Assuming it’s true that Brits love to stand in line, this day should end in some kind of mass ecstasy. For days, the images of the massive condolence polonaise in the English capital have amazed the world. For several miles and hours, people queue to say a final goodbye to Queen Elizabeth and/or to be able to say “Crownchella 2022 – I was there!” Tax clerks, masons, millionaires – they are all equal before God and Westminster Abbey.
Even David Beckham, a man who recently attracted attention by letting himself be bought as ambassador for the World Cup in Qatar for 180 million, was spotted among the waiting crowd as Otto Normalbecks. Nice proof that some dead people are worth more than others. They come from all parts of the (democratic) world. The Jacinda, the Joe, the Justin. (Freaky funny post-mortem humiliation point that various heads of state have to drive up by bus for logistical reasons.) Trudeau, who recently confessed sobbing that the late monarch was one of his “favorite people in the world”. The man either has a very small circle of friends or belongs to a generation that, to an almost astonishing degree, cults a woman whom very few of us knew personally.
My name is Mickey Beisenherz. In Castrop-Rauxel I am a world star. Elsewhere I have to pay for everything myself. I am a multimedia (single) general store. Author (Extra3, Jungle Camp), presenter (ZDF, NDR, ProSieben, ntv), podcast host (“Apocalypse and Filter Coffee”), occasional cartoonist. There are things that strike me. Sometimes even upset me. And since the impulse control is constantly jammed, they probably have to get out. My religious symbol is the crosshair. The razor blade is my dance floor. And just now it itches in the feet again.
But where you haven’t visited your grandmother in your home village for years, Her Royal Highness is good for a figure of longing and a projection screen. Which explains why many people react touchedly to the casually commented death of the permanent ruler these days, as if their own grandmother had just been desecrated. The aching national soul of the – then also remarkably diverse – British is understandable. After all, the nucleus of a society is buried here. The smallest common nana.
So it was her greatest coup never to explain herself, never to formulate politically sharply, to hold her speeches in such a way that everyone could feel addressed. As ambiguous as the smile of the Mona Lisa, who would otherwise claim to be the most visited woman in Europe. She didn’t need messages. She was the message. Surviving the Decades. The perseverance. The durability. The Manufactory Monarch: The good things still existed.
What we mourn with rare unanimity is the dismantling of the old social architecture. The peace-loving Russian has already taken action with Gorbachev. Corruption-resistant artistic director Pleitgen has done the same. We look to a future dominated by ethically deaf Chinese, social upheaval and a shift to the right in the EU. In old Europe, the hall light goes on. You can also cry for yourself.
And at the same time enjoy this wonderful royal escapism, which then distracts us for a few days from the creepy realities that make us shiver in the uncomfortably cool booth. Questionable colonization background enthusiastically sung executive: This whole Queen-cinnabar is like a majestic mashup of Winnetou and Layla, even for trash fans. Snackable content. Pleasantly under-complex and guaranteed without the threatening danger of false feelings.
Everyone gets their money’s worth this Monday. Serious correspondents who are now being kicked off their public service stations in London because of the disadvantage of their location, although they had always reported so bravely from Johnson, Truss and Starmer. Above all, however, those who, between “The Crown” and “Golden Leaf”, take away everything that these sensationally dysfunctional noble footbroichs are up to.
Fans of Shakespearean dramas cheer as much as those who haven’t missed an episode of “Success”. If Kendall Roy hadn’t run out of fountain pens at the first worst occasion, would he ever have been allowed to go to the top? And the fact that Andrew, while all his close relatives inherit real estate worth almost billions, only gets the corgis from his mother, not even Stephen Fry would have thought of such a nasty thing. Well, okay, Andrew doesn’t care about anything past 17 anyway.
Today is a day to remember. Only a woman of the century gets a farewell here. The century of stable certainties goes with her. We will be moved, we will be irritated, even in Mecca people will probably rub their eyes at this strange worship, this strange cult surrounding the building in London.
Nobody will be indifferent to this September 19th. This existence, which is almost unbearable for thinking people, is primarily held together by distraction and projection. So let’s get carried away with this Insane Crown posse. Pretty soon we’ll have to enjoy ourselves a lot less burgeoise. Tomorrow, we’ll switch over to the Käfer tent again, where Uschi Glas’s son is trying to get into the Käfer tent wearing feather headdresses. And has Boris Palmer actually said anything to Arielle?
