39. Full English

... being an examination of Englishness - the joys of a plateful of fried food, and the consequences of indulging in it.

What does it mean to be English? I am an Englishman, although, with the name of O’Brien, I like to emphasise my Irish heritage. When I have to write my ethnicity on one of those forms (more often than not after attending an arts event) I always feel a bit disappointed that I have to classify myself as “White British”. I always feel that there should be a “Celtic British” option, just as there is an Asian British and Black British. I don’t want to be mistaken for anyone with merely a Norman British heritage. My people have inhabited these isles since before the Romans! But I’m not bothered enough to create my own box. In fact, I would really rather not be categorised at all. I’m me, and that’s enough for any of us isn’t it?

Well. No, perhaps it isn’t. There is still a lot of fierce debate about England, and what it means to be English, just as there is about the other countries of the United Kingdom, and indeed the world beyond it. Some English folk complain about their national identity being disregarded in modern Britain. They ask awkward questions about how we educate kids in England; questions like like “Why don’t they teach Shakespeare in schools anymore?” and “Why do the no longer teach about the kings and queens of England?” I find such questions quite puzzling, because I have actually been involved in teaching History and English Literature, and as far as I know, Shakespeare and the kings and queens of England are still on the curriculum. I feel that perhaps this line of questioning is more akin to “Why don’t they teach children that England is at the centre of the known universe anymore?” I have to admit that they don’t do that, because it isn’t.

Every nation on earth has stuff that it feels proud of. National anthems, national cuisine, literary greats, national sports, inventors, great leaders, a whole variety of things that they feel represent the essence of their heritage. Englishness for me involves a lot of things, literary characters such as Shakespeare and Chaucer, P.G Wodehouse, Agatha Christie and Stephen Fry. Then there’s the football league, tennis on the lawn, gin and tonic, Royal Ascot, and as the American country singer Roger Miller had it in 1966…

England swings like a pendulum do
Bobbies on bicycles, two by two
Westminster Abbey, the Tower of Big Ben
And the rosy red cheeks of the little children

Then there’s Billy Bunter, Sherlock Holmes, George Orwell, the King James Bible, village fêtes with the Church of England vicar judging the largest marrows and the most delicious home-made jams. I realise that is a hopelessly outdated image, but to me, talking about Englishness is a pretty outdated concept. Yet it is one that I can hold in my mind whilst simultaneously being proud to live in a multicultural society with people of all creeds and nations being able to co-exist in an atmosphere of tolerance and respect. Surely tolerance and respect is something that all English people should be proud of?

But some English people are not proud of our reputation for tolerance. There are those who feel that we have taken tolerance and respect way too far, and would prefer us to go back to the world of PG Woodhouse, as long as we could still have plenty of lager to drink, (English lager, naturally) and add a national football manager who could actually deploy the English footballers (who they believe are naturally the best footballers in the world) in a manner which enabled them to actually win a major tournament. Its complicated.

The breakfast of choice of such people is the Full English Breakfast, a great big plate of fried food, - eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, black pudding, and perhaps¹ hash brown potatoes, with a few baked beans and chopped tomatoes, and a slice of bread (fried if you please) to go with it. And what could be more English to wash it down with than a cup of tea? Perhaps a can of Lager!

A breakfast like that sets you up for the day, and over time, clogs your arteries up to such an extent that you are more likely to die of a sudden heart attack than live long enough to lose your mind and control of your bodily functions. This is a good thing because no true Englishman wants to lose his mind and control over his bodily functions, unless the loss is self-administered, achieved by drinking copious amounts of lager. Losing control with lager is every Englishman’s God given right!

For all my belief that England is for Shakespeare and Morris Dancers and Sir Edward Elgar, I absolutely love a Full English Breakfast. I love the abandon that it involves. The gluttony, the lack of concern for health and comfort that we would otherwise only experience on Christmas Day. “Yes!” I think, as I shovel the black pudding onto my mouth and the bean juice dribbles down my chin, “tomorrow, I might be obese, lethargic and desperately unhealthy, but today, let me enjoy my breakfast”. I will worry about my early grave when it is imminent. What’s the point of denying yourself the pleasures of life just to extend it by a few more joyless years?"

You don’t even have to eat meat to indulge these days, with the Full Vegetarian, and if you want to travel to other countries, there’s always slightly inferior imitations such as the full Scottish (with some added oatcakes) the full Welsh, with some soda bread and, for Celts like me, the full Irish, eaten with a shillelagh or something by the side of your plate and washed down with a pint of Guinness.

I have even seen a full Spanish Breakfast, which is basically a Full English with some chorizo sausage and a few peppers added to the fry. You can only get one of those in a George and Dragon English Pub on the Iberian Peninsula, most of which have closed down now, as their landlords and customers have have had to go back to the real England where they came from due to the Brexit that many of them voted for.

I have no doubt that if the human race ever colonise Mars, the first Englishmen to land there will celebrate with a Full Martian Breakfast, which will probably consist of the imported traditional fare with the addition of some fried moss from the local bio-dome.

None of this has vey much at all to do with the poem reproduced below, other than the fact that I wrote it after consuming a full English breakfast at a small hotel whilst on holiday in North Norfolk or somewhere similar. It celebrates the English relish for breakfast, at least as seen through my Celtic British eyes and schoolboy sense of humour.

Full English

The Cumberland was the centrepiece,
Lightly herbed, juicy and fragrant.
Smooth, rounded, flavoursome and meaty

I munched and masticated
Annihilated its shape and form
Transformed it into a slavery sludge
Swallowed it and savoured the memory as I went about my business

And as I went about my business
My body worked on the remains of the Cumberland
Reconfiguring
Realigning
Remoulding

And when, later that morning, I stood over the porcelain throne
Inspecting the fruit of my labours
There was the selfsame Cumberland
Submerged
Reincarnated
Smooth, rounded, flavoursome and meaty

With a deft flick of the wrist, I sent it away
To nourish the denizens of the underworld.

1. Thank you, Margaret Rowland, for pointing out how unpatriotic Hash Browns are.