At least he’s a Patriot…

‘At least I love this country. It’s the best in the world and I know that and I can say that. There’s nothing wrong with that, i’ll have you know!’. A while ago, when I was working in the convenience store that I used to work in, I served an elderly man with a red-face and gingery hair. From behind the till I could see the cars that the customers drove, and I remember seeing him tumble clumsily out of a very, very clean silver bentley. He stumbled drunkedly into the store, clasping at the sweet counter and picking up a Daily Mail. The free scratch cards seeped out as he trudged toward the counter. As I began scanning his items, he began talking at me (I say ‘at’, because there was little need for me to sign my consent for participation in the conversation with adequate noises of response. No no, he was making a point. I didn’t need to agree).

‘Problem with this country is all the immigrants. It’s the British who made Britain great.’ He said first, staring through me with the fervent pride of a soldier being gifted the Victoria Cross: ‘I remember a time when it was just us. Us and them. But they were over there, you see.’ Difficult as it was to follow the frames of reference here, I did so, labelling the man (tenuously, I admit) a narrow-minded xenophobe and remaining silent. I rarely react to this stigma, given that the vessels espousing such putrid bigotry are almost always intransigent and strubborn. Furthermore and rebuttal would have had me sacked. Eventually, however, his ramblings got too much.

‘I’m not saying that I’m a racist, boy-o, it’s just that this nation was a lot stronger 50 years ago, before they all came in.’ He stopped and glanced down at his Daily Mail in the plastic bag, as I had wrapped for him. ‘Well?’ He said, ‘What do you think? You’re a good English lad, aren’t you?’ I looked at him. He hadn’t looked at me having posed me this question, either because he hadn’t expected me to answer or because he was too drunk to remember that he had said it. I replied, ‘Yes, I do think. And that’s why I disagree with you.’ This took a while to register, but his face turned from red to crimson as he entered what appeared to be offensive mode: ‘What do you mean you disagree? You think that my England - the England that your grandfathers fought for – is better now that the people we were fighting are a part of it? Prfftch.’ The last word is onomatopoaeic; an attempt to correctly note the fart-like noise that he made in response to my disagreement with him. ‘I do not believe that my grandfathers fought for England. I believe that they fought for democracy and equality, and fought against Nazism, despotism and anti-semitism and racism. They didn’t fight against the Germans.’

This rattled him. He veered backwards before retrieving his balance and pusruing with what would (we both knew) be a lost cause: ‘It is offensive that you – a good English lad – should spit on your nationality. I find it offensive. You have offended me. I would like to see the manager.’ I rung the bell for the manager to come and assist. ‘I’m not an English lad. I happened to be born within boundaries that were drawn up millenia ago. That lottery shouldn’t make me have to like people from the same place and dislike people from outside it.’ He shuddered as if this point had torn straight through him, but it was obvious that it hadn’t. The manager appeared and having gone through the appropriate procedures, I refused to apologise to ‘the gentleman’ and was told that I would have to be sacked. I accepted the decision: ‘I like this country, mate,’ I said to him, ‘don’t get me wrong here. But I don’t value it over any other country simply because it is this country just like I don’t like anyone I meet automatically if they appear to me to be white and English. Not only is it illogical, but it’s also nationalistic.’ He reengaged the pride in his stance: ‘It is not Nationalism, dear lad. It’s patriotism. I am a patriot, and there’s nothing wrong with that.’ He then proceeded to vomit up the sentence at the start of this blog, before I was taken off of my shift.

I’ll never understand the logic in patriotism, as I didn’t at that time. Corrosive and divisive, it seems to me to be one of so many demons that need slaying in this world. I may be right, well, I am right – ethically, it is fatuous to claim that the lives of 50 people from one place are worth more than the lives of 50 people from another place simply because of where they happened to be born – but it seems that it will never be something on which everyone can agree. Silly stuff, really.

Activation post

A post simply meant to activate the links to all of the categories that I set up. Only this and nothing more.