Editor-At-Large: The parallel universe of Prince Charles and his Highgrove cronies

Having travelled halfway round the world and back, I return to find little has changed. The Prince of Wales, Britain's most famous job-seeker, has called a conference this weekend to discuss the teaching of his two favourite subjects, English literature and history, in state schools.

Although his intentions are honourable, the inclusion of members of the Highgrove kitchen cabinet, such as Joanna Trollope and Tom Stoppard, give me cause for concern. Teacher Bernice McCabe, who has organised the get-together, is justifiably concerned at the current emphasis on "relevance" in the curriculum, when we need to spend more time trying to make pupils extend their ways of thinking, and broaden their horizons. But is a pep talk from Andrew Motion on "the use of challenging texts" worth much, coming from the man who has dragged poetry down to a level so banal I expected him to come up with an ode for Euan Blair's first week at university, reflecting on the A-level marking fiasco?

The 80 teachers from the West Country attending the conference will be treated to a chat by Ms Trollope on how the school curriculum can be broadened. A bit rich coming from the Queen of the Aga Saga who gave a series of revealing interviews recently about her new image and quest for eternal youth. And while historians Simon Schama and David Starkey have proved their popularity on television with their so-easy-to-digest, bite-sized chunks of popular history, you couldn't really accuse either of these two of occupying the cultural high ground. Why is Dickens's biographer and London historian Peter Ackroyd not placed in the Prince's premier league of experts? Given HRH's recent leaked correspondence, in which he agreed with someone who opined that if farmers had been gay or black they would not have been so "picked on", I can understand why Mr Ackroyd, a flamboyant man unfazed by fame and aristocracy, would not be too keen to call the Palace back. But what a role model he is for beleaguered history teachers; his recent television series on the life of Dickens was not only revelatory in the best sense, but compelling innovative television, presented by a writer at the height of his communicative powers.

Where in HRH's line-up of cronies are the representatives of our rich multicultural society – from Hanif Kureishi to Diran Adebayo to Zadie Smith? Contemporary fiction such as Smith's White Teeth, Kureishi's The Black Album or Adebayo's My Once Upon a Time, not only deal with history and our heritage, but in a direct and entertaining way. Do you think Prince Charles has bothered to watch the brilliant and breezy adaptation of White Teeth on television at the moment? Do you think he has put down his well-thumbed volumes of Laurens van der Post and read Smith's engrossing new novel, Autograph Man, whose central character is Alex-Li Tandem, a Chinese Jewish Englishman with a black girlfriend and an in-depth knowledge of old black-and-white movies?

Once again, the prince proves he lives in a cosy, cosseted world that is not so much part of our own but runs parallel to it. History and literature can be taught to any inner-city child, but via the appropriate messenger. The problem today is to get kids to read books at all, let alone worry about whether they're "relevant" or not.

Gathering together this bunch of establishment whities isn't going to kick-start the argument. I expect many of the teachers attending this weekend will be far too polite to tell Prince Charles where to stick his "expert" advice. They need cash and facilities, not preaching. Perhaps Charles should return to his other part-time career, helping us design National Health hospitals. I hear he travels with his own sheets, blankets, water, and a list of how to make correct sandwiches. All useful stuff when it comes to the thorny question of mixed wards and casualty units that resemble battlegrounds at night.

Norma's worst hour

Having met John Major several times, I can confirm what a sex bomb he is in the flesh, one of those politicians who hold your elbow for that second longer than you would expect. I took this as proof that he was supremely confident in the large underpants department, if not in the art of internecine warfare required to lead the Conservative Party for any length of time. Now poor Iain Duncan Smith comes third in a poll of party leaders on the eve of his annual conference, beaten by Charles "Ginger" Kennedy as the man we'd most like to have running the country. Surely now is the time for Major to return and lead this sorry band of Tories in opposition: at least he's got a unique selling point and a new-found charisma. By the way, if Norma hadn't been so keen on dusting in Huntingdon, would any of this have happened? She is the person who comes out worst in this saga – steadfastly refusing to join her man in London as he took his first steps up the ladder in Westminster. And if Major had decided to reveal his affair with Edwina Currie first, you can be sure he wouldn't have been reviled in the way that she has been. In the war of the sexes, women, sadly, will always be the losers, but at least Currie will now be rich as well as famous.

At the Mobo (Music of Black Origin) awards in London last week gay rights campaigners picketed the event, protesting at the nomination of three reggae singers whose lyrics allegedly urge harm on homosexuals. If Peter Tatchell wants to wave a placard every time he hears lyrics deemed not to be politically correct, he's going to be very busy indeed. We might not agree with born-again Rastafarians, but then we're not sitting in a ghetto in Jamaica. I recognise the rampant sexism and homophobia that bedevils a lot of rap music, but then I find the lyrics to "Catch a Falling Star" equally mind-numbingly banal. And isn't "Jerusalem" fearlessly xenophobic? Equally, Celine Dion's "I Am a Woman ... And You Are My Man" is so cravenly servile I want to weep. It's amazing that popular music can encompass so much dross and please us endlessly in the process. Turn your attention to a more worthy cause, please, Mr Tatchell.

* * *

What links cultures is not religion or language but souvenirs. No matter where you travel, the schlock you bring back is the same: cheese boards with knives that fit in slots, clocks shaped like the country you're in. Flavoured fudge (kiwi fruit in New Zealand, rum in the West Indies), candles (shaped like maple leaves in Canada, pyramids in Egypt) and salad bowls made from what remains of the local forest – the part they haven't cut down for the cheese boards or the clocks. Forget flags, the symbol of unity and brotherhood is a tea towel.