THE ROYAL WEDDING

A HOLIDAY ON THE ISLE OF MAN always seems to remind me of certain qualities of Britishness, or even, paradoxically, Englishness, that have disappeared from the face of life in the United Kingdom itself, of which the good island is not a part. Almost as soon as one boards ship in Liverpool before embarking upon the 72 mile journey to Douglas one begins to feel as if time is being turned back.

CONFIRMATION OF THIS IS PROVIDED by the impressions upon arrival and the short walk to my hotel on the bay: smart, friendly policemen with apparently nothing to do, steam trains, horse-drawn trams, white walls without graffiti, pints of beer at a pound, a double whisky for one pound seventy pence and then the receptionist at my hotel addressing me by my title and surname. There is also other evidence of England in the nineteen-forties which I must not mention for fear of being clapped in irons.

NOTHING APPEARS TO HAVE CHANGED on Man and Sodor for at least fifty years if not more. One feels strangely cut off from the real world, thrust back into a bygone age and out of touch with today. The curious animal life, such as the cats without tails and the odd Loaghtan sheep (above) with four or even six horns, seems to be the result of close inbreeding.

WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH THE ROYAL FAMILY? I imagine you may be asking. The reason is that this brief holiday was curtailed in order for my good lady wife to be present for the wedding today of our dashing Prince William and his paramour Catherine Middleton, an actress who, I believe, played Hermione in the dreaded Harry Potter films, and who has since grown up.

WE FELT THAT CELEBRATION OF THIS EVENT should not be spent eerily trapped in a past that stubbornly refuses to move forwards – we can leave that to the Windsors themselves.

BACK TO THE FUTURE

THE BRITAIN IN WHICH I WAS YOUNG was an easy place to understand. Conservatives were rich toffs, the Labour Party was full of useless no-hopers, the Liberals were a joke and there was a bubbling-under threat of violence and extremism. The early seventies was also a time when travel to the continent was an unearthly expense, most people had to think hard about the cost of driving a car and the England football team was an international joke.

ALTHOUGH SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE, as in the England football team, from the eighties on two remarkable politicians managed to alter this comfortable state of things. The accrued efforts of Messrs Thatcher and Blair and the support of a shaven and coiffured, well-dressed middle class managed to turn Britain into a dynamic, vibrant powerhouse of economic development and financial strength, putting the UK on a footing with the USA on all fronts in the early nineties – compared with 1973, when Britain had to borrow money from Holland to stay afloat. This disappointing state of things was also made possible by the fact that the “upper” class, under both leaders, was forced to cough up a fair whack of its income, and benefits to the unwashed were cut, making people who had a natural bent for the sofa (at both ends of the scale) get up, turn off the TV (or put the Port bottle away) and get out and work.

FORTUNATELY, THERE IS ALWAYS BLIGHT at the end of the tunnel, no matter how long it is, and thus came Brown and then Cameron, beaming in their joy at sending us back to the seventies. Brown’s part in all this was to ruin the value of the economy by talking about joining the Euro and to reduce the value of work by increasing benefits for unemployment to a state where it was almost foolish to want employment if you had two children. Brown was unable to complete the job, however, and so it has been left to Cameron to reduce taxation at the top end so much that it is once again possible for rich people to remain as idle and drunk as they were in the XVII century, watching their incomes spiral off the balance sheet from the bar of the House of Commons or Lords, according to which one they have persuaded the boy Cameron to let them enter.

ALL OF THIS WAS TO BE EXPECTED when we are governed by people who have never worked and have no idea of the “real” value of money in the “real” world (both Brown and Cameron), but what was lacking until yesterday was the final touch, that little je ne sais quoi that tells you that we have finally returned to the good old days of solid English Conservatism. Cameron’s “major speech” yesterday involved all the old clichés that Conservatives love. Immigrants and foreigners “cause havoc”, “discomfort and disjointedness”; they ruin our national character and “way of life”; and finally, the pièce de résistance, “many of them cannot speak English” and “don’t fit in”.

