A street party? Not in my name...

It has been said that at the time of national depression the thing guaranteed to lift the spirits of the British is either a war or a royal celebration.

I’m not a big fan of war – it robbed me of a Grandfather I never had the pleasure to meet. And – prepare for a shock – I’m no great fan of the Royal Family either. In fact I’m a staunch republican. There I’ve said it.

This causes great consternation in our household as my wife, my mother and my parents-in-law are big monarchists. That’s not to say they all favour Henry VIII just that they are supporters of the monarchy.

So when the royal wedding comes around – I’m sorry but I will not afford it the capital letters to which the event is not justified – I will be searching for like-minded individuals who wish to avoid all semblance of it. I will probably be propped up in a bar somewhere, teetering on a stool while singing along with the ‘The Red Flag’ as played by some hairy and unkempt folk band.

Unlike, I’m led to believe in the USA, where they are lapping up every mention of the big day. They can’t, apparently, understand the ambivalence many of us this side of the pond display towards our monarchy – because they don’t have their own obviously.

If the US wishes to invade and force a regime change to secure the rights to what’s left of the North Sea oil reserves, I, for one, wouldn’t be throwing any shoes.

Looking at it objectively – and not through the eyes of somebody whose main cause of upset on the day of Diana’s funeral was that most of the pubs were shut – Friday will be a big day for Her Madge.

She, at least, is a traditional monarch, in that she’s of German extraction and appreciates the role she has inherited. Sadly for her, the children she gave life too – with one possible exception – have largely been an embarrassment to her, rather like their father.

Her eldest discusses the merits of modern architecture with flora and lost any remaining credibility he had with his infidelity. The second son mixes with all the wrong people and is possibly more of a drain on the national resource that the rest of the family combined, while the youngest is quite simply a serial failure and buffoon whom you wouldn’t invite to the opening of a crisp packet.

If these people had emerged from a four-bedroomed detached in your local environs we wouldn’t bat an eyelid. Sadly, they’re meant to be national icons and represent us abroad.

The one redeeming feature about her offspring is Princess Anne, but sadly, despite her phenomenal charity work she has a personality as prickly as a porcupine and her public image has suffered accordingly.

While there are those who would wave their Union Flags patriotically if there were a corgi on the throne there are others whose view of the Royal Family – while not as rock bottom as mine – has stuttered and will need some bolstering.

This is why a lot of responsibility sits on the shoulders of 28-year-old William Arthur Philip Louis Windsor. His paternal grandmother possibly sees him as the natural heir to the throne. Even allowing for a mother’s endearing love she wouldn’t want to pass the baton on to Moe, Larry or Curly.

William seems a decent chap. He certainly appears to have his feet on the ground and it’s fair to say his mother may have instilled in him some humility – and even a little contempt at the way other members of the royal entourage misuse their privilege.

I wish him well, not just in his marriage but in his future role as heir expectant. He’s certainly landed on his feet with Miss Middleton, for a start. She’s every little girl’s idea of a how a princess should look: beautiful, with longish hair, a nice smile and a decent figure.

To misquote Caroline Aherne’s Mrs Merton: “Tell me Kate, what first attracted you to the prematurely balding, multi-millionaire future King of England?”

Hopefully her answer might also suggest that in a largely dysfunctional, high-profile family he has emerged as a decent chap and an honourable human being. The signs are good so far.