Ruritania persists

It's that time of the year again when the issues to be presented to Parliament in the next session are announced and what a weird and anachronistic way to do it. One of the less attractive features of the British is our pathological need to ritualise tradition and today's State Opening of Parliament is a brilliant example of this. A wonderfully over-the-top gothic pantomime of epic Hollywood proportions. The King and Queen (gawd bless 'em) process in state from Buckingham Palace to the Houses of Parliament in a glittering coach, flanked by ranks of the Household Cavalry. In an elaborate ceremony with all the Crown Jewels on display, the King reads out a list of government bills from the throne in the House of Lords - note that it's not from the elected chamber. Only the British could still be doing this sort of thing in the 21st century! Either us or some tin-pot dictator with galloping delusions of grandeur!

It’s a colourful ceremony of seemingly ancient rituals (but they are not as old as you might think) where all the symbols and offices of the constitution come together under one roof. The Lords gather in their ermine robes and the Commons are summoned to attend in a famous door-slamming ritual played out by Black Rod ((by tradition, the monarch cannot enter the Commons). It is amazing how little things have changed in parliament over the last two centuries! It’s a grand pageant set in elaborate 17th century costumes of wigs, breeches, tights and ruffs. Pure high camp drama. The Crown, the Cap of Maintenance (the what?!), the Dutch Cap of Prevention, the Cruel Cap of Benefits (I'm sorry, I made the last two up. I just couldn't help myself) and the Sword of State make an appearance along with officials with extravagant titles like Garter King of Arms and, a particular favourite of mine, Rouge Dragon Pursuivant! The camp splendour of the royal procession through Parliament is quite a sight. The uniforms, gowns, robes and the Crown jewels themselves are spectacular but way over the top. More Ruritanian pantomime than serious government procedure.

The King finally takes his place on the Throne (titter, titter) in the House of Lords and the Commons file into the chamber. The Labourites looking smug, the Tories despondent and, I'm glad to see, most newbie MPs appearing suitably bewildered by the occasion. The speech (and it's not any old speech, it's the Gracious Speech and is read from a goat-skin vellum scroll**) is a turgid list of Government business and legislation, prefaced with a regal, “My government will…”. It’s dull and no one pretends otherwise - despite the fact that what's on this year's menu is potentially inflammatory.  As soon as the speech is complete, the King and his entourage process all the way back again (no, not backwards - sadly they spoil things by turning around) and the politicians get down to the serious business of making soundbites and point scoring - sorry, I meant to say the serious business of debating.

The one thing you can’t help noticing is how undemocratic the whole thing is. Only a third of those in attendance, the House of Commons, is elected by we plebs. The rest are hereditary or appointed. Within the ceremony, the Commons are conspicuously the least prominent. During the speech MPs (our representatives, remember we just voted them in) crowd in at the back of the room -rather like naughty school children, it's always struck me. Of course, it could be argued that any ceremony that makes politicians stand at the back must be a good thing!

However, there is one element that is totally missing from all of the above. The people. Any government presentation outlining upcoming intentions and priorities should, in the modern world (Hey - it's 2024 already or maybe Black Rod and Rouge Dragon Pursuivant haven't noticed?), be aimed at us, the electorate. Strip away the constitutional flummery and you’re left with a governing party stating what it’s going to do in the upcoming parliament. That’s important, and it should be presented to the people in a clear, unambiguous way. It's weird that a day of such high politics should start with such an archaic royal ritual. How long is all of this going to last. Will we see a radical overhaul at the end of the current reign ? Will a forward looking King Charles scale it down or abolish it all together? Probably not.

OK, so it’s a bit of harmless constitutional glitter that pomp and pageantry junkies (and tourists) love. But does it really add any value to government in the 21st century? Would we not be better off with a State of the Union style speech to parliament and people by the Prime Minister? Isn't that what a representational democracy demands? Isn't that what the electorate deserve?

** I was being a little economical with the truth here. It is not on vellum anymore. It is on "goatskin parchment paper" but, confusingly, it's not actually made from goatskin. However it is very high quality, thick paper, which is why the ink takes several days to dry, and it then needs to be bound into a booklet, before being sent on to His Majesty for signing.

Wimbledon. It might only be a fortnight but it seems a lot longer.

Confession time. I'm not a tennis fan and Wimbledon Fortnight is not an event that features at all on my social calendar. It passes me by as a minor inconvenience. But, that doesn't stop me having an opinion on why Wimbledon isn't for me. Here's what I don't like about it.

