I am English. And this bothers me.
I can’t help but struggle to feel anything resembling national pride or patriotism. The latter of these alien feelings has always felt distinctly American to me. A patriot might as well exclusively describe a Real American spy whose only role in life is to eat apple pie and save the president (oh and he looks like Tom Cruise). National pride however is very much English, a maligned topic that is more lamented than celebrated. “Where has our national pride gone?” Is a question too often muttered.
The last time I felt any kind of national pride was the London Olympics in 2012. During that summer I drove past countless colourful London 2012 banners, Wenlock and Mandeville statues, and a proud sign that read “Buckinghamshire: Birthplace of the Paralympics”. I saw the GB football team in Cardiff, and will likely never have the chance to again. Post boxes were painted gold in the hometowns of British medal winners.
For me 2012 represented a change, a progressive shift in attitude and national identity. British multiculturalism was celebrated in the opening and closing ceremonies, and arguably our biggest hero of the games was a Muslim born in Somalia. Four years later the gold paint is starting to chip and rust.
I didn’t quite believe what I was reading when I saw the EU referendum results. I was cautiously confident that Britain was intelligent enough to remain in the EU but was left shocked and angered. It was a surprise because I knew so many people who were adamant that we should remain. I knew the working class would want to leave but I didn’t think they would actually vote. Arrogance on my part, stupidity on theirs.
The working class have been angered by an alienation from the elitist government. The trio of Johnson, Gove, and Farage – like a failed Nazi experiment to produce a nuclear powered boy band – have taken advantage of this anger. By posing immigrants as a common enemy, the working class have finally been engaged into voting. For many the referendum was not about EU membership, the economy, or regulations, it was about one thing and one thing only: immigration. It was about taking our country back, but as Karl Marx wrote, “the working men have no country”. If every immigrant was rounded up and thrown out of the country the working class would still not have their country back. What the “leave” campaign has done is the equivalent of farting in a lift and blaming it on someone else. The immediate aftermath of the “Brexit” has already gone so horribly wrong we’re only a day or two from the country becoming Mad Max. “Yeah but at least we’ve got our country back”. No you stupid fools, you haven’t!
Despite the country currently experiencing a meltdown only equalled by the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, at least we have our national pride back. As the United Kingdom, Scotland and Northern Ireland are already likely to go their own way, leaving only England and Wales. The prospect of having to distil my own national identity to purely English is honestly terrifying. There is a comfort in calling myself British. Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland are like the cool kids who stop me from getting beaten up.
English national pride is peculiar. There is a jingoistic approach that is both conceited and idiotic. England is the greatest country in the world and if it isn’t then it bloody well should be! Of course I don’t know anything about the attitudes of Luxembourg, Micronesia, or Eritrea, but there is something incredibly short sighted and close minded about our own national pride.
Every year on April 23rd, if you keep still and listen very carefully you may hear the following phrase:
“Oi it should be a facking bank holiday”.
Pubs across the country simmer with mild outrage that Saint George can’t be celebrated with a day off work. But who is Saint George? He’s a top English geezer who done killed all them dragons! In reality – because we all know dragons don’t exist outside of Game of Thrones – Saint George was born in either Turkey or Lydda in Syria Palaestina, who was a Roman soldier, and later Christian Martyr (Jamie Vardy is having a party, Saint George is having a martyr). If these proud Englishmen had their way and closed the borders, their beloved Saint George wouldn’t even be allowed in the country! If only they spent two minutes out of their lives to look him up on a probably-inaccurate Wikipedia page like I did.
Class is so important in English identity, and there are two polar extremes. There is the bourgeoisie English: furiously consuming tea and cake off fancy crockery in a vain hope a sense of decorum and sophistication may hide the violent and hideous atrocities that pollute the nation’s history. On the other hand there is the working class English: the football fan. The ones complaining how they can’t put up a facking English flag without being labelled a racist. The ones who aren’t racist or homophobic or sexist, but won’t be having none of that nonsense on their door stop.
Again these are two polar extremes and I, probably like many others, are lost in the shrouded mire of Englishness. If I don’t want to identify with these versions, then just what can I identify with? At a pub last week during the England v Wales game I felt little pride for my country. Indeed I had put a bet on Wales to win, an act that was met with so much contempt I might as well have shat on a swan and declared Only Fools and Horses as not that funny. During the game a man behind me shouted “Bale you Spanish c**t!” violently at the screen. There is so much wrong with calling a Welshman playing for Wales both Spanish and a c**t, yet it epitomises the ignorance and arrogance of the stereotypical English football fan.
Yes, not everyone is like this, but after the EU referendum it seems there are just enough of these idiots to ruin it for the rest of us. They are now the majority and with that they can call themselves right. Their bigoted, ignorant, ill-informed opinions are worth more than facts, and now even the pound. The result sets a dangerous precedent that threatens to undo all the social progression of the last fifty years and drag the youth kicking and screaming back into an era they never grew up in. We need to go back to the future, not the past.
While this gratuitously long rant may be going nowhere, I am. In just under a month I am leaving this cold England to move to Dubai. My own personal “Brexit” could not come sooner.
Dude, Where's my Camel? 