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.

Beer beer beer

Stopping in at the Adnams 'cellar and home' shop at Holkham, I had a revelation. When wandering the 'cellar' part (much more interesting, there is only so much excitement one can summon for napkins, while beer, wine and gin is a source of constant delight) I saw that their idea of preparing for Christmas was to try and flog more beer.

Rather than try the genius marketing trick I have always favoured when justifying loading the supermarket trolly to the point when the back axle is dragging along the floor of wondering aloud 'do I want to be forever remembered as the host of the party where the booze ran out?' (now though, with the 'Shed Red' sitting maturing in a cupboard, I fear being the host who's guests we reduced to drinking the home brew), they go for the straightforward 'a keg and a tray, it's the Adnams party way'.

That's right, a keg and a tray. Not a keg. Not a tray. A keg and a tray! I am now gravely concerned that without a keg and a tray, I won't be able to party the Adnams way, which I presume means falling asleep pissed behind the sofa at some point.

I have always rather liked kegs, one has has that fabulous need to finish the damn thing on the same night that it is tapped, or it loses fizz or turns to slurry or something. I suppose it harks back to when we had sensible licensing hours and drinking against the clock was a real and valued skill.

Also, one can get several kegs and pretend to be a landlord. Is their anything quite so satisfying as barring one of your own mates?

Postcard from Norfolk – Hoste party

The Hoste pre-pre-pre-pre (sounds like the call of a sand warbler) Christmas party is, essentially, a glamorous way to bridge the gap between sitting outside getting hammered on wine and sitting by a cosy fire inside getting hammered on gin. Last year the party was to raise money for Burnham Market's Christmas lights, and nothing sends people to the bar as regularly as drinking in a good cause. This year there was no good cause, but there was drinking and there was a theme.

And the theme was: old and new. The middle class, middle aged folk had arrived in good time to sensibly secure seats as far as possible from the excellent live music so that they could converse and drink freely. The younger crowd, who appeared to be local girls in spray-on dresses, stood around in groups listening attentively to the live singer, drinking blue cider and waiting until the DJ started before heading to the dance floor to bop enthusiastically to the sort of music they play on Radio 2, but played LOUD! I love a disco in a village, nothing appears quite so loud, not a metal festival, not an accident in a bell foundry, not the sort of seismic event that causes birds on the neighbouring continent to take flight. The music was pleasingly thumping and set off feedback howl in the hearing aids of the older folk.

This was also the first night to get some patio heater practice in. Patio heater proximity placement is something of an art, and one I have not mastered. Essentially one has to stand so near them to get any benefit that simply by turning your head towards them you can light your fag, while the side facing away is simultaneously chilled by being on the dark side of the patio heater.

Folk had dressed up for the evening, and I saw my first pair of cashmere shorts on a live person. Hitherto, I had only seen them displayed on mannequins in shop windows. Leggy mannequins, long mannequins. The lady who had chosen to wear them was not, I fear, what the designer had in mind; a tall teen with one of those sets of legs that don't touch until they connect at the pelvis. Shall we just say 'brave' and leave it at that.

Also wearing shorts, small silver ones, were the male staff of the Hoste, who joined in the fun on the dance floor and shook their thang with the guests. It was very much last days of Rome meets disco.

All in all a corking night. Disco, drinking, shorts and, also, shots. Last year the jelly vodka shots were a pound a shot and handed round by girls in Vegas showgirl costumes. This year there was no money raising so instead they were arranged in a pyramid shape, dozens and dozens of vodka jelly shots available for free, and because they were free, nobody was touching them - or maybe it was because they were not being handed round by Vegas showgirls. Once you've been handed your vodka jelly shot by a Vegas showgirl, it's very difficult to go back to having to serve yourself. Difficult but, I can assure you, not impossible - and it gets easier with practice.

Reflections on the royal wedding - parties

There was, in the next street along, an honest to God street party, with tables and bunting and a sound system and everything. It actually sounded quite fun especially when, after it had being going for some time and they were getting ready to wind down for the evening, a somewhat refreshed housewife invited everyone back to hers to continue the festivities.

Our own party was a somewhat smaller but no less restrained affair in the back garden. The correct effect was achieved by stringing Union Flag bunting around the garden shed. The garden shed is perhaps the greatest symbol of Britishness there is, and the same can be said of the Union Flag. Combining them more or less went most of the way to restoring the British Empire to greatness, as a bunting bedecked shed stood proud as the greatest symbol of what it is to be British and alive under a perfect sky. Truly a day to pity republicans.