England, Your England. posted by Richard Seymour

Slaying the Nationalist Dragon

My grandfather kicked the bucket in 1983. The reading of his will raised some eyebrows, to riot in understatement. To his only daughter, he left his prodigious smoking habit, while to his sons he left his many fine stomach ulcers "which I hope will bring you as many hours of pleasure as they have me." I remember this taunt from the grave whenever people speak to me of cultural heritage and such. For instance, Andrew Rosindell, the Romford Conservative MP has announced that "23rd April - St George's Day - should be carved on the heart of every Englishman." Andrew, I should be delighted to carve those words into your heart the second you present yourself to me. I have, however, one question: Why?


Andrew Rosindell: Pride of Romford.

Seems an easy enough question. The answer announces itself in every patriotic mind:

I am proud of my cultural heritage, of my roots, of the rich and elegant language which is spoken the world over, of those great characteristics which have distinguished the true Englishman down the generations, from the poetry of Tennyson to Winston Churchill, to Shakespeare, the Queen and the numinous pound.

I may not be alone in finding such an impressionistic answer singularly unsatisfactory. For one thing, Rosindell's idea of an "Englishman" may not be everyone's cup of tea - a former member of the Monday Club, which called for "voluntary repatriation" of non-whites living in Britain, he complained bitterly about "political correctness" when asked to leave by the Tory party chairman. For those not of Rosindell's racist ilk, England's cultural heritage seems not qualitatively better than those of other nations - Andorra, or Iceland for example. True, English is spoken widely but so have many other languages been - French, Portuguese and Spanish for example. Laud English culture as you must but, as Terry Eagleton once reminded an English audience, "The Irish were good enough to write some of your best literature for you". The Indians fought one of your most successful wars for you, since you mention Churchill (who was, after all, a class-conscious bigot and imperialist whose well-girded aura owes itself to his ennoblement in a war sold as "anti-fascist"). And why insist on taking "pride" in the acheivements of others who just happen to have lived in the same locality? If you want to feel proud of something, do something worth taking pride in. A couple of laps round the block, a letter to the local newspaper... your choice. The Queen is about as important in my life as the most distinguised pond-life and currencies have never set my pulse racing.


The Queen: Low German Interloper.

So, to probe this mystery further, I hit the streets with my cheap dictaphone (made in Japan, but sold in glorious Albion). Getting sensible answers from passers-by proved a considerable challenge - but anyone calling himself a revolutionary socialist in these times cannot be averse to challenge. Here is a rush transcript:

Some muffled noises, feet moving, cars racing in the background.

VOX POPULI: Why don't you just fuck off back to yer own country?

NARRATOR/LENIN: They're not eager to have me return, madam. But thanks for your time!

Yes, that is "it". Fact is, I've edited out all the insults, as well as the beating I received from someone whom I elected to call - for reasons which now escape me -an "absurd fanny-pad of a man with a face like a pissed-on pancake and a whipped dog-turd posing as a fringe." Turns out I was insulting the Labour mayor of Lewisham.
Abandoning the street altogether, I sought refuge in a nearby pub where - astonishingly - the mood was reflective, considered and thoughtful. It takes a drink or two to sober the Englishman up, I noted. For example, one retired policeman told me, through a dense fog of pipe smoke, that he loved his country passionately - but this did not mean he thought any the less of others.
"Why," I enquired, "this unrequited love? What's in it for you? Is it not better to love people and faces than races and places?
"As a matter of principle," he said, somewhat astounded by my ignorance, "and pride. I love my country out of principles that are axiomatic."
"What principles are these? Allow me to know."
"Why..." he paused, and flicked suspicious brown eyes at me. "Look, do you want a clip round the ear, sunshine?"
"You're not Dixon of Dock Green you know." I was insolent. "Do I take it that the principle to which you adhere is one of purblind service and loyalty to the state which claims sovereignty over the land mass on which you happened to be born?"
"Oh, don't be a cunt all yer life," he waved a hand, dismissing me. "Goo on, fuck off. And take Patch Adams there with you."
To this day, I have no idea who he was referring to.


Dixon of Dock Green.

Anyway, I played a few rounds of poll with some young - how to put it? - wankers in England shirts and Ben Sherman gear. I would have patronised them with perfect pleasure for hours had I not felt oddly compelled to preserve my skeletal structure and internal organs.
"Everyone always knocks England," one complained. "It's like the trendiest thing you can do now. Know what I mean? Just because it's politically correct. But you shouldn't because, you know, its your country. Its where you're from. Its your people. You never see animals shit in their own nest."
I asked him if he had ever seen a cow field.
"But seriously," I said, wiping the stupid grin from my face in deference to the stupid frown on his, "is it really all that trendy to 'knock' England? I don't hear Tony Blair or Cilla Black doing it. Neither Blue nor the Sugababes have insulted England of late and neither, to my knowledge, has any leading sports star, politicians or musician. Pubs and shops are replete with the blood-red cross of St George, the infidel-slayer. Frank Skinner still has a boner from the money he had on that stupid song that was number one when everyone thought England would win Euro '96. For Christ's sake, even the Duke of Edinburgh hasn't got round to slagging off the English yet!"
I smiled a radiant smile, triumphant at such a splendid argument.
"Yeah but," he said with a grunt that brought me hurtling to earth, "you know what I mean..."
"Yeah, yeah," I nodded, "I know what you mean."
"Know what I mean?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, that's what I'm on about."
"Yeah, I know what you mean."
"Yeah."


"Ingerrrluuuuund! Ingerluuuuund!!"

I then became modestly intoxicated and remember nothing of the subsequent 36 hours and pray that noone else does either. However, not to invite doubt as to my patriotism, my jingoism and my infinite malleability, I should like to propose a patriotic toast - To St George of Galloway and Mordechai Vanunu, a Spock for our troubled enterprise. WHAT?? Not English you say? But, dear boy/girl, neither was St George of Arabia. And neither, come to that, am I.