A Right Bunch of Charlies...

With each revelation of the true nature of our Royal Family, another percentage point of respect, even tolerance, is lost. The unsavoury goings-on will eventually alienate the subjects from whom any successful Monarch must command loyalty and consent to rule. There have been, throughout British history, members of the Royal Family who have been deeply unpopular. A former Prince of Wales, later Prince Regent and, later still, King George IV, was so disliked that he was booed at the opera and his carriage pelted with rotting fruit, vegetables and horse manure when spotted in the street. More drastically, of course, Charles I lost both his job and his head at the same time. Others have had more than just a little local difficulty, with problems ranging from revolution and ex-communication to the seemingly intractable problem of Ireland.

Charles III, as the Prince of Wales would become upon the death of our present Queen, would have few worries about rebellious natives or papal decrees. The Irish situation would remain a political matter and therefore beyond his remit. But he will have one problem that cannot easily be solved: he is a Prince with 'a past'! The tampon talk; photos of his dangly bits in foreign magazines; conversations with the plants; his mystifying passion for Camilla; his hatred of his wife; and the earnest, if glum, contemplation of abstruse or esoteric subjects far removed from the concerns of everyday folk - all these impediments will remain with him when he succeeds to the top job.

Wherever Charles ventures, there lurks in every shadow a camera ready to snap him picking his nose, scratching his arse or 'dipping his wick' where he shouldn't! George IV, gadding about Brighton with his foppish cronies, at least never had to worry about a paparazzo with a zoom lens catching him in the altogether on the balcony of The Royal Pavilion. Yet Charles makes things difficult for himself. He seems awkward in the company of strangers, whether patrician or plebeian; he frowns and glowers during engagements; he agonises publicly over architectural minutiae that leave the public cold.

His suggestion that the Millenium Commission should use Lottery funds to build mosques and temples for the followers of Islam, however, is a particularly crass, if well-intentioned, gesture that should be rebutted. Not only are the said followers forbidden to accept the proceeds of gambling to enrich their lives, they may well also object to having their religion linked to an event that is essentially Christian.

Although a largely secular society, more people in the UK would view themselves as Christian than of any other religious persuasion. Charles, who has expressed his desire to become 'Defender of Faith' rather than 'Defender of The Faith', presumably does not fear that the march of Islam may eventually threaten, if not destroy, the Church of England, else he might not spout his politically correct psycho-babble with quite such enthusiasm. If he wants to inspire his subjects to improve the fabric of their lives, there are viable alternatives to building pale imitations of Istanbul's Blue Mosque. Perhaps we could re-acquaint our children with the concept of Christianity (no matter how offensive this may be to some) and maybe try to reverse the headlong flight away from the Anglican Church that has typified the past couple of decades.

As to the criticism that the celebrations will be a huge but "essentially meaningless party", why must it be meaningless? If Charles cannot find meaning in the 2000th birthday of Jesus Christ, he really should give up and spend more time with his begonias. He is clearly a courageous man: the regularity with which he plunges to terra firma from his polo ponies indicates a victory for bravery over common sense, while the deranged student who lunged at him during a speech in Australia elicited no response other than a slightly more agitated than usual bout of cuff link-fiddling. He is even prepared to promote the voluptuous Ms. Alexandra Legg-Bourke (Q: why 'Tiggy'??) to his personal assistant in the face of his estranged wife's implacable opposition.

So be brave, Charlie, and fight for Jesus!

The Labour Party has revealed that, even under the benign influence of Tony Blair, it is not immune to that most British of diseases: shooting-oneself-in-the-foot-itis!

The Tories have long exhibited the ability to turn events that should, on the surface, boost their popularity into classic P.R. disasters. The Lottery is but one example. The most sensible piece of legislation can be ruined by the appearance of a Minister on television to try to explain it; and the most praise-worthy initiative becomes a farcical mess when an M.P. attempts to set out its aims and ambitions.

The Church, too, has long proved its ability to miss an open goal. On the one hand, we hear pious denunciations of the evil of gambling; on the other, we learn that the Church Commissioners punted hundreds of millions of pounds on the property market...and got burned! Likewise the Royals, who, having wrung some respect, however grudgingly, from the general public through their efforts on V.E. and V.J. Days, then proceed to ruin the whole effort with another bout of vicious in-fighting.

Pride of place, though, has to go to the England Cricket Team, who, as regular readers will know, have elevated the sad business of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory into an art-form. Never can any body of men or women have so regularly placed themselves in a winning position only to lose in a bedlam of self-induced panic and baffling loss of nerve.

And now it is the turn of New Labour to experience the morale-shattering twist of fate that pips you to the post or trips you up a yard short of the winning line. Whatever Ms. Harman's intentions in wishing her son to attend a secondary school that practises selection, in complete contrast to her party's stated objectives in the education field, she has presented the Conservatives with their first real opening since Mr. Blair replaced the late John Smith. The crowing and scoffing emanating from the government benches, admittedly a pretty unpleasant sight, is tolerable for one sole reason.

The Tories are bound to manage a spectacular cock-up of their own. And the disease, like a virulent influenza, will continue to do the rounds.

...is, yet again, the Brussels Bureaucracy, whose latest demented directive classes whelks and mussels in the same category as sheep and cattle when it comes to conditions for transport and paperwork relating to them.

Despite the fact that the affected molluscs cannot feel pain, exhibit distress or do very much at all, the barmy Europrats have decreed that the shellfish must have regular rest periods and the transporters must complete complex documentation for each journey.

So don't choke on your oysters, chaps, until you've signed for them in triplicate!

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