MUCH OF THIS IS NOT FAR FROM the British National Party (known as the National Front in the seventies) and its “we like foreigners but we think they should live in Foreignland” policy or its view that one can tell who really belong in this country “just by looking at them”. And, more importantly, it is much more of a vote-winner in the upcoming local elections than Cameron’s last major message in his keynote speech last month about hard times.

VOTERS, PARTICULARY LIBERALS and the middle classes, are fed up of being told to “cut back”, to reduce their spending and, as Ken Clarke stated, tighten their belts and go on a diet. Going on a diet involves tough choices about what to eat and drink or not. Perhaps we should follow the footsteps of the last Liberal leader. He decided to give up food altogether and do an alcohol only diet. He managed to lose about two days a week.

(My picture shows Mr Cameron, not behind bars, but with his wife on their recent midweek break in Foreignland)

HEMLOCK AND AFTER

JOSÉ SOCRATES PINTO DE SOUSA, the outgoing prime minister of Portugal, is surely not the incompetent, devious, arrogant, lying, corrupt and insecure thief that many people here in Portugal believe he is, but one cannot argue with the statistics that state that his policies have ground entrepreneurial initiative into granite dust and led a third of the population to regularly fill up their petrol tanks over the border in Spain.

SOUSA’S RUNNING THE ECONOMY has its calamitous precedents in the governments that came before him: since the late nineties we have seen mismanagement, dishevelled and often deranged projection of policies by politicians who might have been better used in mental hospitals, hurried announcements of half-baked projects and the widespread use of the “brown envelope”, which, I must state here, was never the case of Mr “Socrates”, the son of humble country, goat-milking folk who now is the owner of two apartments in the most prestigious areas of Lisbon.

“SOCRATES” SEEMS TO HAVE ACCEPTED that he and his bloated government of fat-wallet investment bankers and bespoke-suited cronies are about to go down the toilet. Several of his original horn-rimmed supporters have already bitten the bullet and skived off into the private sector so that they could at least fork out massive loans to their children before the heavy hand of the IMF or the European Commission (in the hands of another Portuguese robber baron) can come along as they are fleeing the country and ask questions such as: “And did you pack this suitcase yourself, sir”. Of course he did. He packed it. “And does it contain any sharp objects or liquids, sir?” “Yes. The Portuguese economy.”

LE LOOK MIDDLETON

TRAVELLING THROUGH LONDON LAST WEDNESDAY served once again to remind me what buffoons French people are. My arrival at Gatwick Village International Airport, my brief stay fathoming out its arcane wonders, my train journey to Victoria, my ride through London on the number 73 bus from Victoria to Euston Square and my short stay in Euston before being whisked off by train to more civilized climes in aristocratic Chester – all of this was punctuated by shrieks of delight from giggly French girly girls who had descended upon our capital in search of all and anything related to the forthcoming royal wedding.

MANY OF THESE JEUNES had already adopted “le look Middleton”: boring blazer-style double-breasted coat with big buttons, navy blue skirt, blue stockings, blue shoes or Ugg boots and windswept hair. While this style of dress is no example of buffoonery, what we are witnessing is fanaticism for things royale by children of a nation that was happy in the extreme to cut the heads off their own aristocracy in the hope of a better society. Some chance. If they had kept their own lunatic rulers they might be saving some money now.

PERHAPS MANY OF THESE GIGGLIES think that they might have a chance at Harry, the most – this pains me to state it – eligible bachelor on the planet. If they do, they will be aware that for girlies like Kate one can gain the world on a wing with the only concession being that on occasion one has to lie back, close one’s eyes, open one’s legs and think of England. Added to this is the fact that the men in the Windsor clan do not seem to be the type to want to “do the naughty with their fillies”, as I am informed they term having a full, loving, sexual relationship with their wives to mean, very often, so the job should not be too demanding.

FULL MARKS ALSO FOR OUR VERY OWN QUEEN ELIZABETH. She has not only made it clear that she does not want “cheap” souvenirs on sale involving our lovey-dovey royals, but has forbidden the regal lovebirds from endorsing such tat. One may think, of course, about the meaning that Elizabeth grants to “cheap”. I presume that she means she does not want to see dish-cloths and toilet paper with Kate and Wills on them. If so, she may be in for a little jolt of the voltage: the girly girl Frenchies were already holding whoopee cushions with Kate’s face on them, lunch boxes with the smiling couple beaming halitosis to us and, of all things, “Kate Middleton lipstick”, on sale at Victoria Station. I am disgusted. (My picture shows Kate expressing her disgust.)

