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.”
The days shrink, the evenings stretch, and with them comes the gloom — at least if you listen to Mr Middle England, Ipplepen’s very own Old Gimmer.
For him, the lead up to the so-called “festive season” isn’t joyful at all.
It’s futile, depressing, and every year he starts muttering long before the first mince pie lands on the Co-Op shelves.
At one point, in a fit of despair, he even considered volunteering for a helpline — thinking that listening to other people’s misery might, at the very least, cheer him up.
The problem, of course, is that Mr Middle England wouldn’t last long.
Being the curmudgeon he is, he’d soon be demanding to know why the helpline wasn’t turning a profit.
He’d probably suggest automating the whole system:
• If you’re feeling suicidal, press 1.
• If you thought you’d phoned a chat line, press 2.
• If you’re just wasting time, press 3.
Add a John Cleese voiceover and a few bars of the Funeral March while on hold, and callers would be over the edge in minutes.
Mrs Middle England, meanwhile, has her own way of coping with winter.
While her Old Gimmer sits in the Con Club or Welly, expounding at length about it all being bollocks and balderdash, she’s already made the house cosy, stocked the cupboard with ginger wine, and is quietly humming along to the carols he insists he hates.
She rolls her eyes at his grumbles, pats his arm, and tells him to “stop being so bloody miserable.”
“Come on,” she says, “fresh air will do you good.”
And out he goes, reluctantly, whereupon he deploys the one skill that defines him: the closed-mouth yawn.
Delivered with perfect timing, it signals to all within range that winter is here, life is a burden, and he simply knows Christmas is nothing but trouble.
Mrs Middle England just smiles, adjusts her scarf, and carries on walking.
Between them, they’ve found a balance — his grumbles and her cheer, his gloom and her humour — that makes winter in Ipplepen bearable.
And truth be told, in its own way, it’s rather wonderful.
Does it matter— what they think? Does it matter— what they say?
Their words… drip like poison, but they never reach the core. They shout, they sneer, they whisper— and yet, truth does not bend.
If it’s built on lies, it collapses. If it’s sharpened with spite, it dulls itself in time.
The crowd may judge, the crowd may laugh, the crowd may turn away— but the crowd is not your compass.
Still— do not mistake their noise as harmless. Every drop of venom leaves a stain, a wound in someone else’s day, a shadow that lingers longer than the sound. Cruelty corrodes, even when it misses its mark.
Listen.
The only thing that matters, when the noise has died, when the night is quiet, when you’re left with nothing but yourself— is this:
Before more than 81,000 fans — the largest crowd ever for a women’s rugby match — the England Red Roses became world champions.
Undefeated since their heartbreak four years ago, they have shown not just power and skill, but integrity, grit, and joy in everything they do.
And here’s the irony.
While mothers in the Red Roses squad return to international rugby after carrying children, giving birth, and raising families, their male counterparts collapse in theatrical agony at the merest tap of a boot.
Nine months of pregnancy, hours of labour, and a lifetime of responsibility versus a grazed shin.
One earns quiet respect; the other earns a standing ovation for best actor.
While the Red Roses speak openly about who they are — many proudly LGBTQ+ — far too many men in professional sport still hide behind silence.
The women’s game wears honesty as a badge of honour.
The men’s game too often wears a mask.
While women support one another with genuine togetherness — celebrating each other’s success as their own — men’s football and rugby too often fall into the trap of ego, excuses, and finger-pointing.
And yet, some still dismiss women’s rugby by saying “they’re not as strong as the men.”
True, biology gives the men more bulk.
But when it comes to vision, skill, and spotting opportunities to score, the women are arguably better.
Perhaps if the men studied them more closely, we’d see fewer fumbled passes and squandered chances.
What makes the Red Roses so refreshing is their authenticity.
They love the game.
They play for each other.
They don’t fake, they don’t posture, they don’t hide.
In an age of overpaid egos and endless VAR debates, that honesty is priceless.
And this legacy stretches beyond England.
Who could forget Samoa’s delight in scoring their first ever World Cup points?
Or the roar of English fans celebrating with them?
That is what sport is meant to be — not division, not theatre, but pure shared joy.
So let’s be clear: the Red Roses are not just world champions.
They are the standard-bearers of how sport should be played — with honesty, courage, and unity.
And perhaps the greatest irony of all is this: it is the women in sport who now set the example the men need to follow.
Reflections of a Boomer
Reflections on life of an insignificant atom in the universe
