A Man's Life in the Honours System
Knighthoods and the honours system in general are surreal and strange things that we only tolerate because the system has been there forever, and because there are greater things to march against than the allocation of puffed-up trinkets.
But there are many weird aspects of the system that can still raise the odd frown. Step forward, Mark Thatcher...preferably colliding painfully with some prison bars in the process.
Thatcher is a man who worked his arse off to become a Sir – through the act of being born – and could now lose his title if MPs have their way. Labour MP Neil Gerrard is sponsoring a motion to carve the metaphorical flesh from the very body of this self-satisfied criminal...and of course this is a good thing. But it is sullied by the question of title inheritance. How the hell can such bottom-feeding scum can be awarded his Sir-dom simply by wriggling through the vagina of some wicked she-beast? In England we are slowly shrugging off this national malaise that, through its inaction, is complicit in allowing the notion of automatic privilege, unearned and unbalanced, to continue passing its way down through each rotten generation of power-crazed, self-regarding idiots. But only slowly. The fuss when the House of Lords – however castrated those robed whores may be these days – was seen fighting tooth and nail with the government over fox-hunting is a case in point.
None of this criticism is new. And perhaps unnecessary...if you look deep into the eyes of the system you see something that says it knows how ridiculous it looks, but it would never admit it. Maybe it will burn itself out eventually without water from our meagre buckets. Interestingly, many people who sound off about the class system are doing so entirely from an “in theory” point of view in which the anti-establishment viewpoint is expected and unquestioned. Their genuine, unspoken view is one of indifference, and indeed even have a sneaking affection for it all, having found themselves satisfied with their own lot in life and therefore able to wallow in nostalgia for the English way. A kind of Gallic shrug mixed with an American cry of “What-ever.”.
Besides, unless you are part of the establishment in the first place, why would you be yearning for such a reward? Becoming a Sir results in little else but responsibility. Once you receive your knighthood it is a legal obligation to turn up at a bar of your choice once a week and demand a triple brandy before accusing the poor of being wilfully stupid, grabbing the nearest woman’s breasts and then falling off your stool mumbling about national service and gin. Also your moustache must bristle indignantly and your top hat shoot off into the air with a penny whistle sound effect when you hear somebody mock the honours system...especially if you spent your youth peddling your soul as some kind of class rebel. Finally you must be free to play your bad music at any given party thrown by the Queen. And if she gets pissed and requests Smack My Bitch Up to the tune of Greensleeves, your full compliance is expected. The penalty for failing to discharge any of these responsibilities will result in a Beefeater kicking you in the balls. It’s a man’s life in the honours system.
Of course, many knighthoods are simply rewards and hush-money for massaging the rotten flesh on the government’s grotesque hunched back. The new issue of Private Eye demonstrates a perfect example; Mark Allen, M16 director in charge of operations in Iraq until recently, arose as Sir Mark Allen in the new year honours despite being responsible for the “appalling intelligence failures over Iraq”. So next time you fuck up in your job...well, let’s say that you are an air traffic controller who hears the Voice of God in your head and in a crazed stupor decides to circle all airborn craft around in a bizarre spirograph resulting in multiple collisions and hundreds of fatalities. Then, whatever you do, don’t forget to take a few pills and fill in the blue form entitled “Gizza Gong”, available at post offices nationwide.
But what of those who refuse honours? And more importantly, would you accept if one was offered? I have spoken to many people who say that they would refuse, but the situation is an artifical one that bears no genuine philosophy. Everybody who says that they would turn a gong down would never do anything to earn one, myself included...and no, there are no titles for being Bestest Mate in the Whole World, nor will anyone be up in front of the Queen in recognition of their ability to fart in time to Who Let the Dogs Out? To be in the position to be given an honour would be one in which the mindset of the recipient would automatically be different to the one that proudly speaks of refusal. If you were enough of a shit to claw your way to the top of a proud British arms company, say, and have finally hung up your holsters, why would you come across all high-minded when the old boys network comes good with the goodies?
Perhaps what we need are a bunch of new titles...that is, Bad Honours. For those who offend. So when Mark Thatcher is stripped of his Sir, perhaps he should be forced to precede his name with Smug instead. As in Smug Mark Thatcher, or Mark Thatcher, Smug of the Realm. Or best of all, Prisoner #456434 (Wormwood Smugs).
Ah, but why beat on a deeply average man who got lucky? There’ll be enough people doing that when the cell door closes on him. As I said at the start of this thing, there are more important things to march against.
