Editorial – nationalism and patriotism
There has been considerable discussion recently about the nature of nationalism and patriotism. This has prompted reflection on symbols of unique and inextricably British identity that I have personally embraced.
Ah the essentially British sounds like the Last Night of the Proms with everyone singing together, the village green with willow thwacking on leather as we watched or played cricket, old English village churches where the bells would ring the hours amongst that slight smell of mustiness, the ice cream vans in summer summoning me for a ’99’.
Then the tastes like cricket teas of crustless cucumber sandwiches on white bread or Marmite ‘sarnies’ with Hovis; Golden Syrup with the famous lion logo on the green/gold tin poured over my porridge at breakfast, crumpets toasted over a roaring real coal fire.
A fourpenny bag of chips on the way home after swimming at the Victorian swimming baths on a Tuesday night. Being ‘dragged” along to the local park/arboretum for a spot of Sunday afternoon relaxation by my unthanked parents. Eating a small chunk of Kendal Mint Cake—so sweet you thought your teeth would fall out—then a visit to the dentist and being given ‘gas’ before my teeth were properly extracted!
There were of course the British outings those steam train trips to the seaside with their piers and shingle beaches, or even Blackpool and its tower, a bus ride into Derbyshire with its dry stone walls, well-dressed, thatched cottages, and ever-changing landscape passing hard-to-read milestones and signposts.
That packet of crisps with the blue salt bag. Playing with my John Bull printing outfit or reading Ladybird books,Whitehall 1212. A copy of ‘The Highway Code’ to read and understand; going to bed with a hot water bottle.
A visit to the doctors and sitting in a waiting room counting how many other patients there were to ensure that when the time came, ‘you were next.’ Laying on the floor studying a fold-away OS map and dreaming of the Youth Hostel you might go to next. Rushing down the road to the K6 telephone box with my 4d in my hand and remembering to press A (or was it B?).
Taking my litter home and finally the wonderful NHS whenever you needed it.
These are few of my memories of what it is to be British. I wonder, dear reader, if you have others memories that you might like to share.
Stephen (Editor)
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