After a very long life during she which she has been nourished, nurtured and surrounded by every comfort that money can buy - not to mention all that singing and requesting that God save her and allow her to reign over us for a very long time, Queen Elizabeth the Second died today, her spawn hurrying to her death bed with sombre faces.
Hugh Welshman is having a field day - wearing his best black suit and sad face, he is squatting across the BBC's output, coordinating all the vox pop interviews with a devastated nation and doing his respectful bit.
There's no hope for the British, honestly - they have been turning out in droves to stand outside the various royal houses, hoping to be interviewed on the telly about how the Queen was so important to them, how she bestrid the best part of two centuries and their lives. And doing the flowers in cellophane thing. What a great day for the nation's florists. .
Nicholas Witchell has been having a pretty good time, too, trotting out all the pre-prepared obituary footage, telling us how she could service an Army lorry. And how the Zadog the Beast moment set her apart for the rest of her life as she did fuck nothing with sublime panache.
I was at the local cinema for a live screening from the National Theatre of Much Ado About Nothing. How very appropriate. It was actually rather touching – the play was late starting, the house lights stayed up, then the Director of the National Theatre asked for a minute’s silence, they showed photos of the Queen at the National Theatre, of which she was a patron, then everyone stood for the National Anthem.
The Queen is Dead. Long Live the King. Another Zadog the Beast moment is looming. Will we throw off our monarchical shackles? I doubt it.