"Sorry, Becksy, we need less patriotism, not more
The distinguished author, footballer, philosopher and expert on hair, David Beckham, said recently that he would like to see a touch of American-style patriotism here in Britain.
Speaking from his sumptuous villa in Madrid, Mr Beckham argued that patriotism should not simply be restricted to the football terraces and that life in the green and pleasant land he recently left should be a neverending last night of the Proms. (Actually, I’m paraphrasing, but this was the thrust of his gist.)
Well, I had a day trip to America last week, to Detroit, one of my favourite cities precisely because the patriotism there is laced with such honesty. “Detroit,” proclaim the T-shirts, “where the weak are killed and eaten.” And “Come back soon,” shout the locals, pointing at their guns. “Sorry we missed you.”
Of course, once you get past Eight Mile Road, far from the bruised, battered and burnt-out city centre, you find yourself in middle America where stars-and-stripes flags flutter above every third home and on every fifth car aerial.
Bearing Mr Beckham’s vision in mind, I examined the people who choose to fly the flag. They were all pretty much the same: over 50, trousers with elasticated waistbands, eyes too close together and a pencil thin line twixt eyebrow and hair line. Stupid, in a word. Perhaps that’s why their flag-flying appeals so much to Señor Beckham.
You see signs over there, often, urging passers-by to “Support our troops and President Bush”. I found myself thinking: that simply wouldn’t work in Britain. Can you imagine yourself, or anyone you know, or anyone you’ve stood next to in a lift, walking to the bottom of the garden and hammering a placard into the ground which said, “Support our troops and Tony Blair”? For a kick-off, the two sentiments are mutually exclusive. And why would you fly a Union Jack from a pole in your garden; what are you trying to say — that you’re British? Well, since your garden is in Britain that’s patently obvious.
Perhaps you’re saying that you’re proud to be British? But what does this mean exactly; what are you proud of? Our provincial town centres with their Styrofoam carpets or those pastry-faced people who work in petrol stations; our National Health Service, our trains, our cricket team, our roads, our government, our wobbly bridges, our Millennium Dome, Rover, our Hutton inquiry, the British Library, British Airways, Britart, our education system, Will Young — what?
Had we been around between 1850 and 1875, when Britain was the workshop and the engine of the world, then maybe you could wake up every morning and bask in the hope and the glory and the pomp and the circumstance. Maybe then you could have put a sign in your garden saying, “Support our troops and Lord Palmerston”.
But now? All we have is our world-renowned sense of humour and I’m sorry, good though it is, I’m not going to spend £500 on a flagpole to celebrate Richard Curtis’s dab hand with a metaphor.
Sure, I feel all warm and fuzzy when an American says he has been to London England and that he liked it very much. And I go all cold and prickly when a German says he doesn’t like our taps.
But I am aware that this one-cal patriotism is still tribalism, and tribalism is fine if you’re an elephant, but troubling if you’re an Israeli fighter pilot or a Palestinian with six sticks of dynamite and some wire.
When you see Donald Rumsfeld sporting a stars-and-stripes lapel badge, what he is saying is that his tribe is better than anyone else’s: stronger, more right, richer. And all the people listening with their flags in the garden, and their propensity to stand and sob whenever the national anthem is played, are blinded by it, blinded to their faults and their shortcomings.
Contrary to what Beckham thinks, patriotism is fine in the football stadium, but when it spills outside it’s the eighth deadly sin — as bad as greed and a damn sight worse than envy. Rid the human race of patriotism and the war on terror would be won at a stroke.
You wouldn’t have George Bush praying to his God for guidance and Osama Bin Laden praying to his for vengeance. You wouldn’t have Eta or the IRA or the Tamil Tigers either. And you’d never have another Australian telling you how useless you are at cricket and how they have a nice climate and great steaks.
I like being British. I like our tolerance. I like our history. I like our weather. I like our countryside and I really do think we’re funny. Mostly, though, I like it here because I’m surrounded by my friends.
But I know that if I’d been born and brought up in France or Italy or Guatemala, I’d like it there instead.
I wish the world would realise it. I wish we could all come together in peace and harmony, the British, the Germans, the Saudis, the Iranians, the Americans, the Canadians, people from French Polynesia and Lapland and the plains of central Asia, South Americans, eastern Europeans. I’d like to see us all forming a new world order. And leaving the Greeks out of it, just for fun."
"Deaths in the Bible. God - 2,270,365
not including the victims of Noah's flood, Sodom and Gomorrah, or the
many plagues, famines, fiery serpents, etc because no specific numbers
were given. Satan - 10."
