Dodi and Di

Not really a stand alone piece, this one; I wrote it for inclusion in something else.  But it's inspired by the picture!

I was thirteen when the Paris tunnel crash happened.  I was a teenage boy: I couldn’t have given a flying fuck about Diana or Dodi or any of that crap.  But there was something palpable in the air the day the news broke – like something so profound had happened, the world would never be the same again.  The radio didn’t play any decent music for about a week, out of respect for the dead.  That really pissed me off at the time.

My dad said that the media coverage reminded him of when England won the World Cup – there was a feeling of collective emotion.  The event was so big, it formed a connection between people.  And my dad’s a raving socialist; he can’t stand the Royal Family.

I didn’t get it.  The funeral, with the carpet of flowers, was like watching a film.  Quite sad, I supposed, but just a poignant piece of fiction – there was nothing for me to relate to.  And later, when Mohammed Al Fayed kicked up the massive fuss and started spouting conspiracy theories and ranting about the royal family to anyone who would listen, I simply felt slight contempt.  Even my young teenage self knew that he was embarrassing himself, making himself look foolish.  Yes, he’d lost a child, but why couldn’t he grieve with dignity?  I remember saying quite scathingly during a form time debate (Miss Hanrahan was keen on covering current affairs), he just needs to maintain some self-respect.  He needs to man-up.  All this, at thirteen.

God, I was a little cock.





PSK