Feelings of bile rebellion pop up during the royal funeral. So I turned to a wiser king – The Irish Times

It occurred to me to celebrate Queen Elizabeth II’s funeral by buying a slice of apple and eating it in front of the TV while watching the ceremony. This is not something I say lightly; I usually stay away.

Outraged by the contagion of grief that surrounded the death of Diana, Princess of Wales, 25 years ago, I spent the day of her funeral pushing my toddler around town in his pram to buy him shoes. I was ashamed to discover that many of the shops in Dublin had closed early, and treaded around St Stephen’s Green with a little duck shell but decided not to indulge in seeing what I considered a horrific and appalling sight.

On the morning that Diana’s death was announced, I had already woken up in the British capital, at the home of my mother-in-law in West London. Two hours later, while waiting for the bus to Heathrow, a growing lake saw hordes of people arriving at Kensington Gardens, cellophane-wrapped bouquets in one hand and creased handkerchiefs in the other. I thought feasting on the princess’s life was bad enough, but the feeling of mirth over her death was horrifying and animalistic.

I seem to feel less pressure these days to prove my royal intolerance, and I found myself interested enough in the funerary basbi show to move the cat off the armchair and eat the apple slice from her bag.

I had already missed the rousing singing at Westminster Abbey, but I spent some time marveling at the cavalry’s control over their swift rides and liked the rigor of the Queen’s horse, Emma, ​​who watched the procession from the sidelines. And when the procession arrived outside St George’s Chapel, at Windsor Castle, it was a vague delight to see the King’s surviving dogs, Sandy and Muek, sitting on the stairs, waiting for their late owner to arrive. coffin.

However, in the end, the tumultuous feelings of rebelling against the hierarchical frenzy of it all began to emerge, and I closed the box and thought about cleaning the windows. (The low autumn sun reveals those hidden fingerprints faster than a crime scene investigator with a dustbrush of camel hair.)

It is claimed that the main attraction of a live funeral, where you listen to your eulogy and buy drinks for a lot of people you haven’t seen in years, is that you hear what people are saying about you. Hey pressure man

However, I had brain burials, so I thought of consulting my own queen for all that life, Queen Gwyneth of Goopdom, whose random decisions tirelessly managed to make this chaotic world even more confusing.

Goop, Paltrow’s online lifestyle post (the same one that advises sticking yoni eggs where the sun doesn’t shine and which sells candles and dildos that smell like firefighter-scented vaginas) didn’t let me down, leaving me queasy this time with an article on “live funerals” .

Allegedly the main attraction of these all singing and dancing affairs, where you listen to your eulogy, eat your goujons and chips, buy drinks for a lot of people you haven’t seen in years and then quietly sort the bill with the hotel manager, is to hear what people say about you . suggestions For a successful live funeral, include gathering in the garden for a barbecue. (The people behind the movement are undoubtedly Californians, and they have absolutely no concept of Irish weather.) One is also encouraged to hire a photographer and have a live book of condolences available for your loved ones to write messages in. man, pressure.

People who participate in live funerals are left without remorse, and nothing is left without being said. I do not know. It’s hard enough for most of us to put it together to meet someone for a pint even when we’re completely healthy

An account of one of these events states that later in the evening (when the cocktail sausage had been eaten and Aunt Mabel had been scraped off the floor) the guests sat down one by one to tell the party host/change the bodies what he meant to them, and had the opportunity to do the same. It appears to be called closing, although it should also be known as opening a can of worms.

The article acknowledges that it is customary to wait until a person dies to say goodbye, to put them in a wooden box and lower them into the ground. But she argues, why not take advantage of the time we spend with someone while they’re still alive? The article further suggests that people who participate in live funerals and grieve before death leave no regrets, and nothing is left unsaid.

I do not know my friend. It’s hard enough for most of us to put it together to meet someone for a pint even when we’re completely healthy. One thing is for sure, though: If the Queen took the Goop route, you’d be pretty impressed with the turnout.