The thing about the English myth is that it overwhelmingly reinforces the notion that little England triumphs not only over adversity – many national myths do that in order to produce their heroes – but against overwhelming, perhaps impossible, odds.
The little weakling lad who manages to pull the sword from the stone where full-grown hefts had previously failed goes on to become King Arthur (the Welsh may also claim him, but everyone knows he was English really). Chivalrous, flawed and eventually betrayed he stemmed the tide against the invading hordes – defending this little island nation against hitherto victorious foes.
So too Alfred the Great unifying a disparate group of states into a fledgeling nation and resisting the invading hordes of hitherto invincible and, no doubt, overconfident Vikings.
King Henry V taking on the might of the haughty and overconfident French at Agincourt and, against overwhelming odds, pulling off an unlikely victory.
Good Queen Bess standing up to the invading hordes of the swarthy, hitherto invincible and overconfident Spaniards and their armada as it attempted yet another invasion.
What price the Duke of Wellington (don’t tell anyone he was Irish – he was Anglo-Irish, if you don’t mind) against the hitherto invincible might of the haughty and overconfident Emperor Napoleon – conqueror of Europe – but taking him on and, against all the odds, defeating him at Waterloo?
Or do I need to recall our finest hour? Taking on the might of Hitler’s jackbooted, hitherto invincible and undeniably overconfident Nazis – standing alone against overwhelming odds and, almost single-handedly, defeating him.
Little England, so the myth goes, always winning through – sometimes with a little unacknowledged help from a Scot, Welshman or Irishman along the way (did you know that Scots, Welsh and Irish are really all English, too? More or less.) Always against the odds, when no sane (foreign) person would give us a chance. But plucky little England must never be underestimated because, when the chips are down our bulldog spirit – that never say die attitude – will pull us through – against all the odds.
How was it that such a tiny nation was able to rule an empire upon which the sun never set? The largest empire the world had ever seen bestowing law, honour and decency on hitherto untamed savages – and in such a gentlemanly and kindly manner. You see, it was for their own good – they thank us for it now, you know. We did it because of innovation and ingenuity, invention and entrepreneurial spirit. You see, we’re better than foreigners but in a quiet and unassuming way. We don’t brag about it like the Yanks. We don’t strut like the Germans; we aren’t all frills and froth like the Italians, not haughty like those French. No, we are decently and quietly better.
Not because we are innately mighty, as in the Norse myths or the Aryan myth of the German peoples, or the classical Greek myths with their equally mighty warriors. No, we English are content to mind our own business and prune our English roses. We foster the eccentric and the unconventional; innovation and enterprise. Not for us the monolithic regimentation of a European ruler with his vast Versailles; not for us the monstrous Czar and his millions of peasants subservient to his every whim. No, plucky little Englanders live quietly and contentedly – until roused. And then look out!
So goes the English myth.
Of course it’s not without some truth to augment it. It is remarkable that little Britain was able to harness the power unleashed by the industrial revolution first. Many of the inventions and the entrepreneurial spirit that fostered and nurtured them, were made and encouraged in these islands. That those inventions were put to ruthless use for the advancement of those capitalists who invested in them; that the state was able to profit mightily from, and exploit the opportunities presented by, them was also remarkable. That they were pursued as ruthlessly as they were; that so many millions were subjugated in the process; that those who profited – the industrialists, the middle classes and the shareholders – did little to alleviate the poverty of those who were pressed into the service of the factories and the empire-builders is not generally allowed to spoil the myth. That it was a British phenomenon has been appropriated by the English as that nation’s myth – allowing supporting Irish, Scottish and Welsh actors to the glittering English star.
The inherent racism that maintained the empire; the class system that kept the poor in grinding, abject poverty; the xenophobia that starved a million Irish and forced an exodus; the capitalist system that consumed whole families in the service of the mill or condemned them to the mines, or pressed men to military service is not – generally speaking – part of the myth. Or, if it is, it is sanitised and glorified. Nor is the religious bigotry that excluded Roman Catholics from offices of the state. Nor is the grotesque inequality that saw the rich maintain their states-within-a-state – the landed estates that were islands of enormous comfort and privilege maintained by hundreds, if not thousands, of humble and excluded servants who knew their place and stayed in it.
