Charlie Brooker Wednesday 25 March 2015
For somebody who did less for Britain than, say, Olly Murs, we’re making a dreadful fuss of our late monarch
Richard III … he's no Olly Murs. Photograph: Alamy
Who’s your favourite dead king? For me it’s a toss-up between King Henry VIII (likes: Greensleeves, beheadings) and Nat King Cole (likes: chestnuts roasting on an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your nose). Those are definitely my top two.
Below them, there’s King Kong, King George III, Good King Wenceslas, and about 500 other assorted types of king before you get to Richard III. Never warmed to him. Don’t know why. I’ve just never really been into Richard III. Maybe it’s his Savile-esque haircut, or the fact that his name is widely used as rhyming slang for faecal matter, or just the way he’s routinely depicted as a murderous, scheming cross between Mr Punch and Quasimodo; a panto villain with nephews’ blood on his hands.
But he’s not without his fans. At the time of writing, thousands of citizens are voluntarily queuing for up to four hours outside Leicester Cathedral just to look at a wooden box with his remains in it. They wouldn’t do that for Rihanna.
He’s lying in state until Thursday, when he’ll get buried for the second time. The second time! Because one funeral isn’t good enough for Richard, no. Apparently he needs two, the diva. Even Liberace was content with just one.
Well we can’t be doing with two funerals. Not in Austerity Britain. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the country’s up against it right now. We’re mired in debt, there’s an election on, the cold war’s simmering again, people are running off to Syria, and what are we doing? Burying a king from the middle ages. While A&E units are shut down or shat on, we’re expected to tug our forelocks and gaze at our shoes, whispering King Richard’s name with hushed reverence as the funeral cortege rolls by, accompanied by people dressed as knights and minstrels and giant turnips. No. No. We can hardly slag off Isis for being medieval when we’ve voluntarily turned the news into a bonus episode of Wolf Hall.
What did Richard III ever contribute to Britain? He reigned for two years, had his arse kicked at the battle of Bosworth Field, and spent the next 52 decades in a petulant dead sulk, lounging around doing dick all for anyone. Where was he during the great fire of London? Or the Jack the Ripper murders? Or the second world war? Or the 2007 Celebrity Big Brother race row? When his subjects were crying out for guidance, where was King Richard? Relaxing in the ground, enjoying an indulgent rot in his VIP car park. Just because you qualify for a disabled bay, doesn’t mean you get to hog it for 500 years.
Even the most dedicated historian would agree – would run across a motorway to agree – that Richard III has contributed less to Great Britain than, say, Adam Woodyatt. Or Olly Murs. Where are the statues of Murs? The portraits? The tapestries? OK, so they probably exist, somewhere, in the attic of a demented fan – but that’s not the point. Despite standing accused of nephew murder twice over and being dead for 500 years, King Richard is enjoying way more fawning press than Murs right now, just because he had blue blood in his veins. Not any more. He doesn’t even have veins. Or eyes. Or kneecaps. He’s rubbish. Yet still it’s all, “Ooh, isn’t King Richard brilliant” and, “Ahh, what an honour to witness this moment of history.” Jesus wept. Just climb in the coffin and kiss him, why don’t you?
Surely it’s time to make King Richard pay his dues. We’re often told the royals are good for the country because they raise our international profile and encourage tourism – so we should be wringing every penny out of Richard III. We’re not even burying him during tourist season. We’re missing a trick here. Several tricks in fact.
Why rebury him once? Why not make it a regular event, like the changing of the guard? Dig him up at the start of each month, bury the individual bones at random beauty spots around the country, and turn it into a treasure hunt for tourists. Follow the clues on an accompanying app; see if you can locate his skull. Congratulations! It was hidden in a bin behind Oblivion at Alton Towers. Now track down his elbow. Then his pelvis. First to find six bones receives 20% off their B&B bill and a family-size jar of Marmite.
Actually, why rebury him at all? He’ll only go missing again. We should lace his bones together and turn him into a great big marionette. Have him dance to Uptown Funk on Ant and Dec’s Saturday Night Takeaway, then send him on a tour of the country, where he can perform jigs in market squares. Toss a coin at him to make him dance faster; manage to get one through his eye socket and you’ll win a balloon. All proceeds to the NHS.
That won’t happen of course. We’re far too reverential; even though he died so long ago he basically doesn’t register in the imagination as a real person any more. They might as well be burying the Gruffalo for all I care.
Still, at least maybe this time they’ll be smart enough to bury him with a name badge nailed to his ribs – or maybe a baseball cap with his initials on it – so when some poor sod digs him up again in 500 years’ time, they won’t have to carbon-date his bones in a holographic TV special just to find out who he is. The hoity-toity dead old prick.
