Alan Coleman

A few years ago I wrote about The sanitisation of war, how our media have come to depict warfare in general as not only just, but as a simple story of good against evil in the manner of a Commando comic.

On page 47 of today’s free Sport magazine, the Royal Air Force have taken out a full page Commando comic style advertisement for staff. It’s taken us a while to get to the point where this is an acceptable depiction of something quite terrifying, but I think we’ve been prepared gently and can now relax, safe in the knowledge that war is not only fun reading, but is also something to aspire to.

The advert features the handsome Flight Lieutenant Sean Langrish, an epitome of the well rounded young man, complete with steely determination and well rehearsed student sneer. (In another advert he’ll be seen relaxing over a few beers with an orange juice swigging colleague, however everyone knows that not drinking in the forces is tantramount to homosexuality).

The story is as follows. The lads on the ground in Helmand are cornered, brave Sean calls in some Laser Guided Bombs, he keeps his promise, the enemy is eliminated and he’s got 24 new bezzie mates. No really, that’s what happens! Then we’re ‘all good’! Fucking superb! If only I wasn’t so old!

There’s money to waste on misleading adverts though isn’t there? We know that because there’s cash to be spunked on teaching the country’s two most over privileged brothers to indulge in learning to be Search and Rescue pilots. The Palace must be getting wet thinking about that little number when it comes to fruition. All the tabloid glory, none of the risk, everyone’s a winner! Essentially, it’s this week’s hobby, a well deserved break from playing football with six year old African children with no legs, or from getting cunted in China Whites.

This is nothing new though, The RAF, like the military in general, has a history of outrageously misleading adverts bent on showing that in War, there’s something for everyone. Remember the ridiculous Cinema adverts of a few years ago that suggested that young people could progress from delivering pizzas on a moped to piloting a Harrier? Yes, that’s going to happen isn’t it?

No need to worry too much about it though, when the reality of the cartoon like battle against evil ends up with no arms to have a wank with, there’s always Help for Heroes.

Royal Air Force. Be part of the story.

I usually stop just outside Blackfriars to survey the days papers, a quick glance across the multicoloured collage of sex, hate and economic meltdown. As predictable as it is amusing, especially last week when I spotted a story about the Saindi family from Afghanistan who’d apparently been housed in a seven bedroom house in Ealing, West London. I don’t know what I found more amusing, the finger wagging fury or the comments Mrs Saindi made about the house being too big to clean, funny as!

It used to be Rock and Roll bands and young people that upset the Tory media, now the papers put their songs on the Sunday edition as a polite freebie. It’s says a lot about the awful state of music in this country when we have to rely on immigrants to upset the status quo.

The thought of Mrs Saindi showing journalists her new plasma screen doesn’t make me feel jealous or envious or even angry, as there’s always something more important to worry about than who’s getting what for free.

That said, when the papers started talking of scroungers and handouts at the weekend, I couldn’t help but think of how a family like the Windsor’s have managed to get away with what they have for so many years. Because when you look at it, the loan of a house and a Nintendo is fairly insignificant when compared to generations of favour, opulence and greed that we have afforded the Royal family. And the Royal family are immigrants after all.

It is they that are the real parasites, standing by with glum indifference as the media celebrate their obscenity, their foolish offspring, and their want. They can’t believe their luck, millions queuing up to cheer their mere existence as someone else bares the misguided anger of those same ignorant subjects.

You make your bed, you lie in it.

Like anyone else I watched the Rugby on Saturday night, shame we didn’t win but that’s just the way it goes. At least Australia didn’t win, so we won’t have to put up with smug comments from grinning blokes in wrap around shades and flip-flops. Australian men in London theme pubs is probably the single most irritating aspect to what is otherwise a fine sport. That, and having to watch the two princes leap around with their unattractive friends every time Johnny Wilkinson so much as looked at the ball. It’s like they had their own dedicated camera so we can all see them get exited just like normal people, in their posh caps and polo shirts.

Then it strikes me as a little insensitive, such a blatant and unashamed display of privilege. Especially when you consider that it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that Harry’s Troop of soldiers will be watching him and the chums from the confines of a barrack room in Iraq.

“Well done Sir, you’re quite the man, a shining example of the armed forces camaraderie, respect and work ethic to which we all aspire”

And on the following Monday morning it’s Harry that’s lauded the hero in the tabloid filth. Getting drunk and showing off his new found celebrity friends, safe in the knowledge that someone else will shoulder whatever hate the western world has to spare – immigrants, bus drivers, or his Troop in Iraq that have families and loved ones waiting back home.

