2013-05-22T11:58:25-04:00 Chris Wickett http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=chris-wickett Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Chris Wickett Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2374522 2012-12-28T06:35:46-05:00 2013-02-27T05:12:02-05:00

Chris Wickett http://www.huffingtonpost.com/chris-wickett/
The Olympics helped. The Queen skydiving straight into Danny Boyle's time-travelling multi-circus was a pretty neat PR move. And the news of a royal pregnancy probably didn't hurt, either. But the real reason old Queen Liz was able to set a new high score in 2012 was the Diamond Jubilee, which saw the pomp and splendour of the monarchy festooned for all to enjoy. And enjoy it we did: as an epic procession of gilded barges swanned up the Thames, the masses took to the streets to celebrate 60 years of undemocratic rule in a slathering fever of community spirit and miniature flags. It seems matters of principle are all-too-easy to forget when seduced by a powerful parade and a slice of Victoria sponge - something North Korea learnt early on. Albeit without the cake.

The problem for the republican side is that this triumphant British summer further associated expressions of such glory with the concept of 'Kingdom'. Remove the monarchy, say the monarchists, and you forgo the splendour. Nonsense. A United Republic would be far from cakeless, yet this idea of a bleak and barren land refuses to die. In this article I'd like to correct the record, as I present to you a republican manifesto for the new year. It's a vision of a better Britain: a nation where the word 'bunting' is rightfully restored as a verb and where our national post carrier is simply - and proudly - called 'Mail'.

We start with democracy. It is a sad injustice that some women, such as The Queen, still do not enjoy suffrage. In our egalitarian British Republic, everyone would get the vote. Prisoners would be free to leave their cells during the daily Hour's Trust to head to the polling station. Dolphins - which have recently been proved intelligent enough to require treatment as non-human 'persons' - would get the vote, too, along with some of the more switched-on sea lions.

The next move would be to deconcentrate the power of head office. Although the skillsets required to run the state, the army and the church are not as divergent as you'd think, separating these functions would help stem the impression that Britain is utterly backwards. Switzerland has proved that a head of state comprising multiple people can work, and a plural executive would solve the problem of who should live in numbers 1 to 9 Downing Street.

After the revolution, we'd need to move quickly to prevent a counter-coup. All symbols of the monarchy would be disposed of, including the crown jewels, public outpourings of grief and the monarchy. Symbols too expensive to decommission would be recommissioned, with the public sector benefitting from the conversion of all formerly monarchical buildings, including St James's Palace (school), Hampton Court (school) and the Tower Of London (novelty hospital).

Tourism would be bolstered by televising the arranged marriages of national treasures such as Moira Stewart and Mark Lawrenson (and their fortnightly remarriages in times of romantic drought). These splendid affairs at Westminster Abbey would be broadcast the world over, seeding far and wide our national values of love, commitment and fear of God. Kate and Wills eat your hearts out! (After the revolution. On live TV.)

It should go without saying that we would strip all royal titles: Earl would disappear, likewise Sir and Dame, international cricket would be played at the Misters ground... and so on.

This is just a glimpse of the wonder of our Britain-to-be. But to see it realised, we first need to win the will of the nation. So I'll end with a battle-cry to capture hearts and minds. Go forth and spread the word! Print badges and pin them to your elbow! Design posters with catchy slogans - Keep Calm And Abolish The Monarchy! Resistance Is Feudal! Write to your MP, sing to your dentist, bake lasagna for your local bishop; show them how the layers of pasta-sheeted dogma can be peeled away to reveal a democratic undermince.

Do this so that one day, perhaps 60 years from now, we might hold a river pageant of our own. That we might see doves flock over Westminster and hear the children sing rhymes of Liberation Day. And as we watch it unfold on television, a cup of Gray tea by our side, we might even indulge in a slice of Victoria sponge. The one monarchical relic of our former Britain: some colonial cake to remember our bloody and far less wondrous past.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2323622 2012-12-18T13:10:19-05:00 2013-02-17T05:12:01-05:00

Chris Wickett http://www.huffingtonpost.com/chris-wickett/
Why, then, am I so frequently accused of being cynical, grumpy, a curmudgeon?

It happened twice just last week. The first was at a funeral, after I corrected a relative who told me her beloved had 'passed on'.

"He hasn't passed on," I said, caringly. "He's dead."

Is it cynical to correct the metaphysical delusions of a friend in their time in need? Apparently so. 'Insensitive' this and 'sneering know-it-all' that. You would not believe the carry on.

It happened again when passing my local Buddhist monastery - a notorious logic blackspot. Buddhism shows scant regard for the laws of the universe, but have you ever tried telling this to a monk?

'Come in, have some green tea and I'd be delighted to talk to you' came the smug response. Naturally I told him where to shove his patronizing offer. You can always tell a Buddhist from the violent hatred in the eyes. Evidently, he thought me a cynic - a grouch! I've never been so unfairly painted in all my life.

I'm the happy-go-lucky type, you see. My mission to spread this joy begins each day at dawn.

I jump on the bus and see two old dears nattering. I introduce myself. We chatter. We share tales of past love, of laughter. I educate them on the realistic chances of their friend old Bill surviving pancreatic cancer. I ring for my stop, doff them my cap and continue my merry commute. Ah! - the dispelling of false optimism: surely the king of moral breakfasts.

I hop into work. My colleagues are radiant. Morning Susan. I see you're looking at your horoscope. Kindly pass me the paper so I might set it on fire. Thank you. Your deluded belief that destiny might offer an escape from your dreary existence is heart-warming. Don't buy that paper again. Have a lovely day.

All I do is try to spread a little logical cheer here and there and still I'm accused of cynicism. And arson. Ridiculous!

Things came to head recently when I stamped on a three-year-old child's toy unicorn - a toy she was playing with despite having NO EVIDENCE WHATSOEVER THAT UNICORNS EXIST. I won't bore you with the details. Of course, my actions were just healthy skepticism, correcting a rather sinister interest in cryptozoology. But do the officers of the Metropolitan Police Child Protection Unit care about skepticism? Do they hell.

I know what you're thinking. Forget these idiots. But I cannot let lie accusations that I am somehow joyless. The universe deserves the truth: that science and skepticism offer a magic and happiness more profound than any unicorn ever could.

Throw out your fairytale toys. What child wouldn't enjoy playing with a miniature Brian Cox figurine, which encourages wonder in the universe and comes with free battery-powered lens flare? What Secular Christmas wouldn't be improved with a play-sized My First Hadron Collider kit under the tree? What rosy smile wouldn't be further brightened by destroying the Lego (and its dangerously warped depiction of the building trade) and replacing it with, for example, maths-based construction puzzle 'Stasti-Sticks'?

It's a dream of a beautiful future. But it has so far fallen on deaf ears. The only logical explanation is that the world is not yet ready for it.

I must battle on regardless. History will right these current wrongs, and I must take comfort in the knowledge that one day, twenty years from now, that three-year-old girl will seek me out. She will meet my gaze with a tear in her eye and admit that she was wrong. I know that little girl will grow up with the wisdom to see the subtle grace of my actions, and that even further into the foggy future she will stamp on the unicorns of her children, and of her children's children. And when that day comes, I will have succeeded in making the world a more joyful place.]]>