The filth, the hunger, the disease, the appalling living conditions of the slums of the great industrial cities; the workhouses; the infant-mortality rate, the average life span – these things are known but glossed over – not to be part of the myth.
Instead we mythologise the upper classes – the Billy Bunters, the Flashmans, Jeeves and Wooster. The boarding schools that still pervade our national myth even up to the Harry Potter stories are part of the fabric of the nation, something we all recognise and identify with even though barely anyone beyond a few thousand of the elite ever actually go to one. The posh blokes (not the gels, of course – always boys) still have a hold on our national attention – it’s part of the reason why Eton and Oxbridge still flood our national life right up to the present day. Who doesn’t love the eccentric caricature Jacob Rees-Mogg (why, he could almost be wearing a monocle to go with his Eton collar and top hat); isn’t that Boris Johnson a card, eh? Posh waffle waffle, dishevelled and disorganised. They’re posh, you see, born to it. They can’t help it, bit of a laugh, really – and they’re harmless, you know. It’s one of the reasons why we keep voting their ilk into political office. They’ll look after our interests, won’t they? All this reinforced by the constant diet of populist tv costume dramas where Jane Austen or a Bronte or three, or a contemporary mock-up like Downton Abbey, forever flood the screen with frills and bonnets and “Oh, Mr. Darcy, I must confess you induce in my heart a flutter and bring a flush to my virginal English cheeks, so you do Sir!” We, the population, are like the staff toiling on the estate: the gardeners, the scullery maids, the cooks, the footmen – and sometimes we may rise to become Butler or Housekeeper – but never can we join with the family as equals. We know our place. The nation laps it up even though actually reading a full Austen novel is beyond the concentration span or linguistic abilities of the vast majority of the captivated tv audience. And heaven forbid that we should read a Dickens novel where some of the social realities of the times are employed in the narrative. Unless, of course it’s A Christmas Carol – again so often sanitised for popular consumption. Or how about a lovely singalong Oliver!
Consider yourself - hoodwinked! Consider yourself - shaft-ed! For after some consideration We can say Consider yourself A gullible fool!
This historical and cultural sleight of hand, this confidence trick of the upper classes by the upper classes for the upper classes – what currently goes by the name of ‘gaslighting’ – is all part of the English myth. The myth that the English nation falls for every time it’s called upon to do so. It’s encouraged by the right wing press which is forever perpetuating the very same slanted, xenophobic, self-satisfied, Royal Family-philic narrative. By way of example of this attitude to the Windsors and all who sail in them, my mother used to say, in response to her modern children’s ridiculing criticism of the Queen and her family, that it wasn’t fair because the Queen couldn’t answer back. Of course, we ridiculed that response, too, but I believe it to be a fairly common attitude for her generation to have.
What we don’t get in sanitised tv Downton Abbey is any of this:
“Right and left a multitude of covered passages lead from the main street into numerous courts, and he who turns in thither gets into a filth and disgusting grime, the equal of which is not to be found – especially in the courts which lead down to the Irk, and which contain unqualifiedly the most horrible dwellings which I have yet beheld. In one of these courts there stands directly at the entrance, at the end of the covered passage, a privy without a door, so dirty that the inhabitants can pass into and out of the court only by passing through foul pools of stagnant urine and excrement…the Irk, a narrow, coal-black, foul-smelling stream, full of debris and refuse, which it deposits on the shallower right bank. In dry weather, a long string of the most disgusting, blackish-green, slime pools are left standing on this bank, from the depths of which bubbles of miasmic gas constantly arise and give forth a stench unendurable even on the bridge forty or fifty feet above the surface of the stream. But beside this, the stream itself is checked every few paces by high weirs, behind which slime and refuse accumulate and rot in thick masses. Above the bridge are tanneries, bone mills, and gasworks, from which all drains and refuse find their way into the Irk, which receives further the contents of all the neighbouring sewers and privies.” (Friedrich Engels, The Condition of the Working Class in England, 1844-5 [Manchester])
So the hard-nosed businessmen run the economy while the posh blokes marry posh birds and beget posh kids and run politics and the froth in the arts and administration. Meanwhile the poor proles are feckless and undeserving and need to be beaten into shape for their own good – unless they’re in the military or in sports, in which case they are allowed to be national heroes (temporarily).
