OPINION: The reluctant republican?

  “Patriotism is your conviction that this country is superior to all others because you were born in it.” George Bernard Shaw.

Well, it’s all over; the Diamond Jubilee thrash. The bunting has been put away and I have carefully removed all traces of charcoal from the gaps between my teeth; the result of living on charred barbecue meats for the past few days. The recycling bin is brimful of cans and bottles barely a week since it was last emptied and the Hardcastle household is once more settling down to a kind of reassuring normality.

I’m really not sure how I stand on this royalty thing. I’m not really much of a flag-waver to be honest and the idea of being ruled over for centuries by a single family, with a few nips and tucks here and there doesn’t really sit well with my republicanesque principles.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those dyed-in-the-wood republican types who fulminate and rage every time Her Maj or, more likely, one of her numerous hangers-on gets caught out in something or other such as using an RAF helicopter to take their golf clubs up to Gleneagles or summoning-up the Royal Train to pop down to Tetbury to get Camilla a packet of fags.

No, on the whole, I’m a bit of a live and let live man. In fact, if truth be known, I’m too bone idle to have a strong opinion either way on the subject of whether or not it’s time to do away with the Royal Family and go for a full-fat republic.

I suppose the best argument against having a republic is the thought of having a president such as Cameron, Clegg, Miliband or - horror of horrors - President Blair. The very thought is enough to sent shivers down the Hardcastle spine.

So, like most of the nation it seems, I put out the bunting, bought in cases and cases of amazingly cheap beer, got in enough charcoal to strip an entire rain-forest and partied. I entered meaningless quizzes, listened to various sound-systems on the street competing with each other to pump out their tinny decibels and tried to be nice to the neighbours and their assorted dogs and screeching kids.

I also watched a bit of TV as I dodged in and out between the showers. I avoided the Jubilee Concert like the plague. The sight of all those obsequious, wrinkly former pop stars grovelling and fawning was a bit too much to stomach but I did watch the River Pageant.

I’m not sure if Her Majesty reads my opinion pieces but I’ve never actually had it officially confirmed that she doesn’t. So what I’ll say here, knowing it won’t go any further is, who on earth’s idea was the Royal Barge; otherwise known as ‘The Spirit of Chartwell’?

What a total monstrosity. What a carbuncle! It looked like some sort of obscene, tacky and particularly garish floating Chinese restaurant. It resembled a bargain-basement Barbie-Doll accessory; hideous in red and gold bling with a dog-poo brown hull.

My God, compare this water-borne eyesore with the dignified, stately, deep blue and gilded lines of the former Royal Yacht ‘Britannia’ and you get some sort of idea just how far the monarchy has slid since the grotesque ‘It’s a Royal Knockout’ in 1987 and the Diana Grief-Fest ten years later. This, you will recall, featured the toe-curling performance of Elton John belting out ‘Candle in the Wind’ with new verses that sounded as if they had been written by an office junior employed by a manufacturer of cheap cards.

To be fair, the Queen did at least have the decency to look embarrassed and she wisely avoided adding insult to injury by refusing to sit on one of those red thrones under the nasty-looking gold canopy that looked as if it had been purchased from a Tibetan car-boot sale.

I thought at first that an unusually florid Prince Philip had turned purple with rage in his full Admiral of the Fleet regalia at having to suffer the indignity of it all but it seems more likely that his high colour was due to a brewing bladder infection.

So, before I am tempted to throw in my lot with the republican movement, let the Bling-Barge be the very lowest spot in this attempt to turn the Royals into some sort of tasteless, shocking-pink, Essex-influenced version of what the monarchy should be about.

Perhaps when it’s time for the next royal junket, thought might be given to a return to something quiet, restrained, tasteful and dignified?

If they can’t manage this, they why not do what the rest of us do; stay at home, put a bit of bunting up, light the barbecue, break open a case or two of cheap supermarket lager and have a right royal knees-up.