The crowd 
Wimbledon is often the only sporting event that most of them ever attend, unless you include Celebrity Come Dancing. As a result, they think they're at a show, and have no idea how to behave. They shriek in the middle of a rally, and burst out laughing when a player lunges for a volley and impales themselves on the umpire's chair. Reminded by the umpire that they're supposed to be quiet during play, they applaud in a quite-right-too kind of way, as if it was someone else doing all the shrieking. Ask them the name of the current Australian women's singles champion and they wouldn't have a clue. That's because they aren't tennis fans at all - they're Wimbledon fans and that's a different thing entirely. They are there for the event and not the sport. I bet, in another life, some would have joined the tricoteuse and laughed as they knitted.

The crowd's bizarre nationalism 
Spectators often paint their faces with national flags, somehow suggesting the players are there on behalf of a nation. The problem is that these are professional tennis players: they spend their time wandering the globe in a hermetic bubble, moving from one identical event to the next, racking up the money and seemingly speaking American, regardless of their nationality. The last thing they think they're doing is representing their country. Tennis players represent only themselves - they're up there with golfers, Formula One drivers and footballers in the self-absorbed egomaniac stakes.

The entourages 
For the tennis player, the crowd is useful only when it gives them an advantage during important points. The rest of the time, it might as well not exist. Notice how players turn after every point only to their coterie of chums in their ever-present entourage for approval: this consists, at least, of their trainer, hitting coach, psychotic parent, and partner. They exchange speaking looks and secret hand signals, and mouth the word "focus". (Tennis players are the most focused human beings on the planet. They're so focused it's impossible to take a photograph of them that's blurred.)

The masochism 
The Wimbledon crowd don't care that the players ignore them and their love is unrequited - because in love, as in so many ways, they live to suffer. They sleep outside for days for the chance sit on tiny wooden seats with their knees pressed against the person in front, or to watch something on a jumbo screen that's taking place for real 30 foot away. They buy strawberries and cream at a slightly higher price-per-kilo than thallium. Heaven forbid, they even clap and sing along to Cliff Richard during rain breaks.

The tabloids 
For the tabloids, the tournament is no more than an extended opportunity for seedy journos to pass judgement on the looks of young women. True to form, last year one tabloid's website had its array of "Wimbledon Winners and Mingers". Qualification for the 'Winners' category was seemingly based on whether or not the photographer could get a nipple shot - or, even better, one of someone shoving a ball into the pocket in their knickers in such a way that they exposed a buttock. (Presumably tabloid editors still fantasize over the bum-scratching Athena tennis player poster.)

The BBC coverage
Convinced, as ever, that they know what the country wants in spite of all evidence to the contrary, the BBC insist of giving Wimbledon blanket coverage. They've got this wrong. 

The BBC's recruitment policy 
Further good news for useless British tennis players lies with current BBC recruitment policy. If any plucky Brit manages to win a match, there's a good chance they'll land a spot on the commentary team the following year. The BBC being a committed equal opportunities employer, it offers plum commentary contracts to retired sports stars regardless of the fact that they have the screen presence of a roll of lino and an inability to speak in polysyllables.

The BBC expert summarisers 
The TV audience gets to listen to former hapless losers magically transformed into experts by the simple device of not playing. They'll happily analyse the serves of players and discuss the intense psychological demands of big-match, high-pressure moments with John McEnroe and Boris Becker. And all based on a couple of matches that they'd considered at the time to be nothing more than an extended application for a coaching professional's job on the Costa Brava.

The moaning about players
In a staid, still mostly middle-class sport where wearing slightly longer shorts or a back-to-front baseball cap imbues you with wild-and-crazy rebel status, and where children take up the sport for the sole aim of retiring as multi-millionaires at 25, they moan about the lack of personalities in the game. Yet all it takes is for one player to swear in a moment of stress, and the BBC Complaints Department telephone glows so hot you could use it to cut your way into a bank vault.

The moaning about the tennis 
I find it odd that, despite their professed love of the game, nobody's ever happy with the style of tennis played: if a tournament is won by baseline hitters, it's boring, with never-ending rallies; if it's dominated by those who serve well, the game's being reduced to a serving competition with no rallies or artistry.

The on-court interviews
Anyone else feel like these on-court interviews after a match are really forced and awkward? Why, oh, why are players forced to endure such embarrassment? It's a contractual obligation, that's why, and they get paid for it. But, be still my beating heart, maybe Djokovic is starting a new trend with his recent outburst (that's a bit strong, actually) against a booing crowd.

What goes around, comes around

There's no little irony in David Cameron insisting that the Tories take their time over the leadership election to replace Rishi Sunak. He is clearly worried that a rushed succession would open the door to the far-right of the Tory party to bamboozle Tory members into backing a radical and undefined future for the party, while he thinks that a longer contest would allow time for more sensible old-school conservative voices to win the argument.

