Jubalympics

The Duke of Edinburgh, one suspects, had the right idea. When the Auld Trouble flared up (possibly brought on as a result of a pavlovian reaction to once more being in the uniform of a sailor) the old boy enjoyed the jubilee from the comfort of a hospital bed, watching the coverage and self administering morphine whenever Fern Cotton appeared on the screen while being intravenously fed quail puree.

Actually, the Duke did very well to stay upright and show every sign of enjoyment during the river pageant, but then I suppose one of the benefits of being in it was that he didn’t have to watch it. There has been, it’s fair to say, some criticism of the BBC’s coverage but it was always going to be something of a huge ask, making small boats on a large river look interesting without involving sinking any of them. My suggestion would have been to outfit a fleet of peadallows with cannon and other suitable nautical paraphernalia and stick some celebrities in them, after telling them that last man floating gets to be a judge on the next series of Britain’s Got Talent. Seeing Freddie Flintoff bellowing ‘ramming speed’ while bearing down on Bill Oddie would have been a jubilee highlight.

Certainly high and certainly alight were the beacons lit across the land to celebrate the jubilee and, following the latest round of civil defence cuts, test the country’s new invasion early warning system. The beacon was lit on top of the Malvern Hills and, rumour has it, the last revellers trotted down the hill about four in the morning. Like the faces of anyone standing too close to the beacon thinking it is essentially an enormous patio heater, one suspects that the Queen was thoroughly toasted.

Being allergic to, and suspicious of, organised fun, I planned to take refuge from street parties and bunting by dodging into the RA and taking a peek at the Summer Exhibition. The RA is, of course, on Picadilly. Which was closed off. For a street party. Apparently Prince Charles and Camilla were there, sitting at a trestle table, chatting with the locals and presumably hoping that none of their ‘neighbours’ would try and borrow their groundskeeper of whatever the royal equivalent of a strimmer is.






If you wanted to eat like a Prince then for seven quid you could buy yourself The Highgrove Burger (eight quid for Highgrove Burger with bacon) from the Fortnum and Mason burger bar, situated next to their champagne bar. For me the burger bar didn’t quite hit the right note. The chefs lacked the easygoing confidence that you find in the proprietor of a proper roadside burger bar, who is able to maintain a relaxed calm while a seldom cleaned grill simultaneously spits fat and flame at him and the large canister of gas under the counter. It might have been posh but it lacked charm. It didn’t lack customers, well heeled locals in their Hunter wellies and wax jackets ate their pricy burgers and washed it down with plastic flutes of champers. I suppose if you had to celebrate the jubilee anywhere, somewhere within easy reach of quality beef, fizz and heir was the place to do it.


On the train home the train was full of people who had been to the river pageant and it was then that things took a very un-British turn as strangers took up conversations with one another. It was easy to see who had been to the pageant, as they were all damp and they all had Union Flags with the ‘Hello’ magazine logo on them wrapped round them. The carriage looked like a celebrity endorsed BNP rally. What people were keen to tell you was that it hadn’t rained much and that the event was fantastic. It’s true that these folk did have a better time than most, as they didn’t have to suffer Fern Cotton.

The concert? Didn’t really watch it. Much, I imagine, like the Duke, who at that point was probably acting as all unsupervised husbands do, which means that any day now DVD box sets from Amazon of classic telly will arrive at the Palace.