London
I always wondered what happened to that ghastly floating Chinese restaurant that used to meander around Sydney Harbour. Now it’s turned up as the new Royal Barge, from whence Elizabeth, Phil and the rest of the blue-fingered bluebloods watch the Jubilee Regatta making its way down the muddy Thames on a freezing winter’s, er, sorry, summer’s day.
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Wisely, I choose to avoid the entire event and instead sneak off to a barn in Buckinghamshire for what the poms call a barbie. Sausages, gently cooked, pink on the inside, are served up at room temperature. I try to explain the delights of the frazzled Aussie snag scorching the skin off your fingertips, but give up after the bit about crunching through a layer of carbon smothered in tomato sauce elicits blank stares. Thoughtfully, our host has provided a keg of real ale so I retreat to the corner of the barn and test out the merits of room-temperature fare accompanied by copious volumes of room-temperature beer. Not bad!
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Thirty-odd years ago I sold the British on the idea of enjoying cold Foster’s lager, in a campaign I wrote using Paul Hogan to convert them to the Australian way of life. It worked, and before you could say ‘like a rattlesnake in a lucky dip’ the poms were going doolally over Foster’s, XXXX, Billabong, Kylie, Quiksilver, Ugg boots and a host of other Aussie imports. Now it appears they also want our weather. In one of my original Foster’s ads Hoges stands outside a London pub in the pouring rain, pint in hand, cheerfully proclaiming: ‘The drought’s finally broken.’
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It was a joke. I mean, clearly the idea of Britain going into drought is hilarious, yes? Er, apparently not, and in a Flannery-esque fit of climate change-induced nonsense the worthy water authorities of the misty isles recently declared their very own British drought, excitedly introducing water restrictions, banning hosepipes and the rest of it. The Great British Drought doesn’t last very long. As the icy rains lash the swollen rivers, the authorities take advantage of all the hoopla surrounding the Diamond Jubilee to quietly call the whole thing off.
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Prince Philip and I both wisely avoid attending the Jubilee concert in the Mall. He has the convenient excuse of having nearly popped his clogs on the Barge of Frozen Misery, whereas I am not entirely convinced by the line-up. What’s Stevie Wonder got to do with the Windsors? And of all the brilliant British pop stars to choose from, why would you opt for Gary Barlow, the Andrew Ridgeley of Take That, to mastermind the whole show? Where are Mick and Keef singing the best bits of Her Satanic Majesties Request? Or the remnants of Queen performing ‘Killer Queen’? Or Noel Gallagher singing ‘Live Forever’? At least Elton has a sense of humour and trots out ‘I’m Still Standing’ in honour of Her Majesty’s Duracell bunny-like tenacity. Sir Paul — whom I worshipped so much as a kid that I hung around his St. John’s Wood home until he finally gave me his autograph — does the grand finale, but what on earth is he thinking? Of the entire Beatles /Wings oeuvre he chooses to perform, er, ‘Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da’? John and George must be turning in their graves.
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Many years ago I tricked my hyperactive son into going down Chelsea’s King’s Road on another gay (to his mind) shopping expedition by telling him it was where all the rock stars like Jagger hang out. He bought it, and off we headed. Unbelievably, outside the 20th shoe shop of the day we bumped into Noel Gallagher from Oasis, who, much to my son’s and my mutual excitement, obligingly posed for a photo. To this day, my son still believes famous pop stars litter the English countryside like so many discarded McDonald’s wrappers.
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I’m delighted to see George Osborne and David Owen both getting creative in figuring out how to pull the plug on the EU. About time, too. Although one thing that can be said for the disastrous Common Market experiment is that it has bequeathed London an extraordinary array of food outlets and al fresco dining. We pop into a wonderful deli in Maida Vale. The man in front of me is blocking the counter with one of those monstrous prams as he laboriously makes his choices. I hover impatiently, my irritation obvious as he selects the last of all the best charcuterie. I finally shove him and his pram aside. He turns around and gives me a filthy look. I recognise him immediately.
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‘Noel!’ I exclaim. The former Oasis frontman is even wearing the same jacket as in our famous King’s Road photo of over a decade ago. The warm familiarity I feel for him is clearly not reciprocated, and I stare at him awkwardly for several seconds, before stupidly blurting out, ‘Is that your baby?’ He looks at me, puzzled. ‘Well, I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean.’
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It’s still raining when we arrive at a beautiful old manor house in the Cotswolds. The surrounding village is straight out of Midsomer Murders, and even goes by the spine-chilling name of Lower Slaughter. We retire to the drawing room with Professor Plum and a lead pipe only to be confronted by… Godammit, it’s another pop star! I frantically sift through my memory banks. Scruffy grey beard, dark sunglasses (even though its raining!) and a baseball cap. Dave Stewart from the Eurythmics? Bob Geldof? Nope, it’s that ‘other’ bloke from the Traveling Wilburys! My sister-in-law is beside herself, and throws herself groupie-style into his lap screeching about how she loved the Electric Light Orchestra back in the Seventies and before you can say ‘Mr Blue Sky’ he’s telling us all about his brand new albums (plural!) about to be released — apparently there are five of them. What is it about these pommy pop stars? Won’t they ever learn to just leave us alone?
Rowan Dean is associate editor of The Spectator Australia and a columnist with the Australian Financial Review.
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