AYE-AYE CAPTAIN

HEDGEHOG-HEADED JOHN TERRY has recently been re-instated as captain of the England football team for the all-important match against Wales on Saturday next. While for many international football nations playing against Wales is about as exciting and/or worrisome as a pimple on the buttock for a single heterosexual man, for England it is the big event: defeat against Wales is unthinkable.

THUS OUR MANAGER FABIO CAPELLO, the inept and unintelligible Italian who has for reasons unknown been given charge of selecting the England team, has had to struggle over whether to “return the armband” to Terry. This, as all of our newspapers have not tired of pointing out, is because Terry was “stripped” of the captaincy because he had been “playing away” with the wife of a colleague.

ONE MAY THINK THAT SIX MILLION pounds per year is a lot of money for doing nothing, even nowadays, but I wonder how many people have to deal with dilemmas such as Capello’s in choosing the England captain from among the serial shaggers, adulterers, bar-room brawlers and convicted grievous bodily harm inflictors that make up the current squad. Of course, we may add a particular misdemeanor of Ashley Cole's to the list, even though taking photographs of one’s own penis on a mobile phone and then spamming it to everyone on your contact list is not yet a crime in Britain.

IF ALL GOES AS PLANNED, and barring injuries, Capello’s ideal England team, using his hopeless 4-3-3 formation, would be the following outfield players, given the fact that Capello has stopped fielding a goalkeeper since David James retired in order to spend more time with his hairdresser:

Defence:

2. Glen Johnson: No previous convictions

5. John Terry (captain): Adultery. Having sex with team-mate's wife.

6. Rio Ferdinand: Involved in alleged “gang bang” of a young lady in a Manchester hotel, the lady later described as “a good shag”. Filmed in indecent sex video in Cyprus resort. (See Frank Lampard)

3. Ashley Cole: (see above) Regularly discovered by The Sun newspaper to be fornicating with and then vomiting over women who look like his (now) ex-wife Cheryl Cole. A serious case of dementia with a fixation for hair extensions. Also found to have shot an intern at Chelsea with a rifle. (See Darren Bent).

Midfield:

4. Steven Gerrard: Tried in court in Liverpool for allegedly attacking a Disc Jockey with a bottle. (See Andy Carroll)

7. Frank Lampard: In 2000, Lampard (along with Rio Ferdinand) were filmed indulging in indecent sexual behaviour at a holiday resort in Cyprus. Found drunk and disorderly at a hotel in Heathrow in 2001, insulting American tourists about the 2001 terrorist attack on New York City.

8. Wayne Rooney: Regularly found indulging in sex with any prostitute who happens to be around when he is, particularly while his wife was pregnant. (See Peter Crouch, Ashley Cole etc.). One prostitute, Jenny Thompson, said of him, “Everyone says he looks like Shrek, but when you get to know him he’s a nice lad really. That's why I phoned my friend Helen to come and make up a threesome.”

Forwards:

10. Peter Crouch: Spotted, like Rooney, indulging in extra-marital sex while his drop-dead gorgeous wife was pregnant. Famous quote when asked what he would be if he was not a footballer: answer “Single”.

11. Darren Bent: Formally warned by Metropolitan Police after allegedly having shot a 12 year-old boy with a rifle. (See Ashley Cole). Conviction dropped due to lack of evidence.

9. Andy Carroll: Accused of and/or charged with assault, common assault and grievous bodily harm on four occasions. Convicted twice. Forced to live under conditions of police bail. Foolishly moves from Newcastle to Liverpool, where he stated he might not “get into trouble so easily”. Absolutely.

