Proud to be British

I loved everything about yesterday.

I loved the sunshine, twinkling through spring leaves on the mall, while union jacks hung like sentries.

I loved the joy. The faith in love that made millions flock to London with flags, faces painted, hearts bursting, smiling and laughing and cheering.

I loved the pageantry. The fairytale carriages, the scarlet and gold uniforms of the guards, the marching bands and the mighty war machines that flew over the heads of the crowds.

I loved the angel-music of Westminster Abbey, making my heart soar, prickling the hairs on the back of my neck , filling my eyes with tears of beauty.

Yesterday was about faith. It was about forgetting probability and choosing hope. Forgetting history, forgetting our own troubles and fears. Just for a day, we chose to suspend our disbelief and cynicism. We chose hope and joy and love.

But proud to be British? Numbed into complicity? Soothed into inertia by the weight of my historic chains? Did I suddenly see the light? Realise that State and Government act always in my best interests? Did I abandon a free heart and searching mind for a quick patriotic high as some commentators hope? Far from it.

In fact the opposite is true. I saw our great goodwill, our history of compassion and progression. Our ability to come together in faith. I remembered the men and women who gave their lives by the million so that we could be free. I remembered a nation that rejected Fascism and slavery and exploitation simply because they were wrong.

The rosy cheeked, well fed guests were symbols. At best they were benevolent philanthropists, at worst they were the exploiters. The grey men from history who told us we were "All in it together" as they marched our sons off to pointless wars. The Lords and Ladies who lived in unimaginable wealth while their subjects died of starvation and cold, the barrel-fat clergy, tipsy on the fat of their flock.

These were the vested interests, these were the status quo. These were the cream of our public schools and the future of our Parliament.

And still I will suspend disbelief and wave a little flag, raise a glass to the happy couple and smile with benign good wishes.

The British people I recognise have "Fair Play" running through their bones. They rejected slavery, fought apartheid, toppled Nazism and introduced a welfare state that is the envy of the world. They hate cheats and will not stand by as their greatest triumph is abused, but neither will they allow that safety net to be pulled away. The good men and women lining the Mall in the spring breeze believe instinctively in protecting the vulnerable.

On the 11th May they will see thousands of sick and disabled people march or wheel or hobble past Parliament, protesting at the effective removal of support that gives their lives dignity. They will see the forgotten, the dispossessed and the truly vulnerable in all their glorious pageantry. They will hear these people tell them that they are being left behind, that they are frightened and feel under attack. They will hear the disabled child explain that her hospice is closing, the cancer patient tell her story of being found "fit for work". They will hear that far from being protected, these people are bearing the brunt of the cuts in order that an Abbey full of privilege can suggest they eat cake.

It's quite the contrast and that British fair play, so stirred and strengthened by yesterday's pomp has never knowingly turned it's back