Once upon a time there was a young Culture Secretary called Oliver. When he was walking in the woods one day looking for the trees, Oliver found a snug little building called History. 'Oh ho', he thought. 'I like floral tea towels. I'll call in'. And so he did, tripping lightly over the threshold into a chamber with three doors. Always on the look-out for offence, he picked the door on the Left. It contained a sweet young lecturer with plaited braids and a pinafore dress, talking to some apple-cheeked children in front of a picture of a lovely country mansion like the one Oliver had grown up in. 'This is lovely', thought Oliver. 'I wonder what she's talking about', and he sat down, crossed his legs and listened very hard. But oh no! Her lecture was much too salty! She kept mentioning the servants, and pointing out that every brick of Richard Grosvenor Plunkett-Ernle-Erle-Drax MP's great big house was funded by the blood of his Caribbean slaves. This was Too Much History.
Oliver didn't like this. He liked cream teas and dressing-up boxes. So he left the room and chose the middle door. The only thing in the room was a great big television showing a period drama. 'Much better', said Oliver. 'I liked the man diving into the lake in front of his nice house and emerging dripping wet even though it's not in the book. That's why we put an insincere quote from one of her characters on a bank note'. And so he sat down, and crossed his legs, and tuned in. But oh no! It was The Crown! He didn't know any more whether he was friends with the dead blonde posh one or the big-eared still-alive posh one but he definitely knew that neither of them had ever watched Tiger King in a onesie because nice people in those days didn't like television and onesies were common. This was Not History and people needed a big sign to tell them that it wasn't Proper History because they couldn't tell the difference between reality and real people pretending to be other people who were dead or older now and anyone who suggested that other regimes that publicly declared some art to be Good and other art to be Bad (Oliver had seen this on Channel 5 while waiting for Hitler's Greatest Trousers) were not ideal role models deserved to be Cancelled, but not in a left-wing way.
So Oliver uncrossed his legs and left the room, choosing, finally the door on the Right where he really belonged. This was much better. He sat down, crossed his legs and watched agog as Jacob Rees-Mogg gave an adoring throng of fish proper British names like Sextus and Septimus, before giving in to their demands to be chained up and sent to work in the family mines. 'They're happy, because they're British, Britannia really does rule the waves', sighed Jacob while his nanny sponged his trousers clean, and Oliver clapped his hands with glee. This History was Just Right.
And so Oliver skipped home to find his friend Gavin and together they decided to give their friend Toby the key to the dressing-up box so that he could be the Universities Free Speech Champion to make sure that everyone could say what they wanted about ladies' breasts or black people unless it was Too Much History, while Oliver arranged his dolls in front of him and gave them a long lecture on why they couldn't say what they wanted unless it was to be nice about his friends. And they all lived happily ever after.
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