THE DESERT SONG

THE MORE ONE SEES HILLARY CLINTON ON TELEVISION the more I give thanks to the powers on high for allowing Americans to momentarily go colourblind and elect Barack Hussein Obama as their leader. While there can be no doubt that Hillary is at the cutting edge of contemporary fashion design in her choice of eye-catching outfits, it is becoming increasingly apparent that she has less of an idea about foreign policy than George W. Bush. At the moment she is swishing around Arabia attempting to gather support for the USA in yet another incursion to save the world. Earlier this evening we heard her state the absurd: “There can be no doubt that Libyans are safer tonight than they were yesterday.”

FETCHING FASHION ICON HILLARY went on, speaking in Morocco, to announce the great benefits coming down the turnpike that King Mohammed VI has apparently agreed to announce to commemorate Clinton’s no doubt fleeting interest in his country as a base for US aircraft, avoiding having to make the round trip from Missouri with Stealth aircraft at a cost of billions of US tax dollars. Mohammed of Morocco happily promised today that from “sometime soon in the future” he will be allowing “women to go to school for longer” and stand for election. If the result is politicians like Hillary then perhaps we might all be better off if they stay at home and groom their goats, or go about stealing from tourists, begging, or sleeping with men for money like their husbands do.

COMEDIAN BOB HOPE HAD A RUNNING JOKE he often used about Washington DC. Feigning ignorance and imagining a United States capital in Arabia, he would often quip, “Isn’t it somewhere in the Middle East?” Hope, of course was referring to the middle of the east coast of the USA, but listening to Clinton’s vacuous and tenuous grasp of world politics makes one long for President Bush’s Hope-style gaffes. At least they were honest mistakes.

THE DISTURBANCES IN THE ARABIAS AND THE MAGREB have somewhat distracted me from my intended purpose in spreading the word about the new version of the operetta The Desert Song, which I discovered recently via the technology of the Internet. Here it is:

Part One: The Road to Morocco

French General Nicolas “Napoleon” Sarkozy has been sent to Morocco to root out and destroy the Spliffs, a band of Arab rebels who threaten the safety of the French outpost in the Moroccan desert. Their dashing, daredevil leader is the mysterious Red Shadow, aka "Ka-da-fi", reputedly a Frenchman, but suspected to be an Arab aristocrat who owns many things in Britain including the London School of Economics and three British Members of Parliament.

Part Two: Sand in their Eyes

Margot Bonvalet Clinton, an innocent American girl, is in Morocco to be married at the French fort to Sarkozy's right-hand man, Captain “Scarlet” Cameron, and go on a honeymoon to Libya. Sarkozy secretly loves Margot, but has to pretend to be a useless, ineffective, socialist, unimaginative, milksop to preserve his integrity and maintain his position back in France, where the population likes these qualities. Margot tells Nicolas that she secretly yearns to be swept into the arms of some bold, dashing sheik, perhaps even the Red Shadow himself. Nicolas, pretending to be the "Ka-da-fi", the Red Shadow, kidnaps Margot and declares his love for her.

Part Three: The Road to Nowhere

Margot Clinton wakes up to face her abductor Nicolas, who, strangely for a Frenchman, treats her with every western consideration. When Cameron comes face to face with General “Napoleon” Sarkozy over the love of Clinton we will see the final conflict between these two powers. Puffed up Sarkozy challenges Cameron to a duel. Skirting behind the scenes are Clinton and her servants, including Berlusconi, the sinuous and secretive native dancing girl who will do anything for money.

Meanwhile Sky News and CNN provide comic relief. Eventually, the real identity of those who intervene is discovered, a deal is struck with the Spliffs, and Sarkozy, Cameron and Clinton live happily ever after.



MADMAN BUTTERFLY

THE DISTRESSING NEWS THAT BRITAIN is about to go to war again and that the nation of Japan is about to be thrust into a nuclear meltdown sometime before next Tuesday, with radioactive winds sweeping southwards and skirting the Pacific ring of fire, coupled with the fact that Portugal is about to collapse around my ears in an economic and financial meltdown of its own, have all forced me to turn – as always – to refuge in culture.