But there are many weird aspects of the system that can still raise the odd frown. Step forward, Mark Thatcher...preferably colliding painfully with some prison bars in the process.
Thatcher is a man who worked his arse off to become a Sir – through the act of being born – and could now lose his title if MPs have their way. Labour MP Neil Gerrard is sponsoring a motion to carve the metaphorical flesh from the very body of this self-satisfied criminal...and of course this is a good thing. But it is sullied by the question of title inheritance. How the hell can such bottom-feeding scum can be awarded his Sir-dom simply by wriggling through the vagina of some wicked she-beast? In England we are slowly shrugging off this national malaise that, through its inaction, is complicit in allowing the notion of automatic privilege, unearned and unbalanced, to continue passing its way down through each rotten generation of power-crazed, self-regarding idiots. But only slowly. The fuss when the House of Lords – however castrated those robed whores may be these days – was seen fighting tooth and nail with the government over fox-hunting is a case in point.
None of this criticism is new. And perhaps unnecessary...if you look deep into the eyes of the system you see something that says it knows how ridiculous it looks, but it would never admit it. Maybe it will burn itself out eventually without water from our meagre buckets. Interestingly, many people who sound off about the class system are doing so entirely from an “in theory” point of view in which the anti-establishment viewpoint is expected and unquestioned. Their genuine, unspoken view is one of indifference, and indeed even have a sneaking affection for it all, having found themselves satisfied with their own lot in life and therefore able to wallow in nostalgia for the English way. A kind of Gallic shrug mixed with an American cry of “What-ever.”.
Besides, unless you are part of the establishment in the first place, why would you be yearning for such a reward? Becoming a Sir results in little else but responsibility. Once you receive your knighthood it is a legal obligation to turn up at a bar of your choice once a week and demand a triple brandy before accusing the poor of being wilfully stupid, grabbing the nearest woman’s breasts and then falling off your stool mumbling about national service and gin. Also your moustache must bristle indignantly and your top hat shoot off into the air with a penny whistle sound effect when you hear somebody mock the honours system...especially if you spent your youth peddling your soul as some kind of class rebel. Finally you must be free to play your bad music at any given party thrown by the Queen. And if she gets pissed and requests Smack My Bitch Up to the tune of Greensleeves, your full compliance is expected. The penalty for failing to discharge any of these responsibilities will result in a Beefeater kicking you in the balls. It’s a man’s life in the honours system.
Of course, many knighthoods are simply rewards and hush-money for massaging the rotten flesh on the government’s grotesque hunched back. The new issue of Private Eye demonstrates a perfect example; Mark Allen, M16 director in charge of operations in Iraq until recently, arose as Sir Mark Allen in the new year honours despite being responsible for the “appalling intelligence failures over Iraq”. So next time you fuck up in your job...well, let’s say that you are an air traffic controller who hears the Voice of God in your head and in a crazed stupor decides to circle all airborn craft around in a bizarre spirograph resulting in multiple collisions and hundreds of fatalities. Then, whatever you do, don’t forget to take a few pills and fill in the blue form entitled “Gizza Gong”, available at post offices nationwide.
But what of those who refuse honours? And more importantly, would you accept if one was offered? I have spoken to many people who say that they would refuse, but the situation is an artifical one that bears no genuine philosophy. Everybody who says that they would turn a gong down would never do anything to earn one, myself included...and no, there are no titles for being Bestest Mate in the Whole World, nor will anyone be up in front of the Queen in recognition of their ability to fart in time to Who Let the Dogs Out? To be in the position to be given an honour would be one in which the mindset of the recipient would automatically be different to the one that proudly speaks of refusal. If you were enough of a shit to claw your way to the top of a proud British arms company, say, and have finally hung up your holsters, why would you come across all high-minded when the old boys network comes good with the goodies?
Perhaps what we need are a bunch of new titles...that is, Bad Honours. For those who offend. So when Mark Thatcher is stripped of his Sir, perhaps he should be forced to precede his name with Smug instead. As in Smug Mark Thatcher, or Mark Thatcher, Smug of the Realm. Or best of all, Prisoner #456434 (Wormwood Smugs).
Ah, but why beat on a deeply average man who got lucky? There’ll be enough people doing that when the cell door closes on him. As I said at the start of this thing, there are more important things to march against.
posted by Jamie at 6:49 PM
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