Wednesday, 6 June 2012

Drunk with pride...

In England we used to be “proud”. No, I’ll rephrase that, in Britain we felt that way.

Made in Britain used to be a sign of quality, craftsmanship and a standard to aspire to.

We had the best navy, the best army, very good football and cricket teams. We made good food (pork pies, Scotch eggs, cheese, beef etc.) and while we didn’t get enough sun for wine we excelled in other forms of alcohol (gin, whiskey etc.)

Our police force was the envy of the world. Mainly unarmed and trained more in how to defuse a situation through verbal reasoning and a strong voice of command, than lethal force. Our army was elite. The SAS inspired the poxy Yank version, the Delta Force. Shakespeare was British, as were Yeats, the Bronte sisters and Dickens.

Nearly everything had something British about it where we could say “we can do that and we can do that well.”

Pride was far from being a sin, it was something that we richly revelled in. Our chests fist to bursting with the knowledge that we had something no one could take away from us.

Then it went tits up.

From 1914 when loyal men (or even those barely old enough to legally shag) marched slowly into entrenched machine gun fire in France, the belief in the old ways started to wane. The powers-that-be and the powers-that-were slowly began losing their respect from the working man. We had some things that were long overdue that were worked into the legal and societal framework (in no particular order: equal rights for women, gays and black people) but it all got tainted with a lot of shite as we slowly began to lose our sense of national identity and were told we had to feel sorry for the sins of our bearded, colonial forefathers.

The police used to have a rigorous physical standard that you had to achieve for entry. Then, with lack of recruits plus a mandate that they had to recruit more women, they solved those problems by lowering the fitness test levels to stupidly easy criteria (i.e. only a flabby slob could fail to get in now).

By joining Europe we took on board a whole load of rules and regulations that the tabloids jumped on as proof that our identity was being swallowed up (still not sure if they were right, or just right wing about this subject). Imperial measurements were naughty in this new world. Problem was it felt like they were having a go at the adjective and not the noun on that one.

Gradually we let more and more ludicrous crap invade our national identity and psyche. Squatters’ rights (please e-mail if you have any fucking idea why that was ever legal in the first place) resulted in the travesty that was Dale Farm (in case anyone is in any doubt where I stand on that, I sat watching the eviction with a big tub of popcorn and a large diet Coke).

The definition of racism has now been altered to mean that mere thought can be construed as discriminatory. It is no longer whether you MEANT to be racist, it is if anyone present PERCEIVES it to be racist. It is also not only naughty to be R.A.C.I.S.T to someone you are talking to, it is also R.A.C.I.S.T if anyone present believes it (or retcons it after to make it so) to be that way. This has left people sacked after one remark made to a friend who laughed and found it funny, just because someone else they didn’t know was listening, reported the remark. It has also given rise to wankers like Ali Dizaei and Tarique Ghaffur (both Metropolitan Police officers of high rank, the latter of which castigated a white officer for asking in all innocence “black or white sir?” when offering the little shit a coffee at the local nick).

The English Defence League, regardless of what you think of them, were formed in the wake of one man’s disgust at the Muslim demonstration (involving poppies being burned and “Baby Killers” signs being waved about at (wait for it)………


Tommy Robinson, now the head of the EDL, belted one of the Muslims and was done for Section 4 Public Order Act while the Muslim demonstrators who started it were arrested for section 5. A lesser offence. The little bastards refused to stand for the judge when she entered court, as they claimed it is a sin in the Muslim faith to stand for anyone but Allah (especially a woman). A Muslim cleric later contacted by one of the tabloids, refuted this claim as utter nonsense. Judge should have found them in contempt and then checked it out, but as usual like so many others, she was afraid of being labelled “intolerant, racist or discriminatory”.

Tommy Robinson has stressed time and again that neither he nor the EDL are racist, but that they hate fundamentalist Islam due to its incompatibility with an English way of life. The EDL’s case isn’t helped by the people caught on camera supporting their cause (pissed white blokes looking aggressive) but at the end of the day they are merely voicing an opinion and claim that they don’t want trouble and groups against their existence usually provoke them at demonstrations.

As Britain slowly fell apart, we didn’t know what to do.

In the past, society looked out for itself in the UK. Neighbours would babysit each other’s kids. People knew each other. Cops had the power to smack unruly children (as did dinner ladies and teachers). As morons took office it became wrong under any circumstances except self defence to strike a child, leading to cases such as Sophie Lancaster’s brutal murder and the killing of Garry Newlove, by scumbag degenerate children/ young men who might not have done that if they’d had some basic sense of decency instilled in their rotten souls. As opposed to being molly coddled and pampered by a society that had lost its way in the woods so badly (…that it thought trying to reward good behaviour in thugs, and empathising with their perceived sad existences…) these lads should have been shown where the boundaries lay and told that in a decent BRITISH society you respect those around you, or you go to gaol.

