Last week a million dewy-eyed fools were celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Mini, the small car that symbolises everything that’s been wrong with Britain since Hitler poisoned his dog.

I do not wish to dwell on cars here but it’s important to stress that back in 1959, for all sorts of oily reasons, the little Austin was very clever. France had its Citroën 2CV. Germany had its Volkswagen Beetle. Russia had its ox. And we had the Mini, the best-packaged, most fun personal transport module of them all.

And then the British did what the British did best. Nothing. The Mini was therefore crap by 1965, but despite this it was still being made as the 21st century dawned, by which time it was as out of date as a Norman keep. And I have the distinct impression that if BMW hadn’t bought the company, it would still be churning them out today. Gramophones in a flatscreen world.

It’s much the same story with the Land Rover. Designed just after the war, it is still being sold to farmers and the British Army, where it sits in the modern theatre like a medieval trebuchet. So why hasn’t it been replaced with something that has space for a driver’s shoulder? Oh, because that would be like tearing down Anne Hathaway’s cottage. It’s part of the fabric of British life.

Of course it is. Anything becomes the fabric of your life if it hangs around long enough. Your old dog with its anal warts. The leaky pipe in your spare room. Even syphilis can become part of the fabric of your life if you don’t go to the doctor’s.

Look at the Royal Navy. Tony Blair announced in 1998 that we needed some new aircraft carriers. But there was so much fannying-about that the contract to get the process going wasn’t signed until 2008. Ten years later.

You’d imagine of course that before the ink on the paperwork was dry, the companies charged with building these new carriers would be up and running. But no. Here we are in 2009 and there’s still no keel. And of course, pretty soon, parliament will turn round and explain that our old carriers, which chug around on one engine to save fuel, have become part of the fabric of British life and, as such, cannot be decommissioned.

Look round the back of any public building and you’ll note the plumbing, and the paint, was installed in about 1951 and has not been upgraded since. Battersea power station is still there, producing no power, or indeed anything at all. And the next time you’re in a London taxi, wonder why the rear suspension has to be made from corrugated iron. I’ll tell you why. Because it’s always been made that way.

I was examining some photographs of Sandringham House this morning and, oooh, it’s a monster. It should be pulled down immediately and replaced with something much more attractive. But can you even begin to imagine the hullabaloo if Mrs Queen even mentioned such a thing?

Even when change comes, it’s half-arsed. I mean, look at the House of Lords. Mr Blair, the great moderniser, decided it was unfair to have the country ruled by people whose only qualification for the job was a great-grandad who’d killed lots of Turks.

So did he abolish it? Did he hell. He just replaced the Bufton Tuftons with a bunch of people whose only qualification is a hatred of meat and a chip on the shoulder. And what plans are in store for London’s next bus? Why, it’s a bloody Routemaster.

A particular bugbear for me is the red phone box. It was cramped, draughty, prone to vandalism and used mostly as a lavatory. So we should have rejoiced when mobile phones made it redundant. But oooh no. You can’t get rid of London’s red phone boxes.

And there’s the problem. If we form an emotional attachment to every single thing that comes into our lives, pretty soon the whole country will become clogged up with stuff that doesn’t work any more.

Woolworths was a classic case in point. When it went out of business, everyone ran around saying it should be saved because it was “traditional”. No it wasn’t. It was a terrible shop, selling awful things that even ghastly people didn’t want to buy. Woolworths was useful only for sheltering from a second world war bombing raid.

You should look around your house for more examples of this stupid sentimentality. For sure, your dining-room table may have originally belonged to your grandfather. But if the legs have woodworm and the surface contains traces of diphtheria, then why not replace it with a new one?

Just because something is old, it is not necessarily good. The Victorians, for instance, couldn’t paint horses. They always looked like Devon Loch, with their legs sticking out all the wrong way. So why have a Victorian hunting scene in your lavatory when Hallmark can sell you something that is better for less?

Of course, I would not suggest we erase all of history from the British landscape. And certain things that should be preserved cannot be displayed in a museum or encapsulated well enough in a history book. Burford, for instance, or the Queen.

But we, as a nation, must stop getting teary-eyed about the death of something we hold dear. The wet British summer. The traditional ketchup bottle. The long-playing record. The busby.

With that in mind, I think there should be a national referendum, maybe with an accompanying TV show, where participants are invited to nominate one thing from British life that should now be put in the dustbin. I’d like to kick things off by nominating the Labour party.

An apology: last week, I said the tortoise was an ideal pet because it costs nothing to keep and will never upset your children by dying. Unfortunately, on Monday, perhaps because we spent nothing on it, ours did just that.

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