Mr and Mrs Middle England: Worried Sick (and Not at All)
by David Palethorpe
Mr and Mrs Middle England are alive and well as we approach the end 2025.
He is worried sick; she is not.
Between them they represent two sides of the same village green: one ruled by dread, the other by perspective.
Mr Middle England is convinced — despite all evidence — that Britain is a lawless wasteland.
He double-bolts the doors, checks the motion sensors, and hides under his 13-TOG duvet certain that, somewhere out there, a mad axeman is sharpening his blade.
Mrs Middle England sighs. “You’re more likely to be kept awake by indigestion than an intruder,” she reminds him, switching off the outside light he insists must blaze all night.
If he survives the night, he spends the day peering round corners, convinced a mugger or worse still an immigrant has been following him for weeks.
“That’s just Dave from the post office,” says Mrs Middle England.
“He’s not stalking you — he’s late for his lunch.”
He nods gravely at men in camo trousers and hi-viz tops shuffling past.
“See? Urban warriors, out for trouble.”
“More like men off to unblock a drain,” she replies.
“If that’s camouflage, it’s working — you can barely see the fashion sense.”
Of course, his paranoia is music to the media’s ears.
Every hysterical headline, every “Britain is broken” editorial feeds his conviction that chaos lurks on every street corner.
He reads the Daily Mail like a holy text.
She skims the same stories and mutters,
“They’d sell fewer papers if they printed the truth.”
Because the harsh truth, which Mrs Middle England never forgets, is this:
the violence most likely to touch a life doesn’t come from a stranger in the alleyway, but from behind closed doors.
Domestic violence — not random muggers — is the risk too many still refuse to face.
But paranoia is convenient.
It keeps him frightened of shadows and strangers, rather than asking harder questions of those in power.
It keeps him buying headlines, while she rolls her eyes and points out that the real scandal is the failure of government to protect the vulnerable.
Take Ipplepen.
The most notorious crime in recent years?
The theft of a padlock from the allotment gate.
Hardly the basis for a Netflix true-crime drama.
But Mr Middle England still jumps at shadows.
Mrs Middle England counters:
“What about the neighbours who bring round soup when you’re ill?
The kids who ride bikes safely down the street?
The kindness we never read about?”
And as for me, walking to the Con Club or Welly, I know which one I’d rather share a pint with.
Mr Middle England would sip nervously, eyes darting to the door.
Mrs Middle England would laugh, order crisps, and raise a glass to common sense.
Because life’s too short for paranoia — and a lot better with a pint than a panic attack.
Which brings us to their latest disagreement.
Mr Middle England insists Britain is being “overrun by criminal gangs and immigrants.
” Mrs Middle England raises an eyebrow.
“Oh don’t be silly — that’s just not true.”
“But Nigel Farage says so,” he replies, “and even the President of the United States agrees.”
At this, Mrs Middle England finally snaps.
“Oh dear. If you’re going to listen to Nigel Farage and Donald Trump, then there’s no hope.
They’re just a pair of self-serving, deranged f***wits.”
Mr Middle England sits in stunned silence.
Not because she’s wrong about Farage or Trump — he knows she isn’t — but because in fifty years of marriage it is the first time, he has ever heard Mrs Middle England curse.
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