Over the summer I thought I would keep a digital scrapbook of the way the Diamond Jubilee and the Olympics are being used in the media.
I will label these "Jubilympics" (from one of the funniest episodes of the comedy Twenty-Twelve).
Above: today I am going to look at the latest Co-Op magazine which features bunting on the cover, a promise of recipes for the "Jubilee party feast" and, in the lower left-hand corner, an illustration of "fun Union Jack cupcakes".
Note the subtle red white and blue colours of the cover - very subliminal.
The Co-Op is, as the name implies, a working-class co-operative. More than just a retail organisation it is a social force with fair-trade policies, cradle to grave services (including farms, banks and undertakers), significant donations to charities. It is also a political movement, sponsoring 29 Members of Parliament (they sit on the Labour benches although they are not obliged to).
So you would think that the Co-Op would join the republican miserablists in boycotting the Diamond Jubilee (Miranda Sawyer sneered at bunting in today's Observer; there are plans for a "significant" anti-monarchy demonstration on the side of the Thames next Sunday as the Queen sails past; teachers are reported to be disapproving about children bringing flags to school etc).
Like any major retail organisation the Co-Op must have tested its customers on attitudes to the Diamond Jubilee. And presumably they have received back data that shows the working class Co-Op customers plan to celebrate the Royal event. Hence this celebratory issue of the Co-Op magazine.
Above: double-page spread in the magazine. Look carefully at the right-hand page (you may need to click on the image to enlarge it). It makes a number of assumptions about Co-Op customers. In a fortnight when former Sunday Mirror columnist Carole Malone said that benefits claimants deserve to be burned alive, and Kerry McCarthy MP joked that chav-people should be exterminated, the Co-Op is showing us that working-class families will have access to embroidered table-cloths, cake stands and souvenir Coronation mugs (these mugs are often sneered at by the middle classes). Photoshoots like this are not just thrown together, they are carefully researched and the details matched to the lifestyles of the target audience. Co-Op stores are often located near council estates or in deprived areas - but even the most deprived families will often have items "kept for best" such as a hand-embroidered tablecloth or a Coronation mug kept since 1953.
Above: I have to admit to being rather mystified by the KitKat (or "BritKat" advertisement). The ad tells us it is exclusive to the Co-Op. You would think that if they wanted an exclusive tie-in they would go with one of the big four supermarket chains which would offer them much more sales (does their research tell them they will sell more "royal" chocolate through the C2 and D Co-Op than through the C1 and B Tescos?). Also I was not aware that Nestle used Fairtrade chocolate. Nor was I aware that KitKat held a Royal Warrant, which presumably means the Queen likes them. I would love to see the brief for this ad.
Above: page 20 of the Co-Op magazine caused me a little shock of recognition. Alongside a recipe for Jubilee jam tarts was an illustration of the tarts in a 1953 Coronation biscuit tin. The sight made me go upstairs to a cupboard and bring down our own identical 1953 Coronation tin.
And although my present income takes me way outside the C2 category, not for the first time I thought about the Co-Op: these people are my people.
Sixty years the tin has been in my family, representing sixty years of working-class royalism.
Socialists assume that the working classes are foolish dupes to celebrate the "class and privilege" of the Royal Family. What they overlook is that families living in poverty are often starving. Perhaps not literally starving (although in the early 1950s food was still rationed). But starved of romance, starved of colour, starved of kindly words and gestures and fellow feelings that come from frivolous communal events. Starved of belonging to a wider community. And perhaps overwhelmed that anyone in the elite should promise to devote their whole life to the service of the ordinary people.
I will label these "Jubilympics" (from one of the funniest episodes of the comedy Twenty-Twelve).
Above: today I am going to look at the latest Co-Op magazine which features bunting on the cover, a promise of recipes for the "Jubilee party feast" and, in the lower left-hand corner, an illustration of "fun Union Jack cupcakes".
Note the subtle red white and blue colours of the cover - very subliminal.
The Co-Op is, as the name implies, a working-class co-operative. More than just a retail organisation it is a social force with fair-trade policies, cradle to grave services (including farms, banks and undertakers), significant donations to charities. It is also a political movement, sponsoring 29 Members of Parliament (they sit on the Labour benches although they are not obliged to).
So you would think that the Co-Op would join the republican miserablists in boycotting the Diamond Jubilee (Miranda Sawyer sneered at bunting in today's Observer; there are plans for a "significant" anti-monarchy demonstration on the side of the Thames next Sunday as the Queen sails past; teachers are reported to be disapproving about children bringing flags to school etc).
Like any major retail organisation the Co-Op must have tested its customers on attitudes to the Diamond Jubilee. And presumably they have received back data that shows the working class Co-Op customers plan to celebrate the Royal event. Hence this celebratory issue of the Co-Op magazine.
Above: double-page spread in the magazine. Look carefully at the right-hand page (you may need to click on the image to enlarge it). It makes a number of assumptions about Co-Op customers. In a fortnight when former Sunday Mirror columnist Carole Malone said that benefits claimants deserve to be burned alive, and Kerry McCarthy MP joked that chav-people should be exterminated, the Co-Op is showing us that working-class families will have access to embroidered table-cloths, cake stands and souvenir Coronation mugs (these mugs are often sneered at by the middle classes). Photoshoots like this are not just thrown together, they are carefully researched and the details matched to the lifestyles of the target audience. Co-Op stores are often located near council estates or in deprived areas - but even the most deprived families will often have items "kept for best" such as a hand-embroidered tablecloth or a Coronation mug kept since 1953.
Above: I have to admit to being rather mystified by the KitKat (or "BritKat" advertisement). The ad tells us it is exclusive to the Co-Op. You would think that if they wanted an exclusive tie-in they would go with one of the big four supermarket chains which would offer them much more sales (does their research tell them they will sell more "royal" chocolate through the C2 and D Co-Op than through the C1 and B Tescos?). Also I was not aware that Nestle used Fairtrade chocolate. Nor was I aware that KitKat held a Royal Warrant, which presumably means the Queen likes them. I would love to see the brief for this ad.
Above: page 20 of the Co-Op magazine caused me a little shock of recognition. Alongside a recipe for Jubilee jam tarts was an illustration of the tarts in a 1953 Coronation biscuit tin. The sight made me go upstairs to a cupboard and bring down our own identical 1953 Coronation tin.
And although my present income takes me way outside the C2 category, not for the first time I thought about the Co-Op: these people are my people.
Sixty years the tin has been in my family, representing sixty years of working-class royalism.
Socialists assume that the working classes are foolish dupes to celebrate the "class and privilege" of the Royal Family. What they overlook is that families living in poverty are often starving. Perhaps not literally starving (although in the early 1950s food was still rationed). But starved of romance, starved of colour, starved of kindly words and gestures and fellow feelings that come from frivolous communal events. Starved of belonging to a wider community. And perhaps overwhelmed that anyone in the elite should promise to devote their whole life to the service of the ordinary people.





























