Once more the press is awash with Corbyn hysteria. Almost every media outlet is full of ringing declarations of pompous outrage that the new Leader of the Opposition - a long-time republican, like many people in our society, and, I would guess, almost certainly  an atheist -could not bring himself to sing "God save our gracious queen, God save our noble queen etc, etc". As an internationalist, Corbyn would probably find the whole idea of an anthem celebrating the uniqueness of the English problematic.  It would have been an obvious hypocrisy for him to have sung merrily along, though actually there is nothing merry about our national dirge, and, of course, he would have been lambasted for this had he done so. This is a problem that all those of us who have the same opinions face on many occasions, but we are not in the media spotlight in the way that Mr. Corbyn is, and there is an argument that he might have been wiser to play by the rules and avoid the childish outcry that now consumes the corporate media. But, as I have said, that too would have provoked similar spurious outrage, and to stick to one's principles, in the long run, is the more courageous option. 
 One of the problems here is the nature of our national anthem. We only ever sing the first verse which has nothing to say about the specific qualities of Britain as a nation, identifies nothing that all can agree upon as something to celebrate, but is simply a eulogy to the monarchy, an institution that divides as much as unites. If you are not a monarchist, then how can you possibly sing it ? Best to remain silent, with dignity, as Corbyn did. To be anti-monarchist is not the same as being unpatriotic. One of the ways in which patriotism can be shown is in the demand for a more fair, equal and just society. 
 A later verse in our anthem proclaims: 
"Not in this land alone,
But be God's mercies known, 
From shore to shore! 
Lord make the nations see, 
That men should brothers be, 
And form one family, 
The wide world ov'er  
This is never sung, but there may be something here that is less troubling to the democratic republican mind as long as the 'family' referred to is not a euphemism for empire.
 Compare our anthem to the Welsh 'Land of my Fathers', which, unusually, largely celebrates the beauty of the Welsh landscape and Welsh culture expressed through the language. More conventionally, there is the Scottish 'Flower of Scotland', celebrating a decisive moment in Scottish history - victory over the English. And, of course, The Marseillaise, the French anthem, a stirring tune from the Revolutionary  period, but full of images of violence and bloodshed and, originally,  a rallying cry for war against the Austrians. The problem with all anthems is that they demand an abandonment of thought, questioning and nuance in the bullying requirement to capitulate to an emotive and unproblematic patriotism. If you are reluctant to do this, you will be abused, condemned and even threatened, a response more associated with fascism than a tolerant democracy.

Back in the late 1950's, there was also a problem with our national dirge. Although we still lived in what can only be described as poverty, if my mother ever had enough money to do so, she would take us to the cinema in Bromley on a Friday evening. These were rare treats that I still remember as the highlights of my childhood. I loved the cinema and have continued to do so throughout my life. In those days you often had to queue for some time to get in, and this only added to the excitement. The art-deco interiors of cinemas were luxurious gateways to exotic and fantastic alternative worlds. My mother, fortunately for me, liked westerns, and I have retained a life-long love of this genre, probably starting with being taken to see 'Shane' with Alan Ladd and the chilling Jack Palance as the black gloved killer. She also liked Marilyn Monroe ( it's often forgotten that she was as much liked by women as men, though for different reasons) and seeing 'Some Like it Hot' is a childhood moment I've never forgotten. To get completely lost in the world depicted on the screen, to escape entirely from mundane reality, was a feeling only otherwise encountered in reading, but the exciting merging  of the individual and collective experience of cinema, made it unique. There is one film that stays in my mind more than any other, and remains on my list of favourite films still. 
The pleasure of film for me then was that it took you to worlds quite apart from your own reality, but some time in my junior school years - either 1959 or 60 - we went to see 'The 400 Blows'. This is a French film (Les Quatre Cents Coups), shot in black and white on a very low budget by Francois Truffaut, and, of course, with sub-titles. My first foreign language film. I had never seen anything like it. This wasn't escape from my world. It was more of an encounter with it. Though shot in Paris, it featured boys I could recognise. Boys who skipped school, got in trouble, had difficult home lives and, finally, were sent to detention centres (borstal as we knew it). And a stunning image of doomed freedom at the end that always stayed in my mind. It had never occurred to me that film could be truthful in this way. The sub-titles didn't matter in the slightest. I was mesmerised from start to finish. Still love this film.
 But back to anthems. People my age will remember that cinemas always finished their last show of the day with a recording of the National Dirge. If you didn't get out in time, you were supposed to stand still right through to the end. To get out before that awful drum roll signalled its beginning was the main aim of most people in the cinema, but, as they were usually packed, it was difficult and you were likely to get stuck mid-row unable to get past those similarly caught, but not liking to show disrespect. Well, this film was so powerful, I was unable to move a as the credits rolled. I was still stunned by what I'd been watching. As we finally got up to leave, the spirit-deadening drum roll began. Most people stopped still where they stood, as did I. My mother, of course, being fiercely anti-monarchist, took absolutely no notice of the niceties expected and dragged us forcibly past the observant customers respectfully standing still. There were frequent comments as we shoved our way through, but my mother pressed on regardless muttering "absolute bloody nonsense" as she went. Corbyn would have approved, I think.