The Bayeux Tapestry is coming to London, and the British Museum has promised world-class security for its 900-year-old threads. One assumes this means no more toga-clad pillaging. The museum’s director, a man whose glasses are thicker than his patience, assured the press that ‘nothing has been left to chance.’ This is, of course, the same institution that once lost a priceless Greek pot to a janitor’s dustpan.
The tapestry, which tells the story of 1066 in a series of violent needlepoint vignettes, will be displayed behind glass so thick that William the Conqueror himself would struggle to smash it with a battle-axe. The security measures include laser tripwires, motion sensors, and a man in a tweed jacket who will glare at anyone breathing too loudly.
‘We have learned from our mistakes,’ the director said, his voice dripping with the false bravado of a man who once misplaced a Roman coin collection. ‘This is the most valuable textile in Western civilisation. It will be protected by state-of-the-art technology and a team of highly trained guards.’
But let us be honest. The Bayeux Tapestry is not a textile. It is a 70-metre-long comic strip about power, greed, and bad hairstyles. And if the British Museum thinks it can stop a determined Frenchman with a pair of scissors and a grudge, it has not been paying attention to history.
The museum has also announced that the tapestry will be displayed in a new wing designed by an architect who specialises in panic rooms. The room will have reinforced walls, a biometric lock, and a panic button that triggers a synchronised drowning of all Bordeaux in the vicinity.
‘But what about the real threat?’ I asked the director, my notebook trembling with gin-induced prophecy. ‘What about the tourists who will photograph the tapestry with their tablets, holding them aloft like medieval votive offerings? What about the schoolchildren who will sneeze on it? What about the sheer existential weight of facing a 900-year-old needlepoint? Will it survive our collective attention?’
The director sighed. He has the weary look of a man who has spent his career explaining to journalists that no, the Elgin Marbles are not going back to Greece, and yes, the museum shop sells a very nice pencil case. ‘We have thought of everything,’ he said.
He has not. I have it on good authority that the security guard assigned to the graveyard shift is a man named Dave who faints at the sight of blood. And the tapestry contains quite a bit of blood, if you look closely.
So let us gather in London and gaze upon the Bayeux Tapestry. Let us marvel at its stitches and its scheming. And let us pray that the only thing stolen is our breath.
