Thy Kingdom Come

Last week I at last got around to leafing through George Courtauld’s “unpublishable” Pocket Book of Patriotism (an obvious target for a ranting blog if ever there was one). Okay, it’s not a pocket book unless you are wearing a Barbour jacket. Okay so what have the Ten Commandments and the Lord’s Prayer to do with British patriotism - surely they are of universal appeal?

But putting aside these and other questionable inclusions and exclusions, the very existence of the little book serves to concentrate the mind on the worrying issue of national identity. You see I’m not Scottish, Irish or Welsh. I’m English. Or am I more British than English? My country of origin according to Microsoft’s drop-down boxes is “United Kingdom”, my car has a GB plate and I’m confused. My first allegiance is to England and St George, or should it be to the Monarch? I don’t have an English passport but I do have an EEC passport. The national anthem is, depending on mood, God Save the Queen, Rule Britannia, Land of Hope and Glory, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. I haven't even mentioned Charles and Camilla and I am still more confused.

On to simpler matters - like kissing as the French do it. Saturday afternoon was emotionally charged as the wife and I paid a quick visit to our recently bereaved neighbour, Constant, who has now left our village in France and moved in with relatives in Dunkerque. My ration (greeting and departure) was a kiss on the left cheek, then the right cheek, then left again, then right again. Comparing notes afterwards the wife told me that hers went –Left –Right-Left-Right-then “Lips”.

Back to “Patriotism” I do get stirred up about the Six Nations Rugby. England’s third consecutive defeat goes to show how quickly a championship team can disintegrate, and how, when things start going wrong, it just keeps getting worse. A bit like my business really, but there’s always the hope that next year will be “Grand Slam Year”.Meanwhile it’s back to thoughts of the wooden spoon.