I blame the scapegoats by John O'Farrell Page B

III,
for example, ruled for fifty-six years but his Golden Jubilee was a complete
flop.
    'Henry the Third?' they said. 'Erm, now which
one's that then? 'Cos Henry the Fifth is Agincourt, isn't he, and Henry the
Eighth is six wives and all that, so Henry the Third - is he the one with the
hump who killed the princes in the tower? No, that can't be right. . .' Charles
I was just approaching his Silver Jubilee when the committee arranging the
festivities decided it might be more fun to chop his head off. And then all the
jubilee mugs had to be repainted with just the stump of his neck showing. Other
royal celebrations were an even bigger washout: 'King Ethelred, have you made
all the preparations for the street party?' 'Oh my god, is that today? I
haven't even thought about it yet. . .'
    And
now, in the twenty-first century, we are all supposed to dash out into the
street, introduce ourselves to the neighbours we've never met before and
organize a spontaneous community knees-up. Street parties are a strange
concept. You spend years telling your kids not to step out onto the road,
nearly yanking their arms off if they so much as put one foot off the pavement.
And then you plonk the kitchen table in the middle of the street and tell them
to eat their lunch there.
    'What are you crying
for, darling?'
    'I'm scared! It feels
wrong!' stammers the terrified child.
    'Don't be silly. Now come on, eat up before
the table gets clamped!' (And then the following week her big brother wanders out
of Burger King chomping on a Whopper and the parents say, 'How revolting!
Eating your lunch in the middle of the street! Honestly, dear, can't you eat
that indoors)
    Street parties, like the royal family, are
just a bit out of fashion. Of course it is not so long since 'Palace' was the
soap opera of the moment. In the 1980s we had royal weddings, even more royal
babies and Diana and Fergie perfectly reflected the good taste and intellectual
rigour of the age. But suddenly the fairy tale went into reverse and the
princes turned into toads. Windsor Castle burned down after granny left her
vests drying on the paraffin heater and Princess Anne got divorced, prompting a
bitter court battle over custody of the horses.
    So this year does present us with a wonderful
anniversary. It is ten years since the annus horribilis, which
is not some weird condition you develop from sitting on the throne for too
long, but was the Queen's own phrase to describe the year when it all fell
apart for the royal family. Nineteen ninety-two was the year the mask slipped
and we saw the truth. So wave that flag and open that champagne. Because for a
whole decade now nobody has cared about the monarchy. Hooray, we won't have to
hold a street party and watch our neighbours waiting to race for that parking
space right outside their house as soon as the cars are allowed back in the
road. In one last-ditch attempt to appear relevant and with it, the monarchists
are organizing a more modern type of party. Sir Paul McCartney, Mick Jagger and
Sir Elton John are teaming up for a special Jubilee pop concert. 'Ah! Aren't
they marvellous?' the old ladies will say. 'The way they just keep on going.
They do so much for tourism and they work so hard and you shouldn't criticize
them because they can't answer back.' Suddenly I agree with all the royalists
saying things were better in 1977. It makes you nostalgic for punk. I don't
blame the Queen personally, of course, she's just badly advised. No one's
advised her to declare a republic.
     

As
English as baseball itself
     
    9
February 2002
     
     
    Many
years ago Norman Tebbit caused a political storm with his so-called 'cricket
test'. An adapted version of this was later used by several Commonwealth
countries - no one w r as allowed in unless they wanted to hit Norman
Tebbit round the head with a cricket bat. Yesterday's White Paper on
immigration and citizenship proposed that immigrants to this country swear an
oath of allegiance to the Queen