As petrol continues to climb in price, as fish and chips, alcohol and cigarettes are taxed to ludicrous levels or even semi-outlawed we now no longer have the courage to “do the right thing”. Heroes of the TV are characters like Gene Hunt. A fictional, 1970s and 80s Police detective Chief Inspector who is thuggish, brutal, borderline racist, homophobic and sexist. He smokes too much, drinks in excess and is overweight. BUT at the end of the day he would carry a little girl in his arms from a car bomb that killed her parents or take a bullet for a friend…just because he should.

In cinema the biggest British icon is James Bond. An English super spy who, since Daniel Craig took the role, has become nasty, vicious, sneaky and able to fight properly. Our most exportable celluloid hero is a paid assassin who looks good in a tuxedo.

Back home, everything is falling apart. The Human Rights Act allowed an illegal immigrant who ran over a little girl and killed her before he ran from the scene…to stay in this country as it would breach the cunt’s “human rights” were he deported after serving his sentence. It also prevented the deportation of a hate filled bag of vomit Abu Qatada. A Muslim cleric who lived on state benefits and called for an uprising against the very nation providing his unearned income.

We are supposed to feel ashamed of our heritage. To embrace travellers, gays, blacks, transgender, the religiously diverse and anyone who isn’t a white, heterosexual English man under 35. I personally have no problem with any of this. I have never been racist, and while homophobic at school I defy anyone who went to a UK state school in the 1970s and 1980s to honestly say that being gay was accepted or even considered ok back then. Tolerance has a fundamental place in society. However, it’s clumsy implementation by cretins in local or national government does nothing but piss off an already weary nation.

My friends’ grandmother summed things up when she said. “I’m not racist per se. I don’t hate anyone. But you have to realise that the first time I saw a black man was on the telly, on reruns of Tarzan, throwing a spear.”

As the veneer started to crack and the paint ran in puddles in the streets, one day last Monday, the 4th June 2012, something magical happened.

Pissed up and partying I made my way into Murphy’s Bar in Royal Leamington Spa. Any excuse for a good session and down at the Woodland Tavern I’d watched the Tug o’ War and won a tin of Spam (bless you Josie!) in the lucky dip. I got to Murphy’s just as Elton John was performing. Most people were tanked up and only a few people were paying attention to the large screen hanging down over the front window.

Then…Rolf Harris came on. We all sang along to his songs and had a good laugh. OK, he’s Australian but he’s a British institution like many other things. Then Lenny Henry introduced Stevie Wonder. So far so quite good. Then, a moment occurred that most of us hadn’t expected. Madness came on and performed “Our House” and “It Must Be Love”. A band considered subversive back in their heyday, a band who attracted skinheads to their gigs, performed live to the Royal Family while a projector beamed images onto the front of Buckingham Palace.

Finally this had our attention. Then Prince Charles came on and spoke. For the first, and probably last time in history, people began shushing each other so we could hear what he was saying. The Queen was standing next to the formerly fat bloke out of Take That. He had in fact led her from the Royal box, gently by the arm, to the microphones. Prince Charles gave a speech that I remember very little of, but had the whole pub cheering. It was funny, touching and sweet. It reminded us that we have a Royal family and why they’re there. I am in no way what you could describe as a Royalist but on Monday I felt something watching that concert that I haven’t felt in a long time when thinking about my country.

A touch of pride.

The concert wasn’t the superficial bollocks I’d imagine it would be but was a heartfelt expression of admiration for not only the British Royal Family but for all things that make us a nation. No political correctness, no shallow twats seeking advancement by singing like birds about what we shouldn’t say or think. Just millions of us enjoying ourselves and realising that when we want to, we can still be magnificent.

If we can make the Olympics as good as this, I believe we can move forward holding our heads high once again to other nations.

Learn from this, oh child. All it took was one (highly expensive) expression of love of British culture, and everyone felt better.


  1. 'Asitis' has entered the buidling:

    Lance, a very touching post and so much of what you have written, takes me back to some very happy times in my life.

    I always considered that I was lucky to have been born in the UK (the England bit).

    Keep provoking the thoughts mate.

    Asitis has just left.....etc, etc.

  2. Nicely written Lance, but William Butler Yeats was a feckin´ IRISH writer!

  3. Quality post Lance,

  4. Nice one mate - enjoyed reading that. Sums up my thoughts perfectly.


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