Wednesday, June 06, 2012



Everyone seems to be having fun and enjoying the whole royal deal, but the staid fountain in front of Buck House may never recover from being so garishly covered,

...and the Palace itself (always a bit of an architectural yawn, except for the fence) got the tarting up of its life with delightfully clever projected images below the rooftop performance of Our House by the band Madness (whose name I had never heard until tonight, but at least the song was familiar to this old fart).

H.R.M. meets some of the artists backstage after the concert.  Check out the two people with the white hair -- at least they know how to age gracefully!  How many collective quarts of hair-dye and hours of eye-lifts do the other four represent???   [Update:  I took a closer look at 50% of the white-haired crowd, and I stand corrected -- Sir Tom Jones' face is a road-map of surgical possibilities.  Or, as Dylan Thomas scripted it for Mrs. Dai Bread Two in Under Milk Wood, "He got a wall eye."]

 [And at least Elton John can still sing, as best I can tell -- can't say as much for the Sirs Cliff and Paul.  Cliff Richard's performance was valiant but rather pathetic to watch.  I actually remember his 1961 movie -- why does he think he shouldn't have changed since then?  Oh well, at least he knows how to behave -- a good example for Sir Paul Macaw, who spared his audience snotty comments about the alleged stupidity of previous monarchs, of the sort he couldn't contain in  his display of appalling bad manners when entertaining the Obamas at the White House.  Paul, to his credit, stuck to the good old Beatle stuff and didn't perform any songs from his mediocre solo career, other than his Bond theme.  All the lasers and flame-jets show that he has learned from his musical descendants how to use visual crap to distract from the fact that his voice is SHOT.  Time to retire and count your billions, Paul.]

Best of the concert was saved for last, with the appearance of the small royal circle, remarks by the heir (apparent?) and the singing of her anthem by the assembled thousands upon thousands.  And then classic music [some Handel Zadok, a bit of Holst vows, and a swath of Hope and Glory] provided the background for truly magnificent fireworks.  God save her.  And save us from the troglodytes who don't see the point.

I haven't seen a whole lot of the celebrations, so must start digging around for the videos.  But I have the impression that Britain (or most of it) has enjoyed a monster injection of the kind of national pride that has been absent and unfashionable in recent decades.

Or maybe they're just drunker than usual.  But I think not -- it looks very genuine from here.


Granddaughter finds the selection of latte flavours for the Tassimo machine not up to her usual standards.

Grandson completes the next phase of his Jedi training.

Life is good.

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