You also have to question how they came across tickets for the rugby world cup final when the real fans have to pay thousands on the black market? More to the point, could the spare seats not be offered to someone more worthy of the occasion? How about some of the men that are recovering from having limbs blown off in Afghanistan, or some members of the British Legion, the charity that now has to support those same men because the Government they fought for wont find the money to give them the care that they deserve.

You couldn’t write it any better, an utterly disgraceful scenario exacerbated further buy the embedded contempt one group of people has for the other.

England, my arse.

I had a peak at the Telegraph yesterday while nobody was looking, why I find it necessary to upset myself I don’t know, but that’s just the way it is. It’s a bit like being completely unable to stop staring at the hardest looking bloke in the pub – basic intrigue.

So what possesses the Telegraph to print pictures of the royal family on its front page twice in three days? I mean it’s not as if we’re in the middle of a World Cup campaign for instance, or presiding over the collapse of another country with outrageously over stretched armed forces. Talking of which, the irony that is pictures of the Commanders in Chief sitting in splendour on page 10, opposite those of soldiers being stoned in the heat and dust on page 11 is almost definitely lost on the papers readers.

Tuesday’s Telegraph pictures two royal daughters, unfortunate enough to inherit their fathers looks, dressed up like Violet Beauregarde and Veruca Salt in distastefully expensive clothing. Apparently they are attending a service that installs their father and uncle as Royal Knights of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.

What the hell is one of those? Maybe that’s the point here, the more obscure and elitist the ceremony the less likely others are to criticise – if only through not having the faintest idea what it’s all about. Which explains why footballers wives attract far more vitriol than say, Freemasonry.

Anyone a little more cynical would claim that one of those suited sycophants at the palace pulled this honour from a particularly erotic royal wet dream. Moreover, what the hell are Andrew and Edward supposed to do as Royal Knights of the Most Noble Order of the Garter? Put it on the CV underneath the Duke of Edinburgh’s award?

Which poses the simple question, now what? It’s not like they’ve worked on the buses in Tamworth for 40 years and have been invited to the palace for a cup of tea and an afternoons patronisation. Only to be featured in the Daily Mail wearing a cheap suit as normal people recognised for a lifetimes dedication to slavery.

The sight of the queen bestowing honours onto her own family is little different from that of Saddam Hussein pinning medals on the chest of his sons. Just like queen unveiling a statue of herself in Windsor park, it is an almost humorously bizarre mix of pythonesque self promotion and camp theatre.

Unveiling a statue of yourself, a little like attending ones own funeral. Did that strike anyone else as slightly weird?

This is the ultimate accolade for any discerning royal, achievable only through birth it requires nothing other than simple existence. Just like those awards given to inane celebrities, its purpose is little more than an advertisement that underpins what is the greatest swindle the world has ever seen. Another chapter in the sneering annuals of self preservation and greed.

Who are these people?

They’re at it again! My back was turned for just five minutes, but that’s more than long enough for our beloved royal family to start living out more fantasies at the expense of others. And that’s not the financial expense one usual associates with royalty either.

I’m referring to the eternally smug William Windsor dressing up as a so called ‘Chav’. An episode which sees another member of the countries most dysfunctional family in an familiarly racist fancy dress.

It may just seem like the monarchy enjoying themselves like everyone else, and in doing so demonstrating how thoroughly modern they are, but there’s a more sinister side to proceedings. They like it camp, as I’ve said before. Egged on by tabloid hate and the BBC, the religion of choice for the embarrassing middle classes. Maybe William finds it funny, but the reality is an obscenely spoilt child openly celebrating an increasingly divided society, a divide of wealth and opportunity that is epitomised by his family and it’s sycophantic supporters.

What is most disappointing about this display of ignorance is that the much of the support for royalty comes from people from whom royalty deserve it least. To then stand by from a position of overwhelming priviliege and openly mock the society that you are supposed to represent displays a shocking cynicism.

It is telling in a number of ways. It displays a complete lack of understanding and a contemptuous disregard for those who choose to differ from the cultural ‘norm’ of The Daily Mail, The Sun / Times. And just like his equally foolish brother, William seems not only to believe in his untouchabilitly, but to embrace it with the inbred arrogance we’ve come to expect.

Future King? No, just another tedious graduate blessed with the sneering over confidence of the chattering fashionista.

So, King of Chavs? Not nearly sexy enough I’m afraid.