True-born Englishman

 

True-born Englishman

 When I hear someone claiming to be a ‘true Englishman’ I smile somewhat mirthlessly and sigh. There’s no such thing. It is an example of ‘English cultural xenophobia’, a lovely phrase I’ve just picked up from Daniel Defoe, which perfectly describes the attitude of so many of my compatriots.

'The True-Born Englishman' was written by Daniel Defoe in 1701.

Among our many forebears are the Britons, who came from Armenia, the Beaker people from Iberia, who built Stonehenge, the Celts from central Europe and the Romans, twice, in 55-54 BC, and AD 43- 87. Following this came the Anglo-Saxon period, which lasted until the Norman invasion of 1066-1071. Norman rule lasted from AD 1066 to 1154, the time of the Anarchy, the civil war between England and Normandy.

 Thereafter, England remained in ‘English’ hands, some of doubtful lineage, until the Dutch Prince William of Orange was asked to take the throne. He reigned from 1689 – 1702, alongside his wife, Mary, who died in 1694.   

Daniel Defoe (1660-1731) wrote a satirical poem to defend William III against the xenophobic attacks of his political foes. The following extract encapsulates his stance.

Thus from a Mixture of all Kinds began,
That Het'rogeneous Thing, An Englishman:
In eager Rapes, and furious Lust begot,
Betwixt a Painted Britain and a Scot.
Whose gend'ring Off-spring quickly learn'd to Bow,
And yoke their Heifers to the Roman Plough:
From whence a Mongrel half-Bred Race there came,
With neither Name, nor Nation, Speech or Fame.
In whose hot Veins new Mixtures quickly ran,
Infus'd betwixt a Saxon and a Dane.
While their Rank Daughters, to their Parents just,
Receiv'd all nations with promiscuous lust.
This Nauseous Brood directly did contain
The well extracted Blood of Englishmen.

Thus, as I have always contended, we English are a mongrel race and mongrels are often stronger than purebreds J

Key words

Key words

 Our dogs understand a great deal of English. As well as the more usual, ‘Breakfast, supper, biscuits, coming out?’ they also know ‘trousers’. Barry comes downstairs in his pyjamas in the morning for his first pot of tea. When he says, prior to us going out, ‘I’ll just go and get my trousers on,’ the three younger dogs rise from their resting places (sofa, chair, rug) and race upstairs after, or more often ahead of, him. Now that Barry has two new knees I don’t worry so much about the dogs barging him.

When we say, ‘We’d better put their collars on’, they get very excited and when it’s followed by, ‘I’ll just get the car on the drive’ their joyous anticipation accelerates. After that it’s, ‘boots on’ that convinces them that we are really all going out (not the cats, obviously!)

 ‘Who did that?’ causes consternation and a downturn of the tail and ‘Behave’ elicits grins from Gus and Bertie. Jenna and Roxy do not grin. ‘Bed now’, means it’s time to retire for the night and then all the animals trot up to our bed. Gus, Bertie and Roxy leap onto it, followed by Herschel, Isambard and Jellicoe. (Jenna is an older lady now and prefers the peace and solitude of her own bed.) Solomon is often already there and has to be persuaded to vacate his place and allow them access. Very often I go upstairs first so that I can claim my bed space.

Gus is really too big to be a lap dog . . .

. . . but when you're tired after a good walk and swim . . .

. . . the Master's lap is the only place to be, though it's jolly difficult to get comfortable.

They also recognise their canine friends’ names in conversation.

However, the prize must go to Barry’s cousin Sylvia’s late Jack Russell. Jack was an enormous help, collecting items for her and picking up things she had dropped. He was a very alert little dog, always prepared to help, particularly if it meant he would receive a treat, but even Sylvia was astonished on one occasion. She is an expert knitter but one day she said, ‘Oh, I’ve dropped a stitch,’ and Jack busily hunted for it. I suspect he had a treat even though he couldn’t find the dropped stitch.

After a lifetime of living with dogs (and cats) we are still learning about and from them. They are fantastic companions and ask so little of us. Increasingly we realise their understanding is so much greater than we ever thought. I’m sure they will soon master spelling as we frequently spell out words in order to avoid over-excitement.

There’ll always be an England . . . ?

From The Queen's Royal Lancers Website: Forever England

Goodbye to my England, So long my old friend
Your days are numbered, being brought to an end
To be Scottish, Irish or Welsh that's fine
But don't say you're English, that's way out of line.

The French and the Germans may call themselves such
So may Norwegians, the Swedes and the Dutch
You can say you are Russian or maybe a Dane
But don't say you're English ever again.

At Broadcasting House the word is taboo
In Brussels it's scrapped, in Parliament too
Even schools are affected, staff do as they're told
They must not teach children about England of old.

Writers like Shakespeare, Milton and Shaw
The pupils don't learn about them anymore
How about Agincourt, Hastings, Arnhem or Mons?
When England lost hosts of her very brave sons…

We are not Europeans, how can we be?
Europe is miles away over the sea
We're the English from England, let's all be proud
Stand up and be counted - Shout it out loud!

Let's tell our Government and Brussels too
We're proud of our heritage and the Red, White and Blue
Fly the flag of Saint George or the Union Jack
Let the world know - WE WANT OUR ENGLAND BACK !

Barry received this in an email yesterday and while it made both of us smile it gave us pause for thought. What has happened to our English identity? It's true that we don't have an identifying costume like the Scots, Irish and Welsh (or the Dutch, French, Swiss, Native Americans, Maasai).
So, on England's national day, we don't see colourful national dress because we haven't got one. We could all dress as Morris men, I suppose, or don bowler hat, striped trousers and carry a brolly or impersonate red-headed Elizabeth I or Boudicca (formerly known as Boadicea)
Our patron saint is St George and his day is April 23^rd, the day of his death and also the date of death of William Shakespeare. We don't celebrate St George's Day, though it is a provincial government holiday in Newfoundland, and the people of Albania and Kosovo observe it with rituals and religious services. In fact we don't seem to celebrate our Englishness much at all. The greatest regular outflowings of national pride are to be seen – and heard - at the Last Night of the Proms or at cricket matches when the Barmy Army comes into its own.
England's sense of nation is slowly disappearing, I fear, and now we are no longer able to answer 'English' in the boxes on forms that ask for nationality it can only be a matter of time before England becomes a country of the past. In many senses it already is – we have an archaic legal system, little or no manufacturing industry, an anachronistic Royal Family, we have exported our expertise and allowed it to be developed by other nations. I like being British but I also want to proclaim my Englishness. Great Britain comprises four nations but now only three of them can tick a box to demonstrate their clan. I want my grandchildren to be able to say that they are English as well as British and to acknowledge their German and Asian roots too.