A Brief History of “Taking Britain Back”
By David Palethorpe
Whenever people, (OK ReformUK Ltd) start talking solemnly about Taking “Britain” Back, it’s hard not to smile—because for most of its early history, Britain didn’t know what it was, who owned it, or even whose turn it was to be in charge.
And this went on for centuries during which most of the time the ‘ruling class’ spoke French and Latin.
England, for example, very nearly didn’t happen at all.
In the ninth century, the idea of a unified England was hanging by a single, fraying thread—and that thread was called Wessex.
Everything north and east of it had effectively been nicked by Vikings, who had got fed up and stopped doing quick smash-and-grab raids and decided instead to stay, unpack, and redecorate.
This was extremely inconvenient for the locals.
The Vikings—who wouldn’t have called themselves Vikings at the time, probably “Norsemen” or “those blokes with axes”—rolled in, took York (then Northumbria’s capital), flattened East Anglia, and obligingly martyred its king, Edmund, who was later buried somewhere now helpfully named Bury St Edmunds, in case anyone forgot what happened.
By the late ninth century, most of England was under Danelaw: Viking rule, Viking customs, Viking legal systems, Viking accents.
Even the mighty Mercia got chopped in half.
English culture was less “emerging nation” and more “nearly extinct hobby”.
Enter Alfred of Wessex—not King Arthur (who didn’t exist), but a real, anxious man who once had to hide in the Somerset marshes, which is nobody’s first choice hiding place unless you enjoy damp misery and eels.
From there, Alfred did something clever: he copied Viking tactics, rallied locals, fought back, and eventually beat the Viking King Guthrum at the Battle of Edington.
Instead of endless fighting, they did something revolutionary: they drew a line on a map and agreed to stop killing each other quite so much.
Thus, embryonic England was born—not in glory, but in compromise.
The Vikings kept the north and east, founding proper cities like Leicester, Lincoln, Nottingham, Derby, and Stamford (the Five Boroughs of Danelaw), while Wessex became the seedbed of what we now think of as “English” identity.
Alfred built ships, towns, and schools, encouraged literacy in Old English instead of Latin, and accidentally ensured that modern English would be a linguistic mongrel.
Which it very much is.
Words like sky, window, knife, husband, take, and get? Viking.
English grammar itself got simplified because Anglo-Saxons and Norsemen needed to haggle in markets without stabbing each other.
So when people talk about “taking our country back”, it’s worth asking: back from whom?
The Vikings?
The Anglo-Saxons?
The Jutes?
The Angles?
The Romans?
The Celts?
That bloke from Mercia who thought he should be in charge this week.
England was eventually unified by Alfred’s descendants, and by the mid-tenth century, his grandson could finally call himself King of the English—not king of a place, but of a people.
Even then, it was temporary.
Kings, (and Queens) came and went, usually because someone with a sword, an army, or a very dubious family tree fancied a promotion.
This carried on until 1066, when William of Normandy arrived, looked around, and essentially said, “Yes, I’ll have this”.
He wasn’t “the Conqueror” yet—history added that later—but he was simply the most successful thug of the moment.
And that’s the point.
Britain—and later the United Kingdom—was not handed down intact from time immemorial.
It was assembled by violence, treaties, marriages, invasions, compromises, and sheer opportunism.
The land stayed put.
The rulers did not.
So next time someone says, “we want our country back”, the sensible response isn’t outrage—it’s curiosity.
How far back would you like to go?
And more importantly:
Is it the country you want—or the power that comes with claiming it?
History suggests the second answer is usually the honest one.
Just another set of disreputable disceitfull thugs and bullies who want to be in charge.
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