Illustration: David Foldvari

Last week, I was shocked by an article in the Guardian that was incredibly down on the jubilee. Really humourless and pissy. I was surprised. "If any other country were paying homage to an unelected head of state in this way, while the living standards of the majority of the population fall and schools and hospitals struggle with diminishing resources," wrote Peter Wilby, "we would call it 'the cult of the personality' and probably think about invading." What a mood-killer. The commemorative shortbread turned to ashes in my mouth and I cast aside my union flag napkin in dismay. From a man who edited the New Statesman for seven years, I'd expected something more fun.

Or maybe I'm the one being humourless and it was a joke? He can't really think the Queen is a cause for the international community's concern – a Kim Jong-il figure, but fortunate enough to rule over a population with a bizarre and advanced case of mass Stockholm syndrome. A people so mad they don't have to be forced into parading and cheering by the muzzles of Soviet-era weapons or the threat of starvation – we'll turn up and do it voluntarily, and even buy our own flags. The idea of a "cult of the personality" surrounding Her Majesty must surely be meant in jest as she betrays no sign of actually having a personality.

Reading on, it became clear that Wilby was properly pissed off at the prospect of royal-themed festivities, but he did have some jolly suggestions for the sort of jamboree we should be having: "a knees-up to mark the 100th anniversary of the 1884 Reform Act", "a party, an extra bank holiday and a pageant to celebrate the 800th anniversary of Magna Carta" and "more parties, pageantry and days off for the 100th anniversary of the Representation of the People Act 1918".

Those sound like my kinds of celebration! While we're at it, how about a big pop concert in honour of the Medical Relief Disqualification Removal Act of 1885, or a Spitfire fly-past and fireworks display when the next significant anniversary of Burke's Civil List and Secret Service Money Act comes round? With the right deployment of public cash, I'm sure we can turn millions of Britons from bunting-obsessed monarchists into hardcore parliamentary reform anoraks.

Of course there's a risk that, if our admirably violence-free but consequently abstruse path to democracy became the focus of as much forced jollity as the waving little old lady, it could also evoke as much contrarian disdain – possibly even more, since all those historical documents, important though they are, involve a lot less in the way of gold hats, shiny uniforms and performing horses.

Personally, I don't mind the monarchy. I know a lot of people do, but I just don't. I know it's old-fashioned, illogical, pantomimic and unjust. But it's also unimportant, entertaining and, crucially, already there. Not liking the institution is not a good enough reason for getting rid of it. You've got to have a reasonable expectation that the republican alternative – probably some sort of presidency cooked up by contemporary politicians (and you know who they are) – would be an improvement. I say better the devil you know. Particularly when it isn't a devil but a smiling old woman, albeit with a colossal sense of entitlement.

Not entitlement, sorry. Duty. Sense of duty. Excuse me while I cut my own head off.

Seriously though, I bet she thinks she's pretty special. I mean, how couldn't she? Everywhere she goes, there are crowds of people cheering and trying to give her flowers and this has been going on for 60 years. If that doesn't drive you insane with a sense of your own importance, you must have been insane with self-loathing to start with. I think I'm a relatively modest-seeming person – I don't often get accused of megalomania – and yet I can sense the lurking tyrant within. "Maybe I'm the best person ever," I sometimes think. Christ knows what I'd be like if I'd watched millions bow and curtsy before me for several decades.

But I can live with the likelihood that the Queen has an inflated sense of her own significance. It doesn't bother me – she's canny enough to conceal it. And I like the monarchy's effect on the trappings of the British state: the fact that what is officially important isn't really, that MPs swear an oath "by almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, her heirs and successors" rather than piously promising to defend democracy or serve their constituents. I wouldn't believe them whatever they swore, so I'd rather it was something that didn't matter. In an era when few things are what they seem and people seldom say what they really think, our constitution and oaths of allegiance are perfect – they elegantly reflect a hypocritical and duplicitous world. Our monarchy gives us constitutional irony.

The problem with national celebrations is the pressure to join in. Some people relish it – the sort who, at weddings, make it their mission to force the reluctant to dance. But some, myself included, instinctively react against it. "Don't tell me to have fun!" we want to scream. "Stop enjoying this group thing!"

That's why making our weird cartoonish monarchy the focus for a national knees-up is so cleverly inclusive: it gives the curmudgeons a role. Peter Wilby moaned that: "At times like this, republicans risk being portrayed as killjoys and spoilsports." But he's wrong. It's the other way round: at times like this killjoys and spoilsports get to be portrayed as republicans. The Queen's existence means that a flabby "Bah humbug!" emotion is given a rational constitutional backbone and transformed into a credible opinion.

If freedom, democracy, creativity or culture were being celebrated, the non-joiners would have no such rationale for dissent. The royals give them their own non-joiners' campaign to join. They can pretend that this harmless family is actually a serious financial burden and a threat to democracy – that a significant reason "the living standards of the majority of the population fall and schools and hospitals struggle with diminishing resources" is this one antique constitutional anomaly.

It's no help to me, though. I'm stuck in the middle, between Charles I and Cromwell: too curmudgeonly to dance, too much of a traditionalist to ban dancing. No wonder I don't get invited to many parties.