Boaty McBoatface: A Eulogy
In loving memory of the last British hero
“tHe WiLL oF tHe PeOpLe”
It’s April, 2016. Nobody has been forced (yet) to utter the words “President Trump” but it’s only a matter of time, and Brexit looms large — only a few weeks to go now until the referendum. The corpse of an old friend is about to be thrown into the waves. You never met that friend. Nobody ever did. He never knew you existed. But for a few weeks he mattered to you, because one day you felt something, and felt it enough to give him a name: Boaty McBoatface.
It won’t be a totally unceremonious funeral. There will be a certain lifeless maritime dignity to it, as the cadaver is sent on its way by a well-dressed dignitary smashing a champagne bottle into the steely backside of his remains. Whichever weak-chinned skeleton they pick for the ceremony will declare “I name this ship Tory McSourface” (no offence, Sir David Attenborough) in the reedy, nasal tone of someone who isn’t used to projecting their voice in a strong coastal breeze. They’ll try to make up for that when they add “may God bless her and all who sail in her,” but the deeper voice they try to affect won’t really convince anyone, and so they’ll clap and cheer to smother the awkwardness.
This little coup is all about the pride of a nation
