Rob Blackhurst

But not for long. A sideways look at a week of national consensus, prayer and mourning, in which the metatarsal bone finally won its fifteen minutes of fame.

Observer.co.uk

Sunday April 14 2002

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Here were seven days to stir even the most cynical republican soul. We were a nation transformed and renewed. A new sense of national purpose had come over us. The blitz spirit could still work its alchemy even at half a century's distance and we learnt again that there was nothing we enjoy more than a good queue.

By the time of the Queen Mother's funeral, there was no doubt which side had won the war of national meaning. Who could doubt that the nation would now move on with a new sense of what really mattered. We would all now be shunning forever our celebrity obsessions and shallow concerns of that 1990s Belle Epoque. Not unless anything really epoch-making was to happen - like somebody hurting their foot or something.

Amidst all of the full-supplement salutes to mark the Queen Mother's funeral last week, there was just one note of subversion from the Guardian on the eve of the funeral. Like every other paper, the devotion shown by those all-day and night queues called for the leader writers to explain exactly what it all meant. And at last the Guardian showed it could eulogise with the best of them, in a way even Mr Dacre of the Daily Mail would be hard put to match. Under the standard Lest We Forget rubric, the Queen Mother's forgotten achievements were reeled off the Queen Mother's achievements: "Too few now remember the Queen Mother's riffs on those early Charlie Parker records during the Kansas City years. When she launched Britart, some thought her touch had deserted her. But they had said the same when she formed the Sex Pistols". The Guardian's vivid description of the Queen Mother rising at the far post to head home a late winner in the 1966 World Cup final might also have brought back fond memories of the recently-departed Ken Wolstenholme: "They think its all over … and now, Ma'am, it is".

As the Mail spent the week in another witch-hunt to unmask the "Panjandrums of Political Correctness", it was good to see Liberal Democrat MP Simon Hughes tugging his forelock with the best of them. What better man than the radical social liberal and rights campaigner to help to ensure that the Queen Mother does indeed fill that fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square - even if it might perhaps mean ruling out Red Rum, who would surely have been her own choice. There was apoplexy at the Mail though when it discovered that Sir Simon's efforts may prove in vein: Red Ken had appointed a "Left-wing Guardian Journalist" to lead the committee deciding on the plinth's fate. Their howls of outrage taught us that members of the "Fourth Plinth Commissioning Group" included a maestro credited with "such bizarre products as eight grandmothers serenading the North Sea with Bulgarian folk-songs" and dear old "pinko" Jon Snow.

Poet Laureate Andrew Motion earned his annual stipend of a sack of wine and four gold sovereigns this week with verses penned to mark the occasion. Hard of hearing courtiers convulsed at the thought that the author of Diana: Her True Story had been hired for the occasion - until someone pointed out that his name was, in fact, Andrew Morton. A poem that was less likely to appear on A-level practical criticism papers was the anonymous verse, She is Gone , chosen by the Queen to appear at the front of the order of service. The Times managed to find out that the poem had graced the funeral of a "52 year old Scottish alcoholic" but could not find its author, history, or any evidence that it had ever been widely published. A member of the Poetry Society told the paper that it had probably come from a greetings cards or, oddly, "the back of a bus".

What more symbolism could we need as proof as even Liz Hurley joinied the exodus to Windsor, even if it was only to head for Elton's place with her newborn son. The film beauty hid the disputed scion of "American playboy" Steve Bing from public view, allegedly to protect a £1.5 million exclusive deal with Hello magazine. The Mirror reported that the birth is wreaking havoc with the Rocket Man's domestic arrangements: his toothy consort David Furnish has been banished from the property to "give her some space", a source alleged.

And then everything changed, and Britain grieved for a second time in a week when a nefarious Argentinian tackle left the England Captain with a broken bone in his foot. Obscure Harley Street consultants came blinking into the sunlight to pontificate on whether the second metatarsal bone in the left foot would take six or eight weeks to heal. One doctor appeared on the Today programme to spend five minutes telling the nation that he couldn't give a diagnosis without seeing the patient.

