I was 7 years old when Winston Churchill died. I barely knew him. And his was the last state funeral of a similar magnitude to what is happening today. I can’t remember what happened when the Queen Mother died a few years ago, so it couldn’t have been that grand. What passes as ‘low key’ in royal circles. Just 35 horse-drawn carriages and 22,000 soldiers. But Churchill’s was the real deal. Even though he wasn’t a Queen. To our knowledge. And if I’m honest, I’ve never forgiven him.

Because in 1965 there were 2 tv channels. Which, pretty much operated in daylight hours only. So children only had limited options. There was about an hour every weekday at about 4.30 and then there was Saturday mornings. The day they buried Winnie.

So I came down for breakfast and, depending on the time, when the kids stuff was due to start, I would switch on. And instead of terrible puppets whose strings were clearly visible, overly dramatic ‘cliff-hanger’, black’n’white, b-movie type series and a few BBC buffoons dressed as clowns, there was a big black box being pulled down Constitution Hill by lots of horses. There were soldiers. And it was all in slow motion.

“WTF???”, I said to my mother. “Where’s Space Patrol, FFS???? The Woodentops are due on in 5 minutes, what’s all this shit?” Yes, tragically, I swore terribly even at 7. Well, not terribly as much as really proficiently.

And I learned that tv was suspended for the day because of the funeral of an old fat man who I never knew. “But will Pinky and Perky come on later then? Are they at the funeral?”

And thus state funerals represent days of personal tragedy for me. Deprived of the telly wot I wanted to watch. Lila and Joey are coming for lunch today and I shall just tell them its Peppa Pig’s funeral, then they’ll watch it.

Therefore, I chose to do my own, personal ‘reflecting’ on Her Maj whilst in the shower this morning, during my rinse cycle, saying my final farewells, offering her soul all the thanks for being… such a nice Queen and thus liberating myself from having to turn on the tv until 6 o’clock this evening to watch a rockumentary from 1996.

I do ‘get it’ totally. Lovely old woman, only monarch we’ve ever had, charming lady, always proper, devoted to the nation, I get all that. But I’ve ‘ad enough. If I hear one more person say, with teary eyes, that queuing up for 21 hours and being in the room with one dead body and 74 living but non-moving ones for 32 seconds, was ‘the best moment of their lives’ then I shall start a campaign of introducing recreational drugs to the masses.

Happy Burial Day

A xxxx