I recall when Snorri’s mother was about the same age being asked permission by her school for her to join an outing to see Lizzie’s appalling son, Charlie. When I refused on the grounds of republicanism, her teacher gave the distinct impression of being genuinely pleased by my display of principles. Thus encouraged, I went on to express my objection to my daughter waving a Union Jack while British troops were oppressing our Irish family, which broadened the teacher’s smile even further.

Again, it was my grandfather who introduced me to the loathing of royalty. Whenever a Jew or a royal would appear on television, he’d struggle out of his chair and furiously berate the set with his walking stick, smoke and sparks flying from the Woodbine he always had in his mouth. ‘Bloody gannets’, he called the royals. This of course made a strong impression on a young mind.

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