I blame the scapegoats (13 page)

So this year does present us with a wonderful
anniversary. It is ten years since the
annus horribilis,
which
is not some weird condition you develop from sitting on the throne for too
long, but was the Queen's own phrase to describe the year when it all fell
apart for the royal family. Nineteen ninety-two was the year the mask slipped
and we saw the truth. So wave that flag and open that champagne. Because for a
whole decade now nobody has cared about the monarchy. Hooray, we won't have to
hold a street party and watch our neighbours waiting to race for that parking
space right outside their house as soon as the cars are allowed back in the
road. In one last-ditch attempt to appear relevant and with it, the monarchists
are organizing a more modern type of party. Sir Paul McCartney, Mick Jagger and
Sir Elton John are teaming up for a special Jubilee pop concert. 'Ah! Aren't
they marvellous?' the old ladies will say. 'The way they just keep on going.
They do so much for tourism and they work so hard and you shouldn't criticize
them because they can't answer back.' Suddenly I agree with all the royalists
saying things were better in 1977. It makes you nostalgic for punk. I don't
blame the Queen personally, of course, she's just badly advised. No one's
advised her to declare a republic.

9
February 2002

Many
years ago Norman Tebbit caused a political storm with his so-called 'cricket
test'. An adapted version of this was later used by several Commonwealth
countries - no one w
^r
as allowed in unless they wanted to hit Norman
Tebbit round the head with a cricket bat. Yesterday's White Paper on
immigration and citizenship proposed that immigrants to this country swear an
oath of allegiance to the Queen and demonstrate an ability to speak English
that would have ruled out most of her ancestors. The full text of the pledge
requires new arrivals to uphold British values and democratic traditions - so
from now on they'll stop bothering to vote at elections and will just moan
about everything instead.

Some immigrants to these shores do seem to
have slightly naive ideas about what life in Britain is like. Anyone who tries
to get into the UK by clinging to the underneath of a train should have it
politely explained to them that in this country the trains don't actually go
anywhere. But if there is going to be a test for British citizenship, it
should at least reflect the reality of the British character. For a start, in
the queue for applications, anyone seen twitching nervously, in case that man
hovering near the front was thinking of pushing in, would get extra
'British-ness' points straight away. However, when someone does barge to the
front of the queue, the ideal applicant should whisper to

her husband, 'I'm
going to say something,' to which he should reply, 'Shh, dear, best not make a
fuss' and that couple will have then passed stage one with flying colours. Then
comes the tough written test (and anyone who completes this without a single
grammatical error or spelling mistake will be told to go straight back to
Holland).

Question
1: Please list the following events in order of historical importance - (a) the
French Revolution (b) the end of the Cold War (c) Brotherhood of Man's 1976
Eurovision triumph with 'Save Your Kisses For Me'. Question 2: What is the
traditional accompaniment to spaghetti bolognese - (a) a light sprinkling of
grated parmesan cheese, or (b) a large portion of chips and two slices of white
bread? Question 3: A man trips on the pavement and bumps into you. Do you (a) cast
him a slightly annoyed look and continue on your way, or (b) say 'Oh I'm
terribly sorry, really - my fault entirely . . .'? Question 4: Which of the
following would make you sufficiently angry to write to your MP - (a) Britain's
involvement in a war with no foundation in international law (b) the sale of
British armaments to repressive dictatorships, or (c) the shipping forecast on
Radio 4 seems to have changed the name 'Finisterre' to 'Fitzroy'?

Immigration
to Britain is nothing new, although in the old days the speed at which
applications were processed often depended on how big your army was. Back in
1066, for example, the small immigration office at Hastings was completely
overwhelmed.

'Right, sir, while your army is filling out
form 7R(B) -
Application for Admission to Wessex
by
non-Saxon residents
-
can I just ask you the purpose of your visit
to the UK?'

'Well, to overthrow the incumbent Saxon
monarchy, install a brutal regime based on fear and murder, and seize all
wealth and property for myself and my fellow Normans.'

'Fine, just as long as you weren't
planning to do any paid work while you were here . . .'

At which point one of the lancers had to go
home because he'd been hoping to do a little bit of bar-work.

Today we hope to make assimilation a more
peaceful process. But David Blunkett's White Paper (an unfortunate name in the
circumstances) has now been upstaged by his comments about arranged marriages.
He suggested that it would be better for people to choose their marriage
partners from here in Britain rather than Asia, which greatly upset some fat
old white men who were looking at a website based in Thailand. Of course, for
most Britons it has not been customary for our parents to arrange our
marriages. Instead we have both sets of in-laws come to stay at Christmas and
there then follows an arranged divorce.

When politicians talk about race, and indeed
religion, every single care must be taken, not just because it is so easy to
give offence, but because there are racists in our society who need only the
slightest misheard cue to justify racial violence. Which makes it all the more
ironic that David Blunkett had to back down when he attempted to outlaw the
incitement of religious hatred. Some people tried to claim this would make it
illegal to impersonate a vicar, which was clearly-ridiculous. What did they
think the Prime Minister had been doing for the last five years?

16
February 2002

You'd
think the woman from Scottish Widows would have got over it by now She's been
moping around in that black hooded cloak for years and, frankly, it's time she
moved on. 'Och, come on, Morag,' her friends are all saying. 'You're still
young. Put a nice bright dress on and come down the pub for singles nite.'

'Och no, it wouldnae be the best use of those
wise investments made by my late husband Hamish . . .'

