End of Empire
’T’was so many years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play; they been going in and outa style, but they’re guaranteed to leave in style.
The end of the British Empire, reportedly brought about by the withering of windsor importance, is now underway.
CCB recently enhanced the news in netfixed nuance. Now we morph to the virtual making of modern myth: the virtue part gets vexed, laid low by a slow killing of kamelot in the low-glow of virtual video.
In the earliest known episode, Death by a thousand cigarettes drives nails into the coffin of the king. His stilted speech is presented as mythic tragedy, soon to be followed by an unexpectedly long Elizabethan rerun reign: sixty-plus years! which is now being pseudo-documented in entertainment history.
Netfixed fiction delivers thereby virtual vereality into millions of couch-potato hearts and minds, a history lesson like no other.
By’n by in the ‘flix, along comes Diana, mythic goddess of the moon; she eclipses royal brilliance with her camelot-like innocence, only to be echoed decades later by Meg the magnificent, bearing poor little rich color boy as the world snoops to conquer a once and future kingdom.
So we watch, spellbound, while monarchic mystery melts away, by virtual videolity, conducted with opratic virtuosity and myth-making mastery, accompanied by great leaps and bounds of tweeting terpitude.
In the long run, royal ruin makes fodder for modern myth, brought forth in faux-factual netfixed fiction. The vid-queen and her future heir apparent kings bequeath faux-royal amusement to the masses, who have nothing better to do at night than to dutifully lap up netfixed nuance so it will leap past amazonic vastness and hulu vudu . . . all made possible by the amazing longevity of the spinster of Westminster.
Not far away, we find citizen-queen in her own dreams Eleanor Videobe. She’s at home in her humble flat; she puts on the facebuk she keeps in a phone by the door. Who is it for? Ah, look at all the lonely people, where do they all belong?Eleanor Videobe.
Meanwhile, back at the blanche, the sun sets on the Empire and on their American red-headed stepchild. We can see plainly now that, as Sir Ringo once alluded, this is, forsooth, not your father’s Oldsmobile! It has morphed to something else entirely.
You never really know how things will turn out in this bloomin’ life. Obladee obladah life goes on, blah, lala how the life goes on. Maybe now we’ll learn of who the Walrus really was. We do know this much: As Sir John intimated long ago, dead men wear no shoes, but demising empires do put on video series-es, (as Gollum might say.) Furthermore, as Sir Paul once sang: the undertaker breathed a heavy sigh. Now we know the sun is indeed setting on the Empire. Wave goodbye. She’s leaving home, bye bye!
Wave byebye to the king and queen. Methinks mean Mr. Mustard hath done them in. It was, however, an incredibly long run! Cheerio! Keep your chins up and the stiff upper lip. The king is dead; long live the king!