So the Coronation invites have gone out — and it turns out that I’m NRI’ed (Not Royally Invited).
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t checking the old doormat every day (anyway, I assume they got delivered by a swanky footman, like in Cinderella) but I did sort of hope for something. I pictured His Majesty going through the invite list, turning to the Lord High Chamberlain or Chief Swizzle Stick-in-Waiting or whoever and saying, “don’t forget that lovely Rinder chap... he always adds value.”
I have met the King (back when he was a mere prince) and he spoke to me and my mum for a while. I thought we’d got on famously.
Not only that, but I’m just the sort of subject you’d want to glitter up your crowning. I lightly straddle loads of distinct bits of our national buffet: the law, travel shows, writing (fiction and non), television, and I’m gay and Jewish and been on Strictly. Surely any new monarch would want me sitting in his Abbey? Plus I can sing along to all the hymns and won’t get drunk and nick an orb.
But no. NRI’ed. Even though, I might add, that I support the work of His Majesty’s Police and his court service, and may or may or not be a commandant of the Royal Corp of Musicians. And I have an MBE.
It’s fine, though! Totally fine!
Yes, it would be nice to experience an entirely unique historical moment and it doesn’t matter that I probably won’t live to see another. I honestly don’t mind one bit. The fact that it sits in the magic centre of an irresistible Venn diagram of history, religion, nationhood and camp (i.e., four of my favourite things) doesn’t bother me in the least.
I’ll probably be away anyway — so I’m really not upset about it. Nope, not even a little bit.
Actually, I think I really will be OK. My infinitely brilliant goddaughter, who grew up on social media (poor thing), helpfully reminded me of the interwoven concepts of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) and, more importantly, its cooler cousin JOMO (Joy Of Missing Out).
All of us spend so much of our time invested in worrying how we’re not getting to be where the Big Thing’s happening, we forget how wonderful the alternative is: spending time relaxing in comfy pants, eating a crate of Monster Munch and watching something silly on the internet.
There’s no greater moment than when a plan gets scratched and you can settle down to enjoy seven hours of figure skating on YouTube.
So I’m embracing the JOMAC (Joy of Missing A Coronation). It’ll be much more fun to watch on the telly with a bottle of fizzy pop. Plus I won’t have to worry about sourcing a coronet or hiring a carriage.
I’ve also heard that Sarah Ferguson and various non-royal Dukes haven’t been invited either, so they’re all more than welcome to join me: I’ll be singing God Save the King in my jim-jams. It’ll be utterly perfect.
Happy birthday, fabulous Joan Bakewell
Yesterday the impeccable Joan Bakewell turned 90. She’s one of my top 10 Joans (along with Collins, Rivers and of Arc) and has spent nearly all her life working brilliantly at the cultural and political centre of the country.
Bakewell, below, was once described as the “thinking man’s crumpet” … and even as she enters her 10th decade, it’s true (I’m less the “thinking man’s crumpet” than his week-old pizza: sloppy, stale but adequate in an emergency).
I’m actually going to see her tomorrow at the Portrait Artist of the Year and I couldn’t be more excited to wish her a very happy birthday.
The term “national treasure” is often gifted to those who don’t deserve it, but from time to time it goes to people who really do … Dame Joan, Baroness Bakewell is one of the few. Many Happy Returns!
