The English Impatient

[wytchcroft]

(another find)
warning; contains swearing. please remember - i am NOT my characters. 
................

Concepts of ‘Englishness’ bothered Gerry, bothered him in the same way as blurred patches in his peripheral vision, the kind that didn’t go away but, however much he wiped his specs, just sort of smeared out on the edges, to the side or below. The same annoyance as a paper cut. Paper cuts always come with the jeering promise that, no matter what you do, sooner or later (in fact just sooner), you will be forced by the generally malign nature of things to use the wounded finger and repeatedly so. With a pair of specs it would be email, bills, files and forms from work, a laughing commuter thrusting out the funny pages of a daily paper – or else road-signs, bus stops, unexpected waving friends, yapping dogs, darting cats or footballs out of nowhere, billboard adverts, lurching cars at T-junctions, attractive women, all would remorselessly have to be looked at through the smear. Gerry disliked having to turn his head and he disliked having to deliberately look down or to the sides – and he hated flicking through pieces of paper, whether this was an innate thing, a natural quirk, or a borderline phobic reaction to 30-plus years of dirty glasses and sore fingers, Gerry wasn’t sure.

If the brain, as so often claimed, is but a large muscle, then, Gerry supposed, the mind was but a red edged finger in a dodgy pair of specs.

Or something. Anyway, yes, Concepts of –

and is ‘Englishness’ even a word? If you type it out surely the ever vigilant spellchecker will cry foul – or have enough bastards clicked ‘add to dictionary’ to make it a word? ‘Englishness’? Does anyone ever say ‘Frenchness’? ‘Germanitude’? Do they bob. So... and why not ‘Britishness’ come to that? Pretty sure that the passport decaying away in whatever loft box it’s in says, ‘British’.

Gerry remembered saying “Made in Britain” when asked his nationality by some eager questionnaire person outside Sainsbury’s and being surprised by the response; “Yeah but are you English?”

So whatever happened to Britain? Was it decommissioned one dark night when no/one was looking? Floated off surreptitiously to some anonymous breakers yard due to lack of funding? Had James Bond suddenly become an English Secret Agent? Sounded wrong. Then again, if Gerry remembered right, Bond’s parents were from Scotland. Maybe you had to be Scottish to be British? It was perplexing. And uncomfortable.
Gerry preferred the word ‘British’ despite the horrors of the BNP it was still ‘England’ and ‘English’ that conjured ugly images of limp St George flags, rabid pit-bulls, smashed up shops and a good kicking after the match etc and ad nausea. It was also, to Gerry, a very 1980s sort of word – so maybe that was it, bloody retro fashions.
Gerry had heard, and to his disbelief, in a recent election broadcast by... actually that part had been far from clear, anyway, Gerry had heard the phrase ‘the Loony Left’, which apart from being 20 or so years out of date was also, surely, entirely meaningless now. Gerry had vague memories of ‘The Loony Left’ being such types as hunt saboteurs, (hunting went on to become banned), and supporters of the GLC and its leader Ken, Ken went on to become Lord Mayor of London for eight years – so, ‘Loony Left’ obvious bollocks. Retro fashion. Uh.

At this point, if she had not been intelligent enough to get the hell out, find some decent bloke and thereby become Gerry’s Ex, wife Clare would have growled deep in her throat and asked tensely, “Does this have any kind of a point Ger’?” to which, minus hand waving, and indeed sans wife, sans Clare, the answer comes;

Yeah, actually, the point is Richard, bloody Richard, alright?

Richard Mills, Richard?

Yeah, that Richard.

Bloody Richard Mills who, just that morning, had announced clear out the blue that he was upping sticks and emigrating because he didn’t want to be ’English’ anymore.

Bastard. Bastard, bastard Richard bloody Mills. Only his best friend. Richard Mills, a best friend whose clearly gleeful tones had rung out ala Monty Python, “Emigrating. Going. Soon to be gone. Leaving. For good. To be in this land no more. Goodbye England. So long Britain. Farewell United Kingdom. I shall be pushing off – from your shores, a soon to be Ex-Citizen.”

As to where the happy soon to be ex-habitant was heading... well, that would be divulged at a suitably gigantic send off at Jen’s place in a couple weeks, she’s got the invites so don’t even ask alright?

Bloody hell. Absolutely. And why? “I don’t want to be English anymore.” See?

“But Rich- Richard, I..”

And Gerry felt the strength of the long arm flung about him. “Oh buck up Gerry. Anyway, sod it, why not come too? You could leave after all, you know. I mean, you could leave too.”

Except not. Passport. Box. Decaying. Remember? Gerry had not been abroad for years and the thought of emigrating... God, other countries scared him, he admitted as much. Scared him on a physical level; the vertigo inducing skies of the USA, the confusing streets of Berlin, the climatic hell of – well, virtually anywhere else. And weren’t Spain and such just like here these days? Same shops, same whatever.

Mills gave nothing away. And there were a few notable names Gerry had failed to put on his fear list; Japan – well, you need a fucking good job there or you’ll be back by teatime Richard and hello earthquake zone! Sweden – well, you... you...

What, Gerry?

Ok, I’ll give you Sweden. Uh, oh, Canada – well, same as USA, sky-wise and that. I mean it’s a different place but you’ll still feel dizzy and think you’re on another planet.

