Sitting here, thinking of Beachy Head, with only Van Halen’s Jump playing for company I consider what else these white cliffs conjure for us, perhaps dover and those blue birds, is that the essence of Britishness? It’s certainly not those ‘British Values’ you might hear dribbled by the establishment, the dregs of minds cluttered with the deckchairs of imagined bracing beaches where the Poles are still apart. Did you know these so-called British values are even provided for schools for use? Patting ourselves on the back with the dead hand of imperialism, on a stick made from forearm of a Sikh forefather, who went over the top at the front, or fanned us from behind at discrete distance with the fronds of despair. But I can’t help but think of the real British values and tips for thriving in our land. Always apologize If you bump into someone in the supermarket, especially if it wasn’t your fault. Don’t ever start a conversation with someone you don’t know. There are exceptions, the bus or train braking down, if you’ve been waiting somewhere in close proximity, like a lift for a little too long maybe at a bus stop or out walking early in the morning with a prop, like a dog, or a kid or something. Or if you live in the north. But remember this just mention whether its too hot, cold, wet or windy, (delete as applicable) in a half rhetorical manner with a rising intonation. No other conversation is permissible. Obviously thanking the waiter and say how great the shit food was. Disappear in the crowd, no attention please, unless you drunk or a bloke in a BMW then you can act a twat. You can open shop with a silly name, a nice pun maybe but only if it’s a hairdressers or sandwich shop. Betty’s Big Baps never fails to entertain. Never accept racism, the traditional natives are born of countless invasions and endless maraudings, back when before we started exporting war. The white stock of this country are mongrels, that’s why we’re so ugly. An Englishman’s throne is his toilet. I’ve been reading Pablo Neruda’s love poetry out loud on mine (which somehow manages to be romantic and disgusting at the same time). Staring at my middle aged dread in the mirror, my life’s been tied up nicely.. like a Gordian knot. England may be about to throw itself off Beachy Head but I certainly will not.