A traitor to my land?

"And did those feet in ancient time

walk upon englands mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God

on Englands pleasant pastures seen?
And did the countenance divine

shine forth upon those clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here

among those dark, Satanic mills?"

It looks unlikely, to be honest. Proximity issues between England and the Holy Land seem to have been the main problem, coupled with an albeit badly documented, yet pretty incoherent public transport infrastructure at the time making travelling here tricky for the Lamb of God. Had Jerusalem really been "builded" here, I'm sure Tony Robinson and his cronies at Time Team would have dug it up in the name of Channel 4 by now!

However, as a born and bred Englishman I seem to be fitted with some sort of genetic coding that deems it compulsory, upon hearing "Jerusalem" by William Blake (especially to the tune composed by Hubert Parry - see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9r81ZPHfKXU if you've never heard it. It's stirring stuff!) to shed a tear.

Despite this, yesterday afternoon someone saw fit to intone that I should be cast from these shores, never to return, and that I am not fit to even walk these lands, let alone live here. The gentleman in question had a shaved head, was wearing a red t-shirt and had three rather wobbly looking lions tattooed down his left arm. The lions were not the only part of him to wobble. His copious gut dictated a sedentary lifestyle (or late term pregnancy!) and his very demeanour seemed poised to fall over, probably due to over-consumption of alcohol.

The reason for such a sweeping and vitriolic statement from him? I had mentioned, when asked, that it was a shame our national football team had won their match and were still in South Africa for the forseeable future, rather than heading home. "Really," I hear you cry, "but weren't you just ranting about how a song makes you well up with patriotism? How could you? How dare you?"

The gentleman rolled his way onto the bus, muttering and swerving as he made his way down the aisle complaining loudly to anyone who would listen that I should be deported, arrested, executed... anything but allowed to soil his land. His beautiful land represented at the World Cup Tournament in South Africa by such legends!

On the 22nd June, the British Chancellor George Osbourne issued an emergency budget. Without going into too many technicalities, the British Government is crippled with massive debts totalling billions of pounds. At Prime Ministers questions last week it was revealed that the outgoing administration left the country in a bit of a shambles, and that HM government now owes something like £22,000 for every household in the country. That is a lot of money which is having to be recouped, public spending slashed, taxes increased and major reforms to the welfare system.

The rolling gentleman discovered a friend and sat talking to him for a while in what his inebriated mind must have thought a hushed whisper. Hence everyone on the bus heard him. It transpires that he's worried and annoyed. He announced to his friend (and therefore everyone on the bus!) that the cuts in housing benefit means that he'll struggle in the years to come, he's owed X amount in benefits because someone he knows is in the same position as him and claims that amount and he's not going to go to work as he's better off on benefits. Hence the reason he had been in the pub since before the match and was wending his way home at 6:30pm, then?

I will never understand how the success or failure of 11 men - men paid enough per week to feed a family of four for a year, yet have only managed to score 2 goals in three matches - is vital to the nation? How plastering your house in St. Georges flags is suddenly the only way to show patriotism?

I love my country. Passionately. I love her rolling hills, her understated yet breathtaking beauty. Seeing the humble pride on the faces of scarlet clad Chelsea Pensioners lined up in tribute to their long fallen comrades who died in her service. I love her Morris Dancing, cheese-rolling, town-crying idiosyncrasies, the smatter of polite applause during a cricket match on a village green. Her pomp. Her circumstance. Her diversity.

I am proud to be English, and unlike my rolling verbal assailant I will not take from her more than I need and certainly not more than I have to give. I will strive to do my utmost for this glorious nation. I wonder how many Vevuzula toting, "Roooooneeeey" chanting red shirts quaffing pints of lager down the local ale house whilst shouting incoherant insults at a television screen yesterday afternoon can say the same?