“I feel like that now, Gerry. I feel like that here.”

So there it was. After decades of friendship Gerry had been forced to confront a fact that seemed to stun no-one but him; you really do never know other people.

It was upsetting. The rug pulled under the feet leaves everything wonky, tilted, wrong. Now Gerry had to try and re-remember, re-recall. What had he missed all these years? He had no political leanings whatsoever except the usual dislike of extremists and fanatics and thugs and such, generally any group with initials instead of a name. And Richard? Gerry had always considered him to be the same way. Oh he had more and better voiced opinions, but opinions meant ideas about trains, knowledge of wine or pop music not rooting for some badly printed face leering from a leaflet on the doormat, he couldn’t imagine Richard haranguing the TVs late night interviewees on political terms, he could hardly picture his best mate slipping into some underworld den to, er, pump his fist, along with however many other scowling convict-headed hard men.   

Oh Christ, maybe Richard –

I’m not gay Gerry.

Well, great, I mean cool, that is no, it would be a surprise that’s all, like emigrating, not a judgement just –

I’m not gay Gerry. And it’s your mind you ding-bat, you’re the one conjuring up all this fisting action and –

God, Richard – even in my mind you can take the piss out of me.

Gerry, the piss, if you ever had any, was taken a long time ago and not returned – and not by me.

You mean Clare.

I mean, you’re wandering again. Is there any kind of point to all this?

Oh, right, yeah, sorry. Where was I?

You were talking about fisting and pumping and me –

Shut up Richard. Right. Ok. No, can’t imagine you on some race hate campaign trail. Then again, opposite tack, I can’t exactly imagine you holding a placard and –

I did though. I did that.

What?

Hold a placard and stuff.

What? When did you ever?

Iraq, we both did.

Bloody hell, that’s true. Weird actually, you know I’d completely forgotten.

You and two million others.

Aha! So you are political?

No, I’m just winding you up, again, head, yours, right?

Right, right. It would be hard to credit, Richard as a hippy. Jen’s a bit of a hippy, but she wears it well.

Jen? You mean Jennifer Mills, Gerry, as in my wife, spelt WIFE?

Yes. And shut up Richard. Not political. But what is politics? Same game as ‘what is ‘Englishness’? Gets us nowhere. Maybe it’s social, ok Gerry cast the mind back, social... social...

Supermarkets, pubs, cinemas, cash machines, busses, that was social. Did the announcement mean a response to those, which is to say; till staff, customers, bar staff, pub crews, queues, passengers – people, just people. Just people wholesale or some particular section of the nations’ rough crowds? Youth? And what does that mean, everyone under 25, 20, 17, what, and boys and girls or just one sex?

For every mutually experienced hurled car park insult, check-out rudeness, fight for a seat, drunken aggression, night flung object, down however many years, did Gerry miss a tipping point? Was there a Charles Bronson type moment when, beneath a boyish but quite suddenly forty-something fringe, Richard’s eyes had suddenly turned steely and dangerous and where his jaw clenched down even as his tongue readied itself to utter phrases like ‘lack of respect’, ‘societal breakdown’, phrases which would lead on inevitably (or so it always seemed) to “the problem with immigration is”... and “I’m all for it, the NHS needs a good shake up, and as for schools don’t even get me started!” before, “this country’s had it, the whole place has gone to the dogs!” and finally, “I’m emigrating.  Not telling you where. In a few weeks, yeah, Jen’s got a farewell party organized, alright?”

Had it been like that? Jesus, such a monumental bit of revision, had Gerry really been blind to so much – and had Richard deliberately obscured his thoughts and been so adept at hiding his reactions from everyone, including his best mate, his friends and family, from Jen and from Chelsea? Chelsea – Richard’s daughter, nice girl, currently filed under ’15, avoid prolonged contact for legal reasons and potential likely embarrassment’. What did she make of all this? Maybe it was her idea – better than a year abroad and given the current funding and fees situation facing future students... maybe... maybe Gerry should ask her, maybe...

And maybe I just don’t want to face the unpalatable truth of failing to know my best friend.

And maybe you just want an excuse to chat up my daughter.

Shut up Richard.

Oh, she likes you, y’know? Told me how funny you were babysitting her and her mates that time me and Jen went away for a weekend.

Shut up Richard. And that was years ago. And – was that, that weekend away, what the fuck was that about? Was that when you (and maybe Jen) decided it was for the best to bugger off out of Blighty, but maybe in a few years when Chelsea was older? Was that how it was? 

No Gerry.

Oh really?

Really.

And I know that because...?

Because that was the weekend I was actually with Clare.

Oh sure, right, yeah Clare. Wait. Wait a minute, Clare, MY Clare, my Clare that said you had the face a smug Russian Oligarch, and I said what, the sort that go out with super models, own Premier League football teams and are in general rather spectacularly wealthy, well connected and successful, and – and THAT weekend, and you – and Clare and – now, she’s gone and you’re going to sod off as well because, why, you feel guilty, or maybe Jen feels too angry and you all need a fresh start some place? Well, Richard? Come on, bloody ‘fess up! J’Accuse!

Richard?!

Gerry. Head, Gerry. As in yours. Again.

Oh, yeah, right. Sorry.

 

....................................................................