OPERA IS WITHOUT DOUBT the only true source of entertainment for a gentleman of standing, and so I have spent a goodly amount of my recently-acquired leisure time (having sacked my incompetent girl Friday for chewing gum) listening to my old favourites. To my mind the most thrilling of all is Giordano’s Andrea Chénier, particularly its Un dì all’azzuro spazio as sung by Franco Corelli, possibly the highest point in the music of love.

HOWEVER, TODAY’S TECHNOLOGY has revealed to me that there have been recent new versions in two of my favourite works, which are Puccini’s Madama Butterfly and the operetta The Desert Song by Sigmund Romberg and Oscar Hammerstein II. Always interested in providing valid information to my readers, I would like to outline the plot of the first of these remarkable music events.

Madama Butterfly 2011

Act 1

1. E soffitto e pareti. As the curtain rises, Hillary Pinkerton, a U.S. Naval Officer on USS Abraham Reagan, is inspecting a small house, which sits on a hill and overlooks the bay. Pinkerton has found a house for herself and her new husband, Naoto Kan, the local Prefect, nicknamed Ciao Ciao Yen. At first Hillary woos Yen and promises eternal happiness. Yen is thrilled to be an American by marriage now, and as he surveys the beautiful landscape in front of the house he sings the powerful aria Nagasaki no more! Now Beisaboru! However, Ciao Ciao Yen’s manservant Suzuki warns him that Hillary’s attentions may be short lived.

2. Amore o grillo. Pinkerton admits to a friend that she does not know whether she is really in love or just infatuated, but she is bewitched with Yen’s innocent charm.

3. Bimba, Bimba, non piangere. (This begins the famous long love duet, which ends Act I.) Pinkerton tells Yen that that "All your relatives and all the priests in Japan are not worth the tears from your loving, beautiful eyes." Yen smiles through his tears, "You mean that? I won’t cry any more. And I do not worry about their curses, because your words sound so sweet." They hear Suzuki offstage, saying his evening prayers.

4. Vogliatemi bene. (The long duet concludes.) Yen pleads with Pinkerton to "Love me, please." He asks whether it is true that, in foreign lands, a man will catch a butterfly and pin its wings to a table. Pinkerton admits that it is true but explains, "Do you know why? So that he’ll not fly away." She embraces Yen and says, "I have caught you. You are mine." Yen replies, "Yes, for life." Yet Hillary leaves for parts unknown.

Act 2

5. Un bel dì. Three years have passed, and in this, the opera's most famous aria, Yen says that, "one beautiful day", they will see a puff of smoke on the far horizon. Then a ship will appear and enter the harbor. He will not go down to meet Hillary but will wait on the hill for her to come.

6. Ah! M’ha scordata? Yen is given a letter by Sharpless, the US Consul in Japan, who tells him that Hillary has found a new lifetime partner, Obama-San, and she is now in China, where she is doing “much business”, singing the famous aria Molti Yuan per me. Yen refuses to believe this at first, until one day he sees an economic newspaper headline showing the Nikkei stock exchange ratings compared to those of Shanghai. He is distraught, crying “Listen! Listen to my sad song, Take pity!” and says to Sharpless that without the love of Hillary he prefers “Death! Death! Rather would I cut short my life! Ah! Death!"

Act 3

7. Io so che alle sue pene. Hillary and Obama receive news that Naoto Kan Yen and his entire family, as well as many other inhabitants of his Prefecture in Nagasaki, have been stricken by a mysterious illness and are unable to work. Money is running out for them and they desperately need help from “the big world”.

8. Addio, fiorito asil. Pinkerton and Obama at first consider helping Kan, with Obama singing Yes, we Kan, but advice from a chorus of journalists at the New York Financial Times persuade them to “keep out of it.” Pinkerton remains deep in thought.

9. Con onor muore. Yen, distraught and overwhelmed by his illness and the financial disaster affecting the citizens in his Prefecture decides: "Who cannot live with honor must die with honor." He takes a knife from a ceremonial cabinet and walks behind a screen. The knife clatters to the floor as Yen emerges, staggering. From outside the house, Pinkerton cries, "Yen! Yen!" and rushes in - but it is too late. He is dead

NEXT: THE DESERT SONG 2011