You may remember reading about Lord Lucan in the papers late last year. To refresh your memory, Lady Lucan burst into a Belgravia pub near closing time one night, covered in blood and bruises and screaming blue murder. In her nearby flat the cops found the body of the family's nanny stuffed into a t sack, and when they tried to contact the estranged Lord Lucan , he couldn't foe found. Now the newspapers have a very strange manner of reporting police masters. "A man is helping police with enquiries" means a suspect is having the info beaten out of him in a back room. "He asked for 416 other crimes to be taken into consideration" (an actual quote' from yesterday's paper) means the poor sod has been hit in court with that many rhore wrongdoings.

So, the papers's reportage of the Lucan case implied that the police thought him guilty, especially since it was obvious from his movements just prior to and after the murder that he was involved, but was just obtuse enough to leave you wondering. Later, I found out from a Fleet Street habitue that the cops" scenario had Lord Lucan lurking downstairs waiting to off the missus because she had fixed their imminent divorce so he wouldn't be able to even see their children. The nanny came down to make some tea, and since her hairstyle was similar, and she was wearing one of Lady Lucan's coats, he mistook her until it was too late. When the nanny didn't return, Lady Lucan went downstairs and found her hubby stuffing said nanny into a sack. He jumped her but she appealed to his reason via the children; since he had already cocked it up, and if she were dead and he were in jail, what then?

Of course, none of this was known generally, and the excuse was perfect for speculation on upper crust decadence. Lord Lucan was an alleged gambling maniac, usually settling down to a backgammon board before noon for a quick thousand quid's worth or two. He waasupposedly heavy in debt. If the cops couldn't find him, what odds that he were being hidden by a friend on some sprawling country estate? And if they did find him, he could only be tried by his peers in the House of Lords, therefore, by his lifelong friends. You could just hear; the little, old ladies tuttutting over morning tea.

In all sorts of ways it sufns up Britain's incredible class structure which is still highly in evidence. Oh, Harrods has made condescensions to the proletariat and there is a surface air of equality everywhere, but the sheer number of chauffer driven Rolls, Bentleys and Daimler limousines, not to mention Mercedes, Jaguar XJ-12s, Jensens, Lamborghinis and Ferraris driving around London is staggering. Some of the wealth belongs to self-made men and company directors, but much is connected by intangible lines to the right schools and colleges, the proper military service, the correct family ancestry, and^the homes advertised in Country Life, f ■

The cover of Roxy's last album was a parody of this magazine. It's a weekly for the aristocracy, with social gossip columns and what the best hunts are likely to be this year and other relevant high falutin" info, but its main attraction is the first forty pages or so, which are filled with ads for castles, manor houses, farms, gaming reserves and the""like. A cottage usually has seven bedrooms and four reception rooms. Prices start about $75,000 and those over $250,000 are usually shown as "offers invited." We proles really get our 'kicks looking through the ads.

All this, mind you, in typical British fashion ^ is not terribly obvious. You can scrape across the surface of it, but can you have any idea of what it's like to be born to two million acres of Scottish coastline, complete with tenant farmers who are horrified at the thought of actually being given the freehold of their farms? Of the prospect of an entire lifetime of leisure, or doing one's "duty" in the House of Lords? No wonder England has so many*eccentrics.

On the opposite side, of course, is the fabled working class. It's only in the last seventy years or so that they've been given the chance to break free, and the fatalist attitude that must have existed before still holds strong. Whereas in America the attitude is, "If he's got a Cadillac I can get one too," here it's, "Why should he drive a Rolls while I'm in the gutter? I'll pull him down to my level." About the onjy way for kids to break free from the strictures is to become a football star, or a rock star.

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Once they do break free, they head straight for the upper stratas. The pop star with his country manor home^ias gone beyond cliche; but the niches they choose for themselves are interesting. Bonzo Bonham has chosen to be a gentleman farmer, but then you can see that in every pore of his face, just as you can see medieval minstrels or Dickensian bar tenders walking about on any English street any day. Jimmy Page, on the other hand, is well into Art Nouveau furnishings and original Eschers, but, rumour has it his background is fairly well to do. Rod Stewart, of course, has got Country Life chic right down to the horses grazing on the front lawn of his* Georgian mansion. But the rooms* displayed in a recent Sunday colour supplement spread betrayed a certain coarseness of taste, and the Stewart tartan carpet in the billiards room would incense more than one Scottish aristo. Maybe if he had thought of his rooms as Bill Gibb creations or a Grannys ensemble...

Meanwhile, the latest rumour has it that Lady Lucan's tendenciesjd'ampur are a little "unnatural," and she killed the nanny in a lover's tiff .-Lord Lucan was there for some reason, tried to fight her off, and then split when he saw the implications. He's currently hiding out in Venezuela while his friends construct a defense for him.