Over the weekend a photo purporting to be taken in a gents toilets in a Wetherspoons pub went viral. It featured a sign declaring that, as a mark of respect for the Queen’s death, “no sheaths will be dispensed until Wednesday, September 21st”. The story was debunked fairly quickly, and frankly, the Alan Partridge-esque “sheaths” should have given the game away. But such is the level of weirdness in this strange mourning-after period that the general feeling was, well, it could have been true. And there are those who would probably approve.
To put it mildly, this is an odd time to be British, living in the ubiquity of state-sanctioned grief on the one hand, and the anger of those who instinctively kick against it on the other. On one side there are the tributes, some heartfelt, some mawkish and some so weird it’s created a Twitter meme in which users have started sarcastically referring to the country as “Normal Island”. “Just another normal day here on Normal Island,” people observe, nodding at the respectful closure of Legoland or the mournfully closed cycle racks in Norwich. It’s understandable that the passing of such a solid constant – a figure so tied up in national identity and national pride, someone who, despite their lofty station, always felt rather more human than other royals – would be a sad event. Elizabeth was Queen for as long as most of us can remember. Now she isn’t. It’s strange and disconcerting. For many people, the grief is real and profound.
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