So how did you avoid the national forelock-tugging and cap-doffing competition last week?
A long weekend on Rockall, perhaps, or four days at home with the curtains drawn and all media switched off, listening to your collection of archive recordings of 1970s Radio Tirana tractor production statistics?
Only joking - hopefully, like me, you were able to surround yourselves with like-minded people and have a bloody good party with no mention of "it" whatsoever!
By pure coincidence the jubilee coincided with our 17th Glastonwick Festival, a three-day extravaganza of 80 real ales from small independent breweries, feet-tangling ciders and punky music and poetry which I've been organising since the mid-90s.
It was held on a lovely little farm in West Sussex, where 500-plus people emptied the casks and danced themselves silly.
The only time God Save The Queen was heard was the version with the loud guitar intro and "No future" at the end. Great stuff.
But last Tuesday we did have a street party, organised by my wife Robina and the queen - the local queen, that is.
He's called Marshall and was resplendent in a fittingly regal, heart-covered frock. He brought two fellow queens along to regale our neighbours with a suitably gay selection of extremely queenly songs.
Unfortunately, it pissed down all day and we got absolutely soaked - and the queens missed a trick by failing to include It's Raining Men in their innuendo-soaked repertoire.
But we had a lovely time and the one remaining cask of scrumpy left over from Glastonwick ensured that some of us didn't notice the rain at all!
I'm writing this in windy, rainy Torquay - yes, from the window I can see the herds of bedraggled wildebeest, Mr Fawlty - where I was doing a gig as part of the West Country leg of my tour of England and Wales with Aussie urban folk singer Rory Ellis.
Next week we've got two shows in London and then it's up to Liverpool and north Wales. There's angry social surrealist political satire and song from me, beautifully sung tales of Australian street life from Rory. Come if you can.
To end, remember "Love football, hate racism," over the next few weeks of the Euros.
Given the way Ukraine suffered under the Nazis - and the obscene role played by a minority of its citizens in the death squads and concentration camps - the stuff happening on the terraces there, and to a letter extent in Poland, is literally criminal.
Anti-Stalinist perestroika and glasnost was a good idea for sure but you ended up handing over half of Europe to Goldman Sachs and nazi football hooligan gangs.