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I don’t want to be English if all it represents is poshness or football yobbery I don’t want to be English if all it represents is poshness or football yobbery
(about 3 hours later)
I’ve never considered myself a unionist. The word still makes me blench – Orange men marching, Gazza playing an imaginary flute to Rangers fans, sectarian hatreds. Uch. But the Scottish referendum gave me a right old kick up the complacencies. One existential crisis later I am forced to conclude I am a unionist of sorts. But for all the wrong reasons. I’ve never considered myself a unionist. The word still makes me blench – Orangemen marching, Gazza playing an imaginary flute to Rangers fans, sectarian hatreds. Uch. But the Scottish referendum gave me a right old kick up the complacencies. One existential crisis later I am forced to conclude I am a unionist of sorts. But for all the wrong reasons.
If I’d lived in Scotland I might have been carried along with the visionaries and idealists. But as an Englishman mired in England, it was a definite no for me. Like many English I was forced to confront my identity for the first time, and I didn’t like what I found.If I’d lived in Scotland I might have been carried along with the visionaries and idealists. But as an Englishman mired in England, it was a definite no for me. Like many English I was forced to confront my identity for the first time, and I didn’t like what I found.
Whenever I fill in forms I’ve always identified as British, not questioning why. But the thought of Scotland leaving us, then possibly Wales and Northern Ireland, would put a stop to that. It would reduce me to my core Englishness. I would be a little Englander – an identity I’d always despised. The union had always protected me against it – it was bigger, more inclusive, multicultural.Whenever I fill in forms I’ve always identified as British, not questioning why. But the thought of Scotland leaving us, then possibly Wales and Northern Ireland, would put a stop to that. It would reduce me to my core Englishness. I would be a little Englander – an identity I’d always despised. The union had always protected me against it – it was bigger, more inclusive, multicultural.
As a child, the English identity I was sold was something I couldn’t have related to less. It was Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson’s unrequited clinch in Brief Encounter. Muted emotion, sacrifice, constipation of the soul. Quivering ’taches, duty, superiority, joylessness. True, there were many great national achievements, but they felt British rather than English. The founder of the Labour party, Keir Hardie, was Scottish; the architect of the welfare state, Nye Bevan, was Welsh. The great industries had largely Scottish and Welsh accents. The second world war was a collective triumph and tragedy.As a child, the English identity I was sold was something I couldn’t have related to less. It was Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson’s unrequited clinch in Brief Encounter. Muted emotion, sacrifice, constipation of the soul. Quivering ’taches, duty, superiority, joylessness. True, there were many great national achievements, but they felt British rather than English. The founder of the Labour party, Keir Hardie, was Scottish; the architect of the welfare state, Nye Bevan, was Welsh. The great industries had largely Scottish and Welsh accents. The second world war was a collective triumph and tragedy.
As I grew up, the Great British identity was diminished. Englishness became a parody of itself (and it was pretty parodical to start with); little more than a series of bowler-hatted funny walks.I couldn’t stand stout John Bull with his union jack waistcoat and pointing finger. I didn’t speak the Queen’s English of “splendid”, “terribly” and “old chap”. I despised stiff upper lips and proud reserve– if I felt an injustice I wanted to scream about it. I didn’t want to drink tea with my dinky finger sticking out to show I was well bred (I wasn’t). As I grew up, the Great British identity was diminished. Englishness became a parody of itself (and it was pretty parodical to start with); little more than a series of bowler-hatted funny walks.I couldn’t stand stout John Bull with his union jack waistcoat and pointing finger. I didn’t speak the Queen’s English of “splendid”, “terribly” and “old chap”. I despised stiff upper lips and proud reserve – if I felt an injustice I wanted to scream about it. I didn’t want to drink tea with my dinky finger sticking out to show I was well bred (I wasn’t).
There was nothing heroic to cling to in our Englishness. Shakespeare was long dead; the romantic poets consigned to their opium-inspired oblivion; the great radicals Thomas Paine, the Diggers and Levellers largely forgotten; industry was wrecked; our wars were pointless and worse; our free-market fixation shameful.There was nothing heroic to cling to in our Englishness. Shakespeare was long dead; the romantic poets consigned to their opium-inspired oblivion; the great radicals Thomas Paine, the Diggers and Levellers largely forgotten; industry was wrecked; our wars were pointless and worse; our free-market fixation shameful.
England had become a nation of penalty-missers, contract-outers, public-school twits and twats, bigots and Bullingdon club bullies, snarling bulldogs and rapacious bankers.A country in which even Labour leaders preached deregulation, prized unfettered wealth and puckered up to the world’s media magnates. Today I see England as a continuum, with football yobs at one end and Eton yobs at the other, and Morrissey dirging about lost seaside resorts somewhere in the middle. It’s not an attractive place to live in or flag up. The strange thing is that London is one of the world’s most beautifully mixed cities. Yet England resists it.It stands on the shoulders of Nigel Farage and shouts, “No more”. Now John Redwood wants his English votes for English laws. Lovely for those who want to see off Labour for ever and a day, but no, no and no again. It would lead to even more polarisation and we would be eternally entrenched in our insular Englishness. England had become a nation of penalty-missers, contract-outers, public-school twits and twats, bigots and Bullingdon club bullies, snarling bulldogs and rapacious bankers.A country in which even Labour leaders preached deregulation, prized unfettered wealth and puckered up to the world’s media magnates. Today I see England as a continuum, with football yobs at one end and Eton yobs at the other, and Morrissey dirging about lost seaside resorts somewhere in the middle. It’s not an attractive place to live in or flag up. The strange thing is that London is one of the world’s most beautifully mixed cities. Yet England resists it. It stands on the shoulders of Nigel Farage and shouts, “No more”. Now John Redwood wants his English votes for English laws. Lovely for those who want to see off Labour for ever and a day, but no, no and no again. It would lead to even more polarisation and we would be eternally entrenched in our insular Englishness.
I don’t want my beer warm. I don’t want to talk about the weather. I don’t like queuing up patiently because it’s supposedly a national virtue.I don’t want my beer warm. I don’t want to talk about the weather. I don’t like queuing up patiently because it’s supposedly a national virtue.
When I was a boy I took refuge in my Mancunian identity and still do, despite not having lived there for the best part of 30 years. Manchester was warm, passionate, political. Manchester was radical agitation, the Peterloo massacre, Marx and Engels hanging out in Prestwich, proper football, rain, Stone Roses, Happy Mondays, the Smiths before Morrissey became too English. Like Scotland and Wales and Northern Ireland in its constituent parts and as Great Britain, Manchester was not England. When I was a boy I took refuge in my Mancunian identity and still do, despite not having lived there for the best part of 30 years. Manchester was warm, passionate, political. Manchester was radical agitation, the Peterloo massacre, Marx and Engels hanging out in Prestwich, proper football, rain, the Stone Roses, Happy Mondays, the Smiths before Morrissey became too English. Like Scotland and Wales and Northern Ireland in its constituent parts and as Great Britain, Manchester was not England.
So four days into the new less complacent United Kingdom, thank you Scotland for staying with us – even if it did dampen your independence dream. Believe me, we Mancs (and Geordies and Brummies etc) understand that dream. Perhaps it’s time for the English to have a referendum. But instead of asking whether we want independence from the UK, we should be asking whether we want independence from England. So four days into the new less complacent United Kingdom, thank you Scotland for staying with us – even if it did dampen your independence dream. Believe me, we Mancs (and Geordies and Brummies etc) understand that dream. Perhaps it’s time for the English to have a referendum. But instead of asking whether we want independence from the UK, we should be asking whether we want independence from England.