The papers were left to find pictures of other metatarsals, possibly quite different from David Beckham's own. Not to be left out, Seven Days presents its own evidence, with a little help from the shamefully under-utilised web-site foottalk.com. Though we must stress that we haven't seen the patient ourselves, experts advise that provided Posh is willing to empty the ice bucket onto her spouse's feet every twenty minutes, he'll be right as rain by June.

The tabloids were prescribing no such tender loving care for the blaggard responsible, Argentinian striker Aldo Duscher. "Face of a laughing assassin" screamed the Mail, under a photo of Duscher neither conspicuously mirthful nor bearing arms. Inevitably, the spirit of the Port Stanley proved too much to resist. "The 23 year old, (with alleged passport irregularities) knows that by crocking England's captain he has elevated himself to hero status in his homeland" they dubiously claimed. The Times resisted such histrionics, deciding instead that blame lay firmly with Beckham's footwear. In an online special entitled "Briefing - Beckham's Boots" the lid was lifted on the inner workings of the football boot for the first time. We learned that Beckham's Adidas Predator boots can boast an "external heal counter, a plastic plate that is moulded around the back of the boot" that "allows the wearer greater protection of the Achilles tendon". If that wasn't enough information for anyone outside of the Cobblers Gild, we were treated to a "boot-time line" pinpointing the exact year when nylon replaced leather on the soles. Amidst all this nonsense it fell to the sagacious FA Boss, Adam Crozier, to sum up the national mood:

"If at all possible, you would want a player like David Beckham with you". By Friday, desperate measures were called for. Beck us Pray urged the Sun, as it roped in four media savvy Bishops to lead calls for divine intervention. And it all worked brilliantly as the Sunday papers discerned a miraculous improvement in Beck's chances to play at least some of a World Cup football match against Argentina once again.

Hero of the Week

No little heroism was evident from Madonna's favourite painter Peter Hewison this week when he dared to portray her in a series of nudes with bulging biceps and beef-cake legs. The Material Girl's latest reinvention might be all about country-houses, shooting parties and cut-glass vowels, but Hewison's portraits make her look like an East German shot-putter. "I believe that she will be flattered and pleased that I have done this" Howson gamely suggested. Though pictures of Madonna naked aren't exactly a rare commodity, Howson is realistic enough not to expect an endorsement from her husband "He might be a little annoyed, he'll probably come and hit me". The Mirror reminded us that Guy has often wrestled with the green-eyed monster. He allegedly warned his wife not to dress "like an old slapper" and, in his perfect mockney rhyming slang, implored her to keep her "raspberries" concealed from public gaze.

Villain of the Week….

Velvet throated BBC commentator Tom Fleming this week was in hot water after he decided to talk through the two-minute silence at the beginning of the Queen Mother's Funeral Service. A BBC spokesman made the bizarre claim that the silence "wasn't part of the ceremony" and that it was appropriate for Fleming to remain unsilent in describing the silence. Though this seemed to be a far graver error than Peter Sisson's burgundy tie, the tabloids were reassured that the quivering baritone meant no disrespect. Channel Four, meanwhile, showed ER through the entire service.

Good Week for:

Brand Consultants: Camelot bosses must have felt off-parr this week after the Independent reported that they had paid Landor Consultants an estimated £500 000 to redesign their mascot. Unveiled to much fanfare, it transpired that the creative gurus had decided that that the old one was better than anything they could think of. Just in case anyone thought they hadn't earned their fee, they decided to change the type-face of the word "The National Lottery" and make it curved.

Bad Week For

The Working Classes: Racing pigeons, bread and dripping and the outside lav could be officially abolished after the High Court was asked this week to judge whether the working classes still exist. The dispute centres on an attempt by Property Company Danu to build luxury houses on the site of an old pub in Chelsea. Challenging them in the Courts is minted Land-owner and unlikely class hero Lord Cardogan, who argues that his family imposed a covenant on the site in 1929 stipulating that it be used as "housing for the working classes. The company claim that the covenant is void as the working classes "no longer have any definition". Cardogan, an Eton educated billionaire, plans to prove in Court that the proletariat are alive and well, with the enthusiastic support of The Guardian leader writers.