Blue sky thinking

Whilst we were dancing round the wicker Fabian last night, In London one figure was sadly missing at the concert. For most of us, throughout our lives, he has been a central figure in all of our great state occasions. A man born into a hereditary privilege. Not the Duke of Edinburgh;  we know that he missed the concert due to illness. I myself have been laid low by a surfeit of Lampreys on more than one occasion, so I can imagine what he must feel like.

I speak of David Dimbledore, son of Richard Dimbledore and brother to Johnathon, hereditary wizards of the airwaves, who have guided us through these great moments and told us what to think. Where on earth was he?

If the BBC cannot bother to wheel out one of the monarchs of the television and inflict mediocrities, spouting inanities upon us; one has to ask oneself the question, 'What is the point in having the BBC?'

One can now get water, gas and electricity from one of several companies. So why do we have to pay a compulsory tax if we want to watch another companies offerings. It should go the way of all things that have passed their time. Like the steam train, the BBC could be run by a collection of enthusiasts at the weekend and once in a while we could take a trip down BBC memory lane and feel all warm and nostalgic. Then after we had congratulated ourselves for doing so, could then return to the real world and how things are meant to be.

Proud to be British.

Like the rest of the country, we were all up early to begin the day of celebrating the Diamond Jubilee of our most gracious soveriegn, her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the 2nd. As a nation, the doomsayers believe we may not have much of a future, but by golly, we showed them that we have a past. 

The lefties at the BBC no longer seem to understand our great national occasions and seemed to think that the biggest river pageant for several hundred years, watched by over 1 million people lining the banks of the Thames was best illustrated with jiving, cross dressing, celebrity babies.What they will make of a state funeral, God alone knows. The job should be handed to someone else.Their kindred republican spirits, at best 200 of them, in their gloomy silent cages, gave what they had advertised beforehand as the biggest anti monarchist demonstration for decades well out of harms way. And fortunately, the privately educated, anti elitist Trenton Oldfield, spared us from one of his synchronised swimming display.

Our estate villagers, know how to do these things properly and our proceedings brought quite a tear to my proprietorial eye. For the past week, they had been decorating their cottages and the main street with bunting made from old, unwanted copies of the Guardian and flannelette nightgowns.

Events were initiated in a grand style as the village children treated us to an  allegorical display commemorating last years riots, brought vividly to life through the medium of interpretive dance. Next, the formation lawnmowers of the Red Flymos, cut the village green in amusing and ingenious ways, to the delight and amusement of all. Then, as my own dear wife, Euphobia, led the way strewing her lavender and basil, we all trouped behind our Morris and Garland sides, to the ceremonial tapping of the barrel and the eagerly anticipated match between the Redcap and the Dumpie. Thanks to the effects of the Auld Squiffy, there was much ribald commentary and betting on the outcome. A match that ended later on in a coq au vin.

We all then went back to the village hall for lunch, where yet again, the ladies of the Womens Institute did us proud, with a magnificent spread of jellied snails and lambs tongues in aspic. And of course, no feast could be complete without dear Mr Romneys delicious jalapeno and haggis ice cream.

Tonight we shall conclude our festivities, by dancing round the wicker man. For this most special of occasions, we have bagged ourselves a Fabian.