Like you, I suppose, despite a frantic scrabble I was unable to find the 'do-flicker-thingie' that changes the channels on the TV the other day when Sky News dwelt with vicarious curiosity on the horrible sight of a huge gathering of hideously ugly weirdoes and some of our most famous druggies accompanied, of course, with surely our most famous black, celebrity diamond-collector of all times. I actually paused in my efforts to peer under my armchair looking for that damned device when the commentary told me that these apparent escapees from The Rocky Horror Show were actually intending to enter not just a church but one of the premier churches in our nation! The reason for this invasion of what looked like body-snatchers was to celebrate the life of "a frock designer" who committed suicide. I intended to Bore for Britain on the subject but terminal tedium set in at the thought of composing anything much longer than two words ending in "off" but I have returned to the subject because an Aussie, made of sterner stuff than me, has now said all that needs to be said. Hal Colebatch in The American Spectator captured the essence of the matter, thus:
The latest milestone in Britain's government-sponsored deliquium is a service at St. Paul's Cathedral to celebrate the life of Alexander McQueen, a frock designer who committed suicide by hanging himself. He had made a great deal of money and like many degenerates, he was fascinated by skulls.
St. Paul Cathedral! This, where a procession of fashion-freaks and coke-snorters trooped, had previously seen the funerals of, among others, Nelson, the Duke of Wellington and Sir Winston Churchill. It was the site of the Jubliee celebrations for Queen Victoria and services marking the end of the first and second world wars. [...]
In the bombing of London in 1940 its dome, even more than Westminster Abbey, photographed apparently standing alone in a sea of fire as the bombs fell, was a tangible reminder that what the Poles called "last hope island" was the last hope in Europe of not merely civilization but what Churchill called "Christian civilization," and that though it was standing alone, it stood yet.
Happily, as Colebatch reminds us:
We have certainly come a long way since suicides were buried in unconsecrated ground, at night, with a stake in them. Suicide is still however, officially regarded in the Christian church as a great sin and an insult to God, throwing His gift of life back in His face.
That bastion, nay, that rock of Christian rectitude who masquerades as the Archbishop of Canterbury has absolutely firm views on suicides:
"Do I have a right to die? Religious believers answer for themselves that they do not. For a believer to say: 'The time could come when I find myself in a situation that has no meaning, and I reserve the right to end my life in such a situation,' would be to say that there is some aspect of human life where God cannot break through. It would be to say that when I as an individual can no longer give meaning to my life, it has no value, and human dignity is best served by ending it."
So you would think after that that he might take a rather strong line about glorifying a suicide in one of the greatest churches of the land, but as Colebatch suggests, slyly:
Presumably, however, money is an effective lubricant.
Yes, I think that about sums it up.
The 'luvvies' all loved him, and since the Anglican Church is at best ambivalent on homosexuals within their own ranks, they have no problem whatsoever with 'pooftas' in the general population.
As for his so-called designs, my Father could design better, and his last job before retiring was building industrial saws.
Posted by: Mike Cunningham | Friday, 24 September 2010 at 11:26
It's not the homsexual bit that snagged Holebatch, or me, come to that, but the fact that he broke one of the main tenets of Christianity by committing suicide - and then gets a memorial service in St. Paul's! I wonder what it cost?
Posted by: David Duff | Saturday, 25 September 2010 at 10:45