Storm clouds are gathering once again over the blank slab of England's face:
- Our Boys are facing the Mahdi of Qandahar with nought but Italian rifles and licquorice bootlaces;
- Scotchmen are trying to trump the Cymru Rouge in the terrorist-friendly stakes; and
- Bankruptcy threatens millions of gamblers as England win the Ashes.
When Jerry last tried to tattoo his "von und zu" in artillery fire on the White Cliffs of Dover, there was one special lady whose steadfast voice and quintessential English chic clenched the national fist in Dirndl-denying defiance.
The time has come for that lady, who's still with us, to return to the prow of the ship of state and show Kate Winslet and our other assorted, ill-shaven foes why God Almighty chose this and no other island to make his home.
Yes, I am proposing that Her Majesty's Government should honour England's Orchid with an annual Fennella Fielding Day.
All the womenfolk of England shall on that day undertake to speak, dress, coiff and smoke like La Fielding:
This will boost our flagging birthrate, tutor slouched youth in the ways of deportment, improve our fraught relations with the fine, tobacco-curing nations of Virginia and the Near East, and put paid to the common foreign prejudice that all the daughters of Albion are lobster-hued, over-amplified lushes.
Imagine the scene: The nurse winds her way through the chaises-longues and aspidistras at the Shepherd's Bush Home for Thespiennes Distinguées with a tray of morning pick-me-ups.
She calls out "O where is Miss Fielding?", only to be met by row upon row of alabaster vamps in vermillion velvet, each growling "I'm Fennella Fielding - no, I'm Fennella Fielding!"
Drop videos of that among the mountains of Tora Bora and watch Messrs Bin Laden, Al Qaeda and their ilk show a clean pair of sandals for perhaps the first time in their lives.
The Downfall of the Afridis is Assured.