Mr and Mrs Middle England – The Unabashed Englishman
Every so often, a proud patriot hoists the St George’s Cross like it’s Excalibur and declares:
“England for the English!”
Stirring stuff — until you pause to consider what it actually means.
If “English” is the badge of authenticity, then by definition everyone else — Scots, Welsh, and those inconvenient Northern Irish — are foreigners.
And what of their descendants living in England?
Logically, they’re immigrants too.
Pack your bags, folks, it’s back to Cardiff, Glasgow, or Belfast for you.
But here comes the sleight of hand.
When pressed, the flag-waver backtracks:
“No, no, we meant real foreigners. You know — the continental sort.”
Suddenly, the Englishman rebrands himself as “British.”
The Scots. Irish and Welsh are no longer foreign intruders but cherished compatriots.
This flexibility extends to the passport, which proclaims: United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.
Cornwall or Coleraine, Swansea or Surrey — all united under one banner.
How terribly convenient.
Until, of course, the unabashed Englishman leaves the island.
Touch down in Spain or Florida, and the irony dawns: he is now the dreaded foreigner, reliant on the very international protections he scorns at home.
Hypocrisy, it seems, travels well.
The real comic turn comes on the return journey.
At Edinburgh Airport, our traveller is a proud UK citizen.
Yet once the train trundles past Carlisle, he sheds that British identity like a snakeskin and reverts to being an Englishman again.
By implication, the Scots, Irish and Welsh — his compatriots only minutes before — become foreigners the instant he crosses the border.
Such is the merry dance of flag-waving: English one moment, British the next, UK citizen abroad, foreigner in turn, and English once more on the return leg.
A perpetual identity crisis played out every time someone decides which flag to drape around their shoulders.
Perhaps the only certainty is this: however, you style yourself — English, British, or United Kingdomish — you will always be someone else’s foreigner.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the one truth worth waving a flag for.
Mr and Mrs Middle England of Ipplepen:
Scene: Breakfast table in Ipplepen. The kettle’s just boiled. Mr Middle England (Mr ME) has unfolded the Daily Mail with the solemnity of a priest opening scripture.
Mrs Middle England (Mrs ME) is buttering toast and quietly bracing herself.
Mr ME: (huffing) “Look at this, Margaret! At last, someone’s saying it. England for the English! St George’s flag flying proudly! None of this nonsense about foreigners taking over.”
Mrs ME: (without looking up) “Lovely, dear. Just remind me — do the Welsh count as foreigners?”
Mr ME: (indignant) “Don’t be ridiculous. They’re British.”
Mrs ME: “So not English then?”
Mr ME: “Well… no. But they’re our kind of not-English.”
Mrs ME: (nodding) “Ah, I see. Special category of foreigner. Like cousins you tolerate at Christmas.”
Mr ME: (ignoring her) “And the Scots too — they’re British.”
Mrs ME: “Until they want independence, at which point you call them ‘moaning foreigners who should be grateful,’ don’t you?”
Mr ME: (squirms) “Yes, well, that’s different.”
Mrs ME: “Different flag, different tune. So let me get this straight. You’re English in Ipplepen, British when you need the Welsh, Irish and Scots to make up the numbers, and United Kingdomish when you want your passport to get you through passport control in Malaga?”
Mr ME: (triumphant) “Exactly!”
Mrs ME: (smiling sweetly) “So when you land in Malaga, you’re the foreigner. And when the Spaniards treat you politely, it’s because they don’t think you’re invading their way of life. They just think you’re a sunburnt tourist buying rubber rings from Lidl.”
Mr ME: (splutters into his tea) “But that’s different! I’ve got rights. Human rights. It’s in the passport.”
Mrs ME: “Yes, love. And so has anyone arriving here with the same bit of paper in their pocket. Funny that.”
Mr ME: (grumbles) “It’s not the same.”
Mrs ME: “It’s exactly the same, Harold. Except when you get off the train at Edinburgh Airport, you’re a UK citizen, and the second the carriage crosses Carlisle, you’re English again. Very exhausting, all that changing nationality before breakfast.”
Mr ME: (muttering) “Well… at least I can wave the flag.”
Mrs ME: (patting his hand) “Wave away, dear. Just remember — to everyone else, you’re the foreigner with the noisy shorts.”
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