How Hard Can It Be_ - Jeremy Clarkson [14]
There’s more. I listened last week to a debate on the Jeremy Vine Show in which callers suggested that the McCanns – whose daughter, remember, is missing – got so much press coverage only because they were middle-class. This was such awful, heartless twaddle, I was nearly sick with rage.
It’s not just a class divide either. What common bond can be found between a Pakistani shopkeeper in Bradford and the people you see building Huf houses on Grand Designs? What unites a Filipino chambermaid in Abergavenny with Prince Andrew? Unless something can be found, the oath will remain an unrealized dream.
Perhaps it’s a good idea to view Britain from the outside. How do foreigners see us? Well, as drunken football hooligans mostly, and I don’t think that’d work. Having children swear an allegiance to Millwall every morning is a nonstarter.
A bestselling American book called The Geography of Bliss suggests that British people are unified by a general grumpiness. Eric Weiner, the author, says we don’t just enjoy misery; we get off on it. ‘For the British, happiness is a transatlantic import. And by transatlantic, they mean American. And by American, they mean silly, infantile drivel. Britain is a great place for grumps and most Brits, I suspect, derive a perverse pleasure from their grumpiness.’ I don’t disagree. But I can’t see us promising every morning in school assembly to remember that, while the weather might be nice now, it’ll almost certainly be drizzling and cold tomorrow. Unless, of course, we all catch cancer and die in the night.
So what one thing cuts through the political correctness and leaves nobody feeling alienated in their own country? Something that unifies us all, something that’s recognizably British and universally seen as harmless, but also wholesome and good? You might imagine the answer is David Attenborough. But, sadly, people die. We need something that will be with us for ever.
The only thing I can think of is HP Sauce. The label features the Palace of Westminster. It contains no meat, which will keep Paul McCartney happy. It can be used to enliven a Melton Mowbray pork pie, and bring a sheen to coins of the realm. And, best of all, it absolutely defines the British. The French have their frogs’ legs. The Japanese have their whales. We have our brown sauce. We are the only people on earth who eat it.
Yes, I know it’s made in Holland these days by an American company, but so what? Finally, I have the oath. ‘I pledge allegiance to the sauce of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, and to the nation for which it stands, one sauce, in two distinct flavours, with nourishment and joy for all.’
Or we could drop the whole scheme and try to remember we’ve gone for a thousand years without an oath so why the bloody hell do we need one now?
Sunday 16 March 2008
Ruck off, you nancy Aussies
You can never rely on the French. All they had to do was go to Cardiff last weekend with a bit of fire in their bellies and they’d have denied Wales the Six Nations Grand Slam. But no. They turned up instead with cheese in their bellies and mooched about for eighty minutes, seemingly not at all bothered that we’ve got to spend the next twelve months listening to the sheepsters droning on about their natural superiority and brilliance.
Or worse. Give them a Grand Slam and the next thing you know, all our holiday cottages are on fire.
There are, of course, other reasons I hoped the French would win. I’d rather live in France than Wales; I’d rather eat a snail than a daffodil; I’d certainly rather drink French fizzy wine; and I’d much rather sleep with Carole Bouquet than Charlotte Church. However, as the match unfurled I found myself supporting the Welsh. Even though they seemed to have only three players – Jones,