"Sorry, Becksy, we need less patriotism, not more
The distinguished author, footballer, philosopher and expert on hair, David Beckham, said recently that he would like to see a touch of American-style patriotism here in Britain.
Speaking from his sumptuous villa in Madrid, Mr Beckham argued that patriotism should not simply be restricted to the football terraces and that life in the green and pleasant land he recently left should be a neverending last night of the Proms. (Actually, I’m paraphrasing, but this was the thrust of his gist.)
Well, I had a day trip to America last week, to Detroit, one of my favourite cities precisely because the patriotism there is laced with such honesty. “Detroit,” proclaim the T-shirts, “where the weak are killed and eaten.” And “Come back soon,” shout the locals, pointing at their guns. “Sorry we missed you.”
Of course, once you get past Eight Mile Road, far from the bruised, battered and burnt-out city centre, you find yourself in middle America where stars-and-stripes flags flutter above every third home and on every fifth car aerial.
Bearing Mr Beckham’s vision in mind, I examined the people who choose to fly the flag. They were all pretty much the same: over 50, trousers with elasticated waistbands, eyes too close together and a pencil thin line twixt eyebrow and hair line. Stupid, in a word. Perhaps that’s why their flag-flying appeals so much to Señor Beckham.
You see signs over there, often, urging passers-by to “Support our troops and President Bush”. I found myself thinking: that simply wouldn’t work in Britain. Can you imagine yourself, or anyone you know, or anyone you’ve stood next to in a lift, walking to the bottom of the garden and hammering a placard into the ground which said, “Support our troops and Tony Blair”? For a kick-off, the two sentiments are mutually exclusive. And why would you fly a Union Jack from a pole in your garden; what are you trying to say — that you’re British? Well, since your garden is in Britain that’s patently obvious.
Perhaps you’re saying that you’re proud to be British? But what does this mean exactly; what are you proud of? Our provincial town centres with their Styrofoam carpets or those pastry-faced people who work in petrol stations; our National Health Service, our trains, our cricket team, our roads, our government, our wobbly bridges, our Millennium Dome, Rover, our Hutton inquiry, the British Library, British Airways, Britart, our education system, Will Young — what?
Had we been around between 1850 and 1875, when Britain was the workshop and the engine of the world, then maybe you could wake up every morning and bask in the hope and the glory and the pomp and the circumstance. Maybe then you could have put a sign in your garden saying, “Support our troops and Lord Palmerston”.
But now? All we have is our world-renowned sense of humour and I’m sorry, good though it is, I’m not going to spend £500 on a flagpole to celebrate Richard Curtis’s dab hand with a metaphor.
Sure, I feel all warm and fuzzy when an American says he has been to London England and that he liked it very much. And I go all cold and prickly when a German says he doesn’t like our taps.
But I am aware that this one-cal patriotism is still tribalism, and tribalism is fine if you’re an elephant, but troubling if you’re an Israeli fighter pilot or a Palestinian with six sticks of dynamite and some wire.
When you see Donald Rumsfeld sporting a stars-and-stripes lapel badge, what he is saying is that his tribe is better than anyone else’s: stronger, more right, richer. And all the people listening with their flags in the garden, and their propensity to stand and sob whenever the national anthem is played, are blinded by it, blinded to their faults and their shortcomings.
Contrary to what Beckham thinks, patriotism is fine in the football stadium, but when it spills outside it’s the eighth deadly sin — as bad as greed and a damn sight worse than envy. Rid the human race of patriotism and the war on terror would be won at a stroke.
You wouldn’t have George Bush praying to his God for guidance and Osama Bin Laden praying to his for vengeance. You wouldn’t have Eta or the IRA or the Tamil Tigers either. And you’d never have another Australian telling you how useless you are at cricket and how they have a nice climate and great steaks.
I like being British. I like our tolerance. I like our history. I like our weather. I like our countryside and I really do think we’re funny. Mostly, though, I like it here because I’m surrounded by my friends.
But I know that if I’d been born and brought up in France or Italy or Guatemala, I’d like it there instead.
I wish the world would realise it. I wish we could all come together in peace and harmony, the British, the Germans, the Saudis, the Iranians, the Americans, the Canadians, people from French Polynesia and Lapland and the plains of central Asia, South Americans, eastern Europeans. I’d like to see us all forming a new world order. And leaving the Greeks out of it, just for fun."
"Deaths in the Bible. God - 2,270,365
not including the victims of Noah's flood, Sodom and Gomorrah, or the
many plagues, famines, fiery serpents, etc because no specific numbers
were given. Satan - 10."