Mr Gawber was asleep. He had the elderly commuter’s habit of being able to sleep without shifting position; sleep took him and embalmed him lightly like a touch of sadness he would soon shake off. He was dreaming of having tea with the Queen in Buckingham Palace. Jammed in the corner, the standing passengers’ coats brushing his head, the lunchbox of the shirtless man next to him nudging his thigh, he dreamed. Around him, travellers slapped and shook their evening papers, but Mr Gawber slept on. The Queen suddenly smiled and leaned forwards and plucked open the front of her dress. Her full breasts tumbled out and Mr Gawber put his head between them and sobbed with shame and relief. They were so cool; and he felt her nipples against his ears. The Family Arsenal, Paul Theroux, 1976.
These posters and framed photos were found in a western suburbs bin this week. On the eve of the Diamond Jerbilee, they were throwing out the icons: what does it mean?
Keep calm, and off with their heads!