From what I saw of it, the Queen’s funeral was everything folks probably thought it should be—steeped in tradition and formality, regular close-ups of the Crown Jewels, the tolling of Big Ben on the minute. The somber looks, the Royal Family in tow behind the caisson, the ever-present soap-operatic undercurrents, the streets lined 50-deep with mourners and onlookers and curiosity seekers; wondering if any of the military personnel would get out of step or keel over from top-heaviness or heat exhaustion, marveling at the stamina of the band members.
It really was a spectacle, impressive mainly for its duration and choreographed precision. It seemed to unfold as planned and, admittedly, was rather impressive, fitting for a reign that may never be matched again, at least in terms of longevity.
Not bad for a figurehead with little political power, and who, apparently, paid no taxes on a fortune that’s estimated to be in excess of a billion dollars and now in the hands of King Charles III, who seems to be a bit of a dour chap. To say the least.