It won't be long till this particular
actress is released from being typecast as a widow from the Highlands, because
I expect Scottish Widows will be forced to change their name when the marketing
men realize that the label actually gives a vague clue as to the sort of
business the company does. The whole point of brand names these days is to
disguise your purpose, not to clarify it. British Steel is now Corus, British
Gas are Centrica, Tarmac Construction are Carillion, the Conservative Party are
New Labour. Cheap gags aside, the stupidest rebranding of the lot has to be
Consignia; another meaningless word beginning with the letter 'c' which used
to be something we knew as 'the Post Office'.

This week Consignia's chairman admitted that
the expensive rebranding was a failure and that the new name and logo had
attracted derision. Derision? Heaven forbid, I certainly wouldn't want to add
to that. Well, maybe just a bit. So now that they have spent an absolute
fortune changing their name from 'the Post Office', what name does the interim
chairman of Consignia think they might try next? Apparently he thinks the name
'the Post Office' has a ring to it. Hmmm, yes, strangely it does sort of put
you in mind of red pillar boxes, whistling postmen and queues of pensioners
watching the video loop advertising Stannah stair lifts and moaning that there
isn't a separate counter just for stamps. Clearly what is required now is some
marketing consultants to spend a lot of time and money testing this new name
out on carefully monitored focus groups, before finally unveiling the discovery
that 'the Post Office' would indeed be the perfect moniker for that office where
they handle all the post. In fact, 'Consignia' was not the original first
choice of those clever guys from marketing. For a long time their preferred
option was (and I kid you not) 'Mailtrack'. It says it all really.

Unfortunately,
quite a lot of name-changing has been going on at the Post Office since it
became a PLC. A 2 per cent pay offer is now known as a 'reasonable pay
increase'. 'First-class mail' also has a different meaning, with over two
million letters a day now being delivered late, and 'second delivery' now means
some time later that week. The organization which in the financial year ending
April 1999 made a profit of £493 million (its twenty-fourth consecutive annual
surplus) is now losing
£1
million a day. Some of the lowest postal charges in the
world still saw 90 per cent of first-class letters being delivered the next
day, but this was before it was made a public limited company. So much for
private business acumen being superior to state-run public services. We are
told that the Post Office has to change to survive in the globalized economy
but there's nothing compulsory about this. The Tasty Plaice Fish Bar doesn't
feel the need to diversify into international banking or insurance and rename
itself 'Bolloxia'.

Of
course modern global companies can't have names that really reflect their
purpose, because the honesty would be too damaging: 'Rip U Off, 'Asset-strip
PLC, 'Kwik-Profitz' and 'I Can't Believe We're Not Better'. And so they have
quasi-Latin names that are deliberately bland and meaningless in the hope that
nobody will take offence at what they actually do. The fashion is spreading
fast; the

Al-Qaida
terrorist network are soon to be renamed 'Convexia', Mossad are being
relaunched as 'Creatia', and the LA street gang 'the Bloods' will henceforth be
known as 'Cruxelsior PLC.

When
so much focus is put on image rather than delivery of service, it's no great
surprise that things start to go as badly wrong as they have for what was once
Britain's best known brand. And if the Post Office's customers are suffering,
imagine what it is like for the ordinary employees. Things just aren't the same
down in Greendale. Postman Pat is now 'Consignia Personnel Pat' with his
black-and-white feline communications operative.

'Morning, Mrs
Goggins,' says Pat.

'Any letters for me
today, Pat?'

'No letters, sorry. But Consignia are
expanding in a global marketplace, offering financial services, home shopping,
utilities and advertising and marketing sectors.'

'Oh, that's nice,' says Mrs Goggins. 'I would
offer you a cup of tea but the rural Post Office is being closed down and
converted into luxury second homes.'

'Oh well,' says Pat, 'at least Bob the
Builder will still have a job. The bastard.'

23
February 2002

What
a day to have taken off work. For twenty years he had been BBC sport's only
curling correspondent; two decades of trying to persuade
Grandstand
to cover the Strathclyde regional curling play-offs. And
then on Thursday night he'd promised to be in the audience for his
granddaughter's school recorder recital and the British women went and won the
gold medal at the Winter Olympics. Oh well, there'll always be another time.
No, on second thoughts, there won't be.

Britain's
success in the women's curling is like the Polish cavalry-winning the award for
the best turned-out horses in the Second World War. You can't help feeling it's
not the main event. But now we are supposed to look the world's athletes in the
eye once more. 'Hey, we're not second rate at sport - we got a gold in the
ladies' curling!' At Westminster, congratulations were given by the hastily
appointed Minister for Curling. And how petty it was at this moment of national
jubilation for cynics to suggest that this represented some sort of a demotion
for John Prescott. To read the coverage in the newspapers you'd imagine that
the whole world was focused on this one final. At the White House, President
Bush cancelled all meetings and pretzels while he watched the thrilling climax
to the ladies' final. In the Middle East, hostilities between Israelis and
Palestinians ceased as both sides were gripped by the unfolding drama from Salt
Lake City. In the BBC's
Question Time
studio,
the programme was delayed by live coverage from the Winter Olympics, but the
pundits put aside past differences as they too were consumed by the nail-biting
climax. Nicholas Soames put a supportive arm around Harriet Harman as she
nervously bit her lower lip. Ian Hislop and Mary Archer held hands under the
desk, both secretly praying for the first British winter games gold since
Torville and Dean broke both their hearts.