Charles Moore na Spectator

A man I know who is about 60 was sitting on a crowded Tube the other day, when a young woman came and stood in front of him. She had dreadlocks, nose-studs, etc., and a short T-shirt. From where the T-shirt stopped extended a naked stomach that was more than eight months pregnant. He therefore stood up and offered her his seat. She said, ‘F—– off, granddad.’ He says he wasn’t sure which part of her remark he found the more insulting.
For some reason, I found myself juxtaposing this story with my first clear memory of a public event, the funeral of Winston Churchill, which took place 40 years ago this week. My father had an office in Whitehall, and we could look out at the procession. It was bitterly cold, and I was very impressed by the fact that soldiers, standing stock-still along the route, would suddenly fall down in a faint and be dragged silently away by St John Ambulancemen. Every man wore a black tie, and I almost literally mean every one, not just people in the funeral crowd, but people all over the country. There must have been those that day who didn’t notice or care, but they were invisible. This unanimity of mourning suggested to my childish mind not only the greatness of the man mourned, but of the nation that did him this honour. Forty years later, 40 years of freedom and prosperity, and it’s ‘F—– off, granddad.’