It's suggested every now and then, usually by people wearing berets and living in bedsits, that as a nation we've forgotten how to protest. Not like the French, they say; they know how to kick up a fuss.
They're right: we don't storm the Champs Elysee or set fire to our own hair because someone's trying to make us work of an afternoon. No; what we do well is to hold very British protests. Protests that involve corduroy slacks, maybe, or queuing.
And no one has proved this better than the lovely dinner ladies of Walthamstow.
Slightly miffed at some working conditions, a 200 strong force decided to drum up publicity for their plight with a protest outside the London Fifteen restaurant. Not that it was Fifteen's fault of course, but everything-Jamie Oliver is now inextricably tarred with the school dinner's brush. Plus it would be a good PR stunt, they thought as they stirred their Smash.
Once the news broke of the planned attack, like the beacons lighting coast-to-coast before the Armada, word soon reached Jamie Oliver towers that Doreen, Eileen and Colleen would be leading their throngs onto the battlefield of London's N1, and Jamie's people put an immediate peace-plan into action. A few phone calls later and all but the hardiest of protesters had been calmed.
But still, cometh the hour, cometh the anoraked dinner ladies. 12 of them, to be precise. The plans and preparation had obviously been long in the making: two had placards.
But, like the Armada, the British weather came to our rescue. After a few hours, a few polite 'hello dears' to diners, and a refuelling of brownies and tea courtesy of those courageous Jamie Oliver people, light drizzle finally drove them from their staunchly held battlefield positions.
Britain safe; dinner ladies damp; the nation's belief in freedom of speech reignited.
