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.

Diamond Jubilee Weekend

In my role as Master of the Game of Fighting Cocks for her Majesty the Queen, (alas, a largely ceremonial role in these unhappy times,) I expect to be very busy this Diamond Jubilee weekend. Indeed; my own dear wife, as Strewer of the Royal Herbs, will be likewise engaged in her duties.

For the past two years, I have been selectively breeding Derbyshire Redcaps and  Scots Dumpies to have the perfect specimens to match against each other on the day. However; I have failed to elicit much interest from the official organisers, save for an impertinent visit from a constable and a hatchet faced birdwatcher from the RSPB. Similarly, when I put forward my request to Gary Barlow and Andrew Lloyd Webber, to compose something suitable for the occasion, they unaccountably failed to return my calls.

If this is what we can expect, then I fear it will be a shambles. I would not be surprised if Trenton Oldfield decided to have another bracing swim in the Thames this Sunday afternoon.

Fortunately, a barrel of Auld  Squiffy, persuaded the stout yeomen of our village to rally round and mark the occasion of the Queens Diamond Jubilee. We will  have our own procession through the village. As our local Morris side, The Balsamic Bounders and the Ladies Garland team, The Vinaigrette's, dance through the village to the traditional tune, 'Merrily kissed the Keynsian,' my wife will strew Lavender and Basil in their path. Once they have reached the old bear pit, they will be treated to the tapping of the barrel and a match between the Redcap and the Dumpie.