My mate Euan, he knows lots of stuff, me, I keep my head in the sand and let the world take care of itself. The other day I got a card telling me to vote and I asked Euan to enlighten me about one of the parties.

“What does ‘BNP’ stand for?” I asked.

“Bright New Pants,” Euan replied without hesitation.

“What's their Manifesto?” I asked.

“Simple,” Euan said, “Britain for the British.”

“Ah,” I said, adding, “what do they mean by that?”

“Highland, Lowland, Pict, Celt, Scot, Gael, Briton, Welsh, Cornish, Irish, Anglo, Saxon, Friesian, German, Norman, Roman, Latin, Jew, Norse and Spanish.”

“Spanish?” I asked.

“A lot of people can trace their ancestry back to the shipwrecked survivors of the Spanish Armada, so, yes, Spanish.”

“What about the descendents of those who were brought against their will back in the 1700s?” I asked.

“They don't count, too recent,” Euan replied.

“You mean 1588 is the cut-off point?”

“Something like that.” Euan seemed to know his stuff.

“What about the descendents of those who were brought against their will before 1588?” I countered.

“They don't count either,” Euan grinned.

“Why ever not?” I frowned.

Euan shrugged, “pick ‘n’ mix, once they're in power they can make any rules they like.”

“With such multi-cultural diversity in our heritage, we ought to find a name for what truly defines, ‘British’,” I said.

“Quite,” said Euan, “how about: ‘HLPCSGBWCIASFGNRLJS’?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“Or, ‘HiLoPiCeScoGaBriWeCoIrAngSaFriGeNoRoLaJeSpa’?” I replied.

“Or,” Euan began, finger raised, “oh never mind.” He dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. We laughed.

“Their manifesto?” I asked again.

“Ah yes,” Euan continued, “all British citizens, as defined above, will have their passports confiscated in order to ensure that our precious British stock remain where they belong.”

“Sure?” I asked, incredulous.

“Sure, it has to happen,” Euan asserted.

“Logical, I suppose,” I nodded.

“Passenger planes and ships transporting Britons abroad and bringing foreigners to our shores will be banned. Only UK registered freight vessels and vehicles will be allowed to transport goods,” Euan said.

“What about defence contracts involving the purchase of foreign-made instruments?” I asked.

“Cancelled,” said Euan, “too risky.”

“I see,” said I.

“All restaurants serving food other than porridge, neeps, tatties, kippers & haggis, leeks, Yorkshire pudding, Sunday roast or similar 'True Brit' dishes will be forcibly closed and their proprietors deported,” said Euan.

“Does that mean that anyone caught eating rice, Soya beans, maize, popcorn, curry, chilli powder, Sushi or spaghetti will be fined, jailed or deported too?” I asked.

“Absolutely, otherwise they will be accused of inconsistency,” said Euan. “Newsagents and grocers owned by non-Brits will likewise be shut down,” he continued.

“Who invented 'Fish ‘n’ Chips'?” I asked, “wasn't that brought in by the Italians?”

“Could be, if so, they're out, off the menu.” Euan looked serious.

“What about someone whose father is English with Scots and Irish ancestors but whose mother is German with French and Russian in the family tree?” I asked.

“Anyone who has parents or grandparents whose blood-line is less than 70%   'HiLo-PiCeSco-GaBriWe-CoIrAngSa-FriGeNo-RoLaJeSpa'  will be deported or ordered to wear a tag,” Euan said.

“Hang on a mo' though,” I said, ”Britain issued British passports to all subjects coming under British rule, including Indians, Chinese and, well, all sorts.”

“Pick ‘n’ mix,” Euan shrugged, “once in power, the entire population of Britain will be required to parade past the potentate who will choose, ‘In, in, out, in, out, in, out, out, out,’ and so on.”

“Shake it all about,” I smirked.

“Quite,” said Euan, “we're half way there already, look how we treated Hong Kong.” Euan smiled.

I pouted my lip, “we let them go to Australia where they gave the economy a much-needed boost.”

“They just want Britain to be British,” Euan spoke in a plaintive whine, shoulders and hands raised, “not some 200-language American vassal-state.”

“I met a Zulu who told me what I had already figured out for myself,” I countered, “that he was more British than me. He was brought up with the finest English Public School education and attended the best Scottish Private School while I am an Anglo-Germanic Scot who went to a multi-cultural, Austrian-Swiss-German-British school.”

Euan raised his glass, “I’ll drink to that,”  he said.

“The only feature that made him appear less British than me,” I continued, “was the pigment in his skin.”

“My Asian-looking friends from Glasgow and Edinburgh are the same,” said Euan.

“The most truly ‘Scottish’ member of our family,” I said, “is, by blood, half Nigerian.”

“The closer one looks at the question of nationality, the more nebulous and diffuse it becomes.”

“Then why,” I exclaimed, “all the fuss?”

Euan grinned, “new neighbours. Influx. Disruption.”

“Nothing to do with race or nationality?” I asked.

Euan shook his head and pursed his lips, “nope. Nothing, or at least, not much.”

I chuckled, “bad eye-candy,” I couldn't help but laugh.

“It doesn't matter where they're from,” Euan said, “when your cosy neighbourhood fills with strangers - our cosy neighbourhood - we feel disturbed and upset.”

I nodded, “once we get to know them,” Euan joined me, word for word we spoke together, “they are our friends”.

 

  'HiLo-PiCeSco-GaBriWe-CoIrAngSa-FriGeNo-RoLaJeSpa' 

As we rose to leave I observed, “we could just stick with ‘United Kingdom’, I like the way it trips off the toungue” Euan nodded, “besides,” we both said: “we've got the best flag.”

“The Dragon's Boy”

screenplay on   InkTip

Big Fat Slob

“Chant Of The Tesekesurian Hordes”

“They conquered all before them”

Garden Shed music

CD ten tracks

“Dark Journey”

with Tiffany Mulheron

A film by James White