Party For The People

         The coronation of Elizabeth II was the first thing I ever saw on TV and I have not watched a televised royal event since. Yet I could not boycott last week’s Jubilee celebrations entirely, try as I might. I got drawn in on day one, when my Finnish pal pinged a message. He was watching the TV broadcast from the Mall. “What a great spectacle. Congratulations!” he wrote. I replied as tactfully and graciously as I could, then turned on my own TV in time to watch the flypast, something that, as a 1950’s RAF child, I just cannot resist.

          As for street parties, I attended three (not all on the same day), but as a supporter of community activities, not of the Queen. Yes, there were ironic paper crowns and bunting, but the flag-waving was generally low-key and the impression I got was that people were more appreciative of the extra holiday than the reason for it. As for the formats, none of them looked like the classic 1950’s street full of trestle tables laden with sandwiches, scones, tea and trifle, with neighbours seated shoulder-to-shoulder in cheery, loyal celebration. They were all different except in this one respect: they were based around food banks.

          The first event was on a grassy space adjoining a sports centre, where giant board games were provided by a small charity and ‘minded’ by an old bloke cheerfully resigned to the job of making sure they were not wrecked by over-enthusiastic kids. Meanwhile, the food was the domain of three volunteer ladies with whom I would not have picked an argument. (And for those of you who care about the issue, the scones were pronounced “sconns” and served with the cream on top of the jam.)

          The second event was set in the back yard of the community hub and spilled out into the back alley, where it adjoined the next-door pub’s smoking area. The food here was not traditional and all the better for it. Two Nigerian ladies had been co-opted to cook up some of their national specialities, the aromas of which tempted even the most die-hard traditionalists to grab a plateful.

          The third event was actually in a street, at one end of which was a stage for bands and along which were stalls set out by local craftspeople, where anyone who wanted to could try their hand at making. The hub was a multi-use building, fitted out with performance and exhibition spaces, as well as a bar. Things got quite lively towards the end of the day, a desperate finale before the Monday morning come-down, perhaps.

          A couple of days later, in the quiet aftermath of the celebrations, I visited a place called Antony, a grand, historic house, now in the care of the National Trust. Its founding family were well connected with the monarchy six hundred years ago, though one of them was decapitated by Henry VIII for not showing sufficient loyalty and they have worked hard ever since to regain favour. The family still lives in the house (even though it was ‘given’ it to the NT), which is why public access is quite limited. As on many past occasions, I felt thankful that places like Antony have been preserved and opened up, while resentful that they were spawned by a land-owning aristocratic system. However, the NT also preserves more ordinary properties, such as the Hardmans’ house in Liverpool, which gives me a hope and vision of the future in which it might be persuaded to take over even more modest properties, like mine, for instance. I would really not mind relocating to the pub every Thursday afternoon to accommodate the public – as long as the NT foots the bill for the upkeep of the place.

          But why stop there? In my mind’s eye, I see a future for the NT as a property developer, not in a Disneyesque manner, but as a socially responsible landlord, nudging the useless government aside and building to resolve the housing shortage. Now, that would be something to celebrate in the streets.