Our editors write on what they think it means to be British

To be British, I feel, is to be uniformly sceptical of all things which are labelled British, from the Union Jack to the National Anthem. Yet we are (ironically) united in this scepticism of getting excited about national symbols or taking patriotism too seriously.
We are democratic, hold the right of free speech and suchlike. We would have it no other way, but we’re not going to get excited about it. I mean, really, we’re British for crikes sake.
Yet this refusal to proudly label ourselves British, far from being a lack of identity, is an enormously strong, if ambiguous one. Yes, ‘we’ are a group of diverse individuals and personalities. But individuals are invariably part of groups and this particular group–Britain–, like all groups, has some broad and distinct characteristics: cynicism and quiet pride. For example we aren’t proud of our imperial past but we damn well aren’t going to let anyone claim that our empire wasn’t the biggest and the strongest.
Overall, we aren’t too proud of Britain but we are proud of being British. And whilst Britain might not be too great we’ll fight to the death (over a pint) any country that has the impudence to say they’re better than us.

James Macdougald, Literature Editor

eden of hills lochs dales downs ditches rills round-eyed ladies pressing stamps trimming hedges verges lawns layered soil and sunday after sunday of churchyards and choice cuts unbuttoned unbelted supine on sofas taking papers post-prandials snacks chores and (curiously but yes) fêtes borrowed language borrowed mealtimes borrowed spires on loan from chartres or rouen then rievaulx then coventry (no great exspence) for great britten before how many per cell benothingtween gerontius or -on or since but the possum came pondhopping but not that one w. h. or denies it but he went the other way with g. b. and we’ve not forgotten not monarchs not meat pies parochials provincials publicans bigots and sewerrats and splashy tissuey vomity but assuredly continental duvets like she with the m in her name and everything battered and everyone battered and benjamin fleabitten to a fine pulp to endeavour to write poetree in the language of commonpersons from manningtree or aintree to catch the three-thirty still rather that than watch the lemons roll me to an early impecunious grave beneath a halfmeasure of tapale still flowing in spite of the oppositions that and other anhydrous dry roasted provisions scratchings pickledeggs and allsorts thick treacly spirituous or thin draughts meekbubbling furmities tewkesbury mustards and squashy peas potages hotpots and rarebits and bearbaits and borstals and barstools and beerstalls and readysalted readycheesed and readyonioned and ruddyeverythinged and ninetynines the spirit quavers and semiquavers and demisemis and hemidemisemis our hemi your semi this demi

Kellie Mills, Music Editor

I am here to ‘argue’ that it is I, Kellie Mills, who is ‘Britishness’ complete. On paper, I have it all; a newly-developed liking for tea, Grandparents that own a wool-shop down sunny South, a father that does the daily commute into the City, a family that have always lived in Great Britain, and an upper lip that is stiffer than one of my Father’s crisp white shirts.

Yet despite all this, there is really nothing distinguishing me from anyone else. In today’s society can we really talk of ‘Britishness’ without being rather tongue-in-cheek? To be honest, I do not think that tea is that great, I only drink it to stop being bored on an idle Wednesday at work. The classic Monty Python only produces raised eyebrows and a slight smirk. I do not own a pony, and, despite being a music student, my one great musical love is The Killers. In fact, I quite dislike Vaughan Williams, and Elgar really is not my cup of tea. In my opinion, today’s multicultural society leaves everyone in a bit of a cultural mess. But, ultimately, I find that one rather enjoys this.

Peter Hagen, Arts Editor

What is Britishness?
or
Imagined Diversions of a Construction Worker Employed on the Site of a Slowly Emerging Olympic Stadium

And did those feet in extra time
Abandon England’s losing game?
And will the holy Limb of Becks,
Disappoint us all the same?

And did the council tax divine
Increase again our annual bills?
And did our jurisprudence thrive
Between the legs of Heather Mills?

Bring me my pack of Turkish Gold,
Bring me my vindaloo, entire!
Bring me my beer: O gut unfold!
Bring me my haemorrhoids of fire.

I will not cease from gastric fight,
Nor shall The Sun sleep in my hand
Till we have built this Stadium…

Anywhere but bloody Paris.

Viran Pandya, Deputy Music Editor

Britishness, like any other form of cultural identity, is always in flux, shifting and changing to suit the needs of those that choose to be identified. Although it is meaningful to those who choose to identify themselves through this way, Britishness is essentially an imagined category. It is impossible to define the cultural identity of a people simply by the fact that they live in the same geographical location. Each individual has a multitude of ways that they can define themselves, each with differences concerning wealth, gender, religion, and political beliefs, to name but a few. I can not help but believe that the current emphasis on Britishness is a way to remedy the social complications that multiculturalism presents. There is the fear that Britain is no longer white, or that it is under siege by foreigners destabilizing the fictional existence of a prior homogeny of British life. If Britishness is equated with whiteness, then I simply have no time for it; it may have no time for me either. I fear that categories of identity are consistently understood as given facts. Nevertheless, as long as people do not decide to see Britishness as an authoritative form of identification which includes and excludes, rather than as a socially and culturally constructed and imagined entity with no real legitimacy, I (probably) won’t complain.

Jenny Hill, Deputy Arts Editor

Having grown up in a household where the ‘Match of the Day’ theme tune has the same effect as the Call to Prayer, my perception of “Britishness” is inevitably football centric. For those of you who aren’t fans, I am sure my definition will be considered blasphemous, but as far as I’m concerned the potent combination of bacon sandwiches, beer and bilious police horses on a freezing Saturday in November is quintessentially British. My definition of “Britishness” is waning in today’s society largely due to the powers that be at Sky and Setanta, who are slowly killing the traditional Saturday 3pm kick off. Yet despite this, and the increased awareness of the metatarsal (my Dad claims they didn’t have them in his day), it is just part of the changing face of ‘Britishness’. Like the departure of the ‘the special one’, it is something to moan about in a way that only the British can, over a half-time cup of tea of course.

Nicola Fairhead, Secretary

Until about two years ago ‘Britishness’, for me, was easy enough to define. Having spent most of my life in the States and Canada, it was left to my extremely English parents to represent ‘the motherland’ for me and my highly Americanised sisters. This generally came down to the following: incessant tea drinking, Monty Python DVDs, saying ‘pardon’ instead of ‘what, and somehow incorporating the fact that you are British into every conversation – even with the slightest of acquaintances. Now, as a third year English student at York, that narrow definition has expanded to include an obsessive passion for football, an incessant compulsion to layer clothes, as well as a crazed devotion to a number of quiz shows, and obviously devising any excuse to relocate a meeting to the local pub.