Want a party, Nick Griffin? Come to me
I CAN'T help feeling sorry for Nick Griffin, all dressed up and nowhere to go after the withdrawal of his invitation to the Queen's garden party.
That he was the author of his own misfortune makes it no less poignant.
In the pictures of Griffin in his shiny waistcoat, neatly parted hair, invitation clutched proudly, he resembled a little boy on his way to the birthday bash of the most popular girl in school.
But he was so excited about the prospect of attending that he blew his chance of doing so, when the Palace decided he had exploited his invitation for party political purposes.
It's not done, apparently, to boast that one's audience with Her Majesty makes one a representative of thousands of British patriots. Do so and you risk being sent straight to bed without any supper.
Griffin was left furious at the 'unBritish' insult of having his invitation cancelled two hours before party time.
It was left to Andrew Brons, MEP for Yorkshire and Humber, to report on the excellence of the cucumber sandwiches, perhaps unwittingly twisting the knife in his leader's heart.
It's not the first time I've felt a spasm of sympathy for the BNP leader, and the temptation to psycho-analyse him. In his Question Time appearance, attacked from all sides, his wretched grin again made me see the child in the man, suggesting that a life devoted to hostility to Britain's ethnic minorities might have at its root some early trauma. I suspect he is motivated by something more neurotic than a reasoned objection to out-of-control immigration.
You could call that racism. But it might as easily be described as a form of paranoia, with race and national identity being the objects it happens to have attached itself to.
But a man whose heart swells with pride at an invitation by the Queen - and aches with grief when it is withdrawn - must crave acceptance, and that is surely grounds for hope. Who knows? Nick Griffin might become acceptable to the Palace yet.
There's an argument for being nice to nasty boys, smothering the jagged edges of their grievances in the mollifying embrace of inclusion.
Given that, in the Big Society, we're all expected to do our bit for the wellbeing of our fellow man, I could volunteer to help to soothe Griffin's troubled spirit. Maybe his shiny waistcoat need not go to waste after all.
I threw a party the other week, to mark my daughter's third birthday. It wasn't as grand as a Palace Garden Party, but the sun shone and it was a lovely do. If, by next July, Griffin is still smarting from his royal rejection, perhaps he could come to Zoe's fourth.
He can join in pass the parcel. He can even have a go on the bouncy castle, provided he takes his shoes off.
I'm sure my wife could rustle up some cucumber sandwiches. We can discuss national identity over barbecued British beef burgers and chilled bottles of Spitfire Ale.
If we drink enough of it, we might get the guitars out - these far-right types are often surprisingly musical - and as the barbecue embers cool beneath the setting sun, Nick can disabuse me of my prejudices against nationalist folk music.
But I should say in advance that the invitation will be withdrawn should he seek to exploit it for political purposes.
awolstenholme@ywng.co.uk
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Weather for Cleckheaton
Friday 25 May 2012
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