OREGON HOME MAGAZINE
The Royal family is kind of the Kardashian clan of England. They keep us entertained with their public weddings, private scandals and peculiar lives so we don’t have to think too hard about our own. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
Still, I was taken aback this week by the images of millions of people, people who will never so much as stick a finger in the icing of a royal cake, rejoicing in the diamond anniversary of the Queen’s coronation. The 1977 celebrations of her silver jubilee were met with a great deal more cynicism.
I landed in England that summer of yore confused by the pomp and ceremony of the royal shindig, and the anger and violence of an emerging Punk Rock. After two years earnestly seeking the meaning of life in India, I couldn't relate to either. I felt caught between a Rock and a hard face queen. But then the Sex Pistols floated down the Thames on a barge blasting their anthem God Save the Queen that, despite its title, is most definitely not homage to the monarchy. The act seemed scary, possibly treasonous, and intentionally, defiantly, hilariously, irreverent. Their river serenade seemed less about advocating actual Anarchy in the U.K and more about a social movement with a Vicious sense of humor willing to poke fun of the meaninglessness of imperial pageantry.