TO Ann Street in Embra, one of the few places in Scotia to hold a Diamond Jubilee soiree.
One resident, over-eager to parade her hoi polloi credentials, told the (Buckingham Palace) Times, that she'd bought her outfit at Primark. What she didn't say is that her tiara came from Hamilton & Inches.
Apparently, the Queen Mum thought Ann Street was so gorgeous she insisted cabbies drive through it en route to Holyrood. Or so we're apocryphally led to believe. I tend to think that the rumour was spread by one of the notorious street's residents in the hope that it might bump up the price of their property. Be that as it may, I am reliably informed that catering for the soiree was not done by Greggs, not out of snobbery, but because they are yet to receive a Royal Warrant (for their arrest).
In my own bailiwick no-one seems to have entered into the jingoistic spirit evident in the Deep South. I bumped into a dear friend heading for our club and asked if he would be toasting HRH. The look he gave me is perhaps best described as treasonous.
THE Royal British Broadcasting Corporation is getting pelters for making a shemozzle of you-know-what. According to Disgruntled of Sodding Fishcakes, it ruined what ought to have been an unforgettable experience and must be made to reshoot it all or else.
One poor reporter is berated for referring to Queen Tupperware as Her Royal Highness when, as every asbo-holder knows, it ought to be Her Majesty. The reporter was last seen being taken to the Tower where he was made to watch It's A Royal Knockout in slo-mo until he pleaded for mercy.
Another unfortunate fellow, who probably doesn't even own a dinghy, has been given an ear-bashing for pointing his camera "downstairs" on a boat when even I know it should be "below deck".
None, however, deserves our opprobrium more than Alan Titmarsh, a gardener who is not afraid to put his name on compost. Ever hopeful of a wee honour, he fronted a programme of sickening sycophancy on ITV called Elizabeth: Queen, Wife, Mother, in which various royals were asked to throw up over him. Gratifyingly, they did.
SOMETHING odd seems to come over folk when confronted with royalty. Grown men scrape and bow and women curtsey, even when their knees are quaking like blancmange. Meanwhile every fleeting encounter with Queen Tupperware is elevated in significance until she assumes the mantle of a deity.
"Thank you," says Michael Palin-the-Bum, "for being a very important part of my life over all the years and for keeping a cool head in difficult times."
"I would just like to say," chirrups David Beckham, "from me, Victoria and our whole family and the whole country, congratulations, Your Majesty." The whole country?
Then there is Barbara Windsor, who has never been the same since her bra snapped in Carry On Camping. "Thank you, Ma'am, for being you [as if she has any alternative!], and looking after us all these years. God bless." And help us!
MUCH ado has been made of the fact that HRH has spent 60 years on the throne – not, of course, literally. More than one nutty pundit has argued that her example is justification of the hereditary principle. We – that's the woyal "we" – see where they're coming from. It is, however, fortunate for monarchists that she's neither mad nor bad as so many of her predecessors were. Indeed, she is something of an exception. Most kings had so many screws loose they kept a Pozidrive in their crowns.
But if the monarchy can be hereditary, why can't it be extended into other spheres? I seem to recall that it was once mooted in Italy to allow jobs in the state railway company, Trenitalia, to be passed from one generation to the next. Hereabouts the same often pertains although we – that's the unroyal "we" – know it as nepotism.
A wifie, havering on the radio, says that when she met Queen Tupperware she was struck by how "ordinary" she was. This appeared to please her, "ordinary" apparently being one of the highest compliments you can pay someone who is distinctly unordinary.
In what sense, one wonders, did the wifie think HRH is ordinary? She wears clothes, talks a language most of us can understand, and has a lumpen love of animals. She may have other things in common with truly ordinary folk. For example, she watches television, which is a pretty ordinary thing to do. But the more one thinks about it the more extraordinary it is to describe the Queen as ordinary. Moreover, were she really ordinary would anyone be at all interested in her?
The fact is we do not know very much about her apart from what we're allowed to know. Biographies of her seem not to be about a person but an idea, an emblem or a pet lover. She herself remains a mystery. The one person who did reveal what she is like, her former nanny Marion "Crawfie" Crawford, was sent to Siberia, or possibly Deeside, her name never again to be uttered in the woyal presence. Crawfie was ordinary and, boy, was she made to pay for it.
WATCHING the royal "team" waving limply from the balcony at Buck House, I was struck by how similar they were to the late Kim Il Sung and his entourage. The similarities between North Korea and Little Britain did not end there. There was, for instance, the sycophantic uniformity of the crowd, every member of which seemed to be reading from a script dictated by a vindictive despot. Then there was the overbearing presence of the military and the RAF fly-past, all of which was redolent of a regime that defies change. Finally, there came the concert, beamed brutally into every home in the land, featuring knights of the realm, such as Sir Cliff, Sir Elton and Sir Paul, the last-mentioned looking spookily like Ken Dodd.
Unlike the aforementioned Mr Beckham, I cannot of course speak for the whole nation. But please tell me I was not alone in thinking that this was not something that should be repeated very often, if ever again.
SAID Tony Bliar of the Queen: "What I found to be her most surprising attribute is how streetwise she is." How would he know?
'Sir' Alan Titchmarsh knows the quick way into Buckingham Palace
The RAF fly-past added a lovely military touch to the Jubilee party
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