Underpinning all that is the English language and its dominance in the contemporary world. Not the British language, mark you – English. The language of Shakespeare (not that most English can understand a bloody word of it as they are forced to plough through the stuff at school.) English is the international language – where once we had to shout at the foreigners to get them to understand, now they all speak it anyway. (If the truth be told many speak it better than the natives.) It reinforces our false sense of superiority – well, they all speak ours anyway (or they should) so why should I bother to try theirs? A linguistic deficit that imbues a paradoxical sense of superiority.
Our English national myth.
Out of all that comes our English national character. Quietly superior to all foreigners, who can be funny in their own way but can never do things as well as we English can – although they do try often. Except in football – where we’re perennially awful but always optimistic to begin with until we lose to Germany, or Iceland, or Belgium, or Norway (here). Our arrogance can be breathtaking to others whereas we barely notice it and are surprised and hurt (briefly) when the accusation is levelled. We won the War; we survived enormous hardship and made incredible sacrifices (apparently alone amongst all the warring nations); we beat Johnny Foreigner and we’re still here to tell the tale. And tell the tale we do – over and over and over again. Ad nauseam. It’s the biggest, most often revisited event in the English myth. We won The War. Which Proves It.
We are cynical and quite without scruple if it’s to our advantage – one might say, ruthless. No, let’s call it for what it is – amoral. We love to talk, smugly, of our fairness and tolerance but, when push comes to shove, fuck ’em.
As a final proof of my undeniable assertions I set before you this exchange of emails which the English sender proudly published on Twitter. It was what prompted me to write this blog because, to my mind, it encapsulates, at this stage in our self-induced Brexit national crisis – with far worse to come – the English national attitude that has fuelled it. I was going to deconstruct it but, on reflection, I don’t think it needs any further commentary at all. The English writer says all that needs, could possibly, be said about our arrogance, our sense of righteous superiority combined with an equal helping of outraged victimhood, our xenophobia, our linguistic complacency, our historic ignorance – and our inability to accept any responsibility for our own actions.
We English are a nation that has not yet grown up, despite our long – yet delusional – history. We are a troubled, socially inadequate adolescent truculently lashing out at our friends and classmates because they won’t give us all the dinner money that we have demanded of them for the protection that we are unable to provide and that they don’t need.
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English customer: Hi (Name)! I’m guessing you’ve had a good Covid year as the horticultural industry seems to have been one of the beneficiaries of lockdown and quarantine! That’s good, you’ll be able to give me even better prices, now! I’m looking for a further 50 x Quercus Ilex 80/100 cm. What price/delivery date can you offer me? Cheers, (Name)
Dutch supplier: Hi, (Name), Thank you for your message. I’m afraid we’re completely out of stock and cannot help. We first want to see as well what this whole Brexit thing is going to do. Thinking about stopping our UK trading with (you) totally but that depends on the UE-UK trading outcome. Wait and see. Wish you great success and already a Merry Christmas and a happy new year. With kind regards (Name)
English customer: This “Brexit thing”, (Name), is the greatest democratic act by the British people since WWII. Back then we regarded your country as our friends and brothers. In all of my 67 years, I’ve never been so proud of (half) my fellow citizens. As it happens there will be a deal, because the EU needs one. Not that I care either way, I’m fine with or without. Your attitude, however, is precisely what has alienated my country. I’m saddened and disappointed. I’m also amazed that a Dutchman would say such a thing. Keep your plants (Name). I’ll buy British, more than that, I’m going into production myself, you’ve convinced me.
The Cynical Squid 