It's such a shame he didn't apply the same caution when he decided to gamble the entire future of the country in an unbelievably rushed six week Brexit referendum campaign back in 2016.

He was perfectly willing to rush a decision over the future of the country, despite the obvious danger of the right-wing lunatics on the Tory benches using it to set a radical and undefined process in motion.

But now, when it comes to the future of his beloved Tory party, he's suddenly urging caution and careful consideration!

Could you ask for a clearer demonstration of someone caring more about the future of their political party than the future of the country than that?  And that has been a problem with too many politicians in the past. Let's hope we see a change of focus with the new regime.

All good things come to an end

Say what you want about the last 14 years, but one thing  can all agree on is, that since I've been blogging about the Tories, no party could have asked for a better propagandist than me. If there has been one success story from the dark ages of Tory rule, my supportive blog is unquestionably it. I’m now watching people quietly leave without so much as a goodbye or a thank you for your service, Deri. As you can imagine, I’m hurting right now. When you’ve invested so much time and effort into telling the most embarrassing lies for them, blog after blog, it’s hard when the ride finally comes to an end

Coming to terms with the loss of Liz was one thing. You can imagine my reaction when it wasn’t just Liz, it was Therese too. Yes, our greatest ever Environment Secretary was also taken out by tofu-eating… anti… bollocks, I can’t even remember the stupid names she gave voters she didn't like! What matters is the cigar-smoking former bouncer has been one of the most vibrant MPs since she crawled out of a swamp near a nuclear plant, glowing like radium and leaving a glistening trail of slime. She is going to be one hell of a loss. Among Therese’s greatest achievements in a stellar political career were murdering the river Lim, flooding homes with untreated sewage, refusing to impose fines on negligent water companies, blaming seagull poop when dead sea creatures washed ashore in Suffolk, and declaring war on Greenpeace. Therese sensibly did away with anything that got in the way of corporate profits, such as public beaches and drinkable water, and she solved the Brexit food crisis by telling everyone to eat turnips. I don’t think we’ve ever had a more creative problem solver. Losing Therese was a crushing blow, but thankfully, someone saw sense and made her a dame, and not for being absolutely bloody useless either. At least I don’t think that was the reason. Presumably it was for services to algae overgrowth or something, but whatever the reason, going forward, this woman will be known as Dame Therese Coffey. I’m sure you will agree no one has ever deserved a damehood more.

Obviously, you’re feeling emotional so I’m not sure I should go on, but someone has to break this to you, it wasn’t just Liz and Therese, it was Rees-Mogg too. Poor Jacob is roosting in his crypt, feeling sorry for himself because he’s never known humiliation like it, and he’s lived for over 300 years. I just don’t understand why the public didn’t vote for him. He’s always clean shaven and meticulously dressed, despite having no reflection, and he wears a monocle to prove he’s better than you. Why isn’t that enough?

Jacob did so much for ordinary people and never got any thanks. He courageously fought to end working from home for the sake of the neediest members of society - corporate landlords. He was once given the job of finding the benefits of Brexit because they weren’t as obvious as the bus had suggested. During this highly-productive period, he spent seven months doing absolutely nothing, apart from fighting a war on woke and losing his mind when the word “fat” was changed to “enormous” in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Few have contributed to society like Jacob.

At this point, you are surely a sobbing mess so I probably shouldn’t tell you Michael Fabricant lost his seat and it caused ructions in his family. I’m told his hairpiece has already crawled away and filed for divorce.

Even worse, Gillian Keegan, who once cried her party didn’t “get enough credit for doing a f****g good job”, somehow lost to a Liberal Democrat. This just keeps getting more humiliating, doesn’t it?

Grant Shapps is another giant we’ve lost, but he wants to hide from the press so he’s changing his name back to Michael Green and returning to making dodgy websites. Michael will threaten to sue anyone who brings up his embarrassing past, so please let him forget being a Tory.

Penny Mordaunt is another goner, even though she crowned our beloved king after Liz Truss murdered his mother. Penny will best be remembered for wearing a dress with the Poundland logo while putting a sword on Charles’ shoulder and resisting the urge to swing. Every government needs a woman with this level of restraint. If Angela Rayner was in that position, she would swing that sword and take that crown. We are entering truly dangerous times.

Dozens of Tory legends lost their seats, but I’m going to leave it there for now because you can only cope with so much trauma in one night. Just know that if you need a shoulder to cry on, I won’t be there for you because I’m offering my blogging services to Sir Keir Starmer at a discounted rate. I have absolutely no shame.