Silence in the street

Dissecting the psychology of an alleged ‘national mood’

“Silence in the courtyard, silence in the street, the biggest twit in England is just about to speak…”

It was something we used to say at school.

A silly rhyme.

The person who broke this ‘rule’ of enforced quiet by daring to talk, would then be subjected to heckling.

“Ha! You’re not supposed to speak…you have to be SILENT! That means you’re out of the game because you spoke…”

How real life mirrors the playground, hey?

Speaking up.

Not playing along with ‘the game’.

It’s very much how the last two weeks has felt for many of us, as this heavy and laborious ‘game’ has been inflicted upon us.

To begin with, I’d believed this debacle of doom to be the will of the palace. I had visions of Liz, secret egotist, surrounded by flunkies separating her bowls of purple skittles as she plotted her post death shenanigans as nonagenarian J-lo;

“Yes, of course I want queues. The peasants absolutely want to see my coffin! In fact, let’s have wrist bands! Damn it I’m headlining my own ‘Death Glasto’! David Beckham must cry and a funeral’s not a party without Zelensky …but tell the little grub he can’t wear combat gear…”

Amusing though this thought is, in actuality the palace had issued an official statement saying they didn’t want disruption and wanted things to continue as normally as possible.

What we have witnessed, has been foisted upon us by the media and frenzy-fed on by a public whose appetite for subjugation is comparable to that of a worm-riddled child for Maccy D’s.

A nation was emotionally chemtrailed.

It wasn’t enough that some people were genuinely sad. The constant seeding of black was incessant to the point that it wasn’t just television and radio you had to avoid. The rain cloud followed you like that scruffy kid in Charlie Brown. Even if you chose to avoid the usual purveyors of bleak, morbid messages were popping up on everything from the displays on buses to train ticket machines.

The ‘leave to grieve’ bank holiday - whipped up quicker than a bowl of Angel Delight by a feeder - was the ultimate in virtue signalling.

“Mark of respect” was trotted out as excuse for everything from closing a kiddie’s ride to cutting short holidays, sealing off bike racks and shutting supermarkets. I rang my gym asking if they’d be open, and was told “we don’t know yet, head office is still deciding” which roughly translates as “we’re waiting to see what every else is doing.”

Sure enough, no-one wants to be bad guy and like a rally of sympathy dominoes, one business followed the other. Closing up was the new mask wearing. If you didn’t offer to do it, why not?  Did you not care?

She was a popular woman. Not as well liked as MSM have suggested, but love or hate her, she’s been in most of our lives since we were born. There is something eerie about watching someone’s profile alter on stamps and coins. The changing drag and sag mirroring our own grapple with mortality.

People have been quick to glorify her ‘staying power’, this alleged quality of ‘endurance’.  It’s reminiscent of the way long marriages are commended. “How do you make it last so long?” Couples are often asked. But staying - be it in a relationship, house or job, is usually so much easier than leaving.   

I can’t help conclude that the outpourings we are witnessing are serving as approved emotional outlet for the damaged inner child of a nation.

A child who feels abused, abandoned, oppressed, not listened to and despondent.

A child whose last shard of innocence has been played by the darkest psychology over the last two and a half years.

A child who is, despite all this, loyal.

Finally the media offer up an event that gives permission to unleash and process a dam of unexplored feelings.

Not only is it a socially acceptable occasion, but one bathed in the strawberry jelly and Carnation cream glow of nostalgia. The silver jubilee of 1977 nests in the collective British psyche as treasured cooing dove in sepia rafters.

I too, remember the community centre with jugs of orange juice, bunting, balloons, smiles….

I could attach her there - Queen - but it would be as awkward as sticking a hard Lego figure into the warmth of a fuzzy felt scene.

For she was not there.

She was never there.

Memories were made by real, ordinary people gathered around an inauthentic focal point.

We never needed a focal point, only each other.

The people who claim to grieve for their queen, I would argue, mourn for themselves and what has been stolen from them.

We were Harlow’s monkeys offered up to cruel metal mother. Our hearts screamed for love, compassion, warmth. 

We went unheard.

And now we can flee the cage and what do we as a nation do?

We pine, as mixed up infant.

We beg for another abrasive ‘parent’, for it is all we know.

Externally, at least…..

Deep down there is a national heart that is not fooled by grandeur, pomp and ceremony.

It craves only love.

Silence in the street?

No.

I was silenced aged 5, and I grew up, and learned better.

.

* PS: If you connected with this piece, you may also appreciate this one

My memories of when Princess Diana died