PASSPORT TO PIDDINGTON
An Englishman has the right to call himself whatever he damn well pleases.
The Ministry of Reassurance wishes it to be known that there is absolutely no cause for alarm following reports that the quiet Oxfordshire village of Piddington has voted by an overwhelming majority to declare independence from the United Kingdom. Officials stress that this is merely another example of Britain’s healthy constitutional flexibility.
The vote follows the Government’s announcement that a nearby former Ministry of Defence site will house more than a thousand asylum seekers, a decision which many villagers insist came as something of a surprise, largely because nobody appears to have mentioned it until after it had been decided. This is, of course, precisely how British democracy has always functioned.
The village assembled in the traditional fashion. There were speeches. There was tea. Someone suggested writing to the Member of Parliament. Someone else observed that this had already been attempted. At this point, with admirable restraint, the inhabitants elected not to storm Westminster but instead to found an independent nation, and as every schoolboy knows, this is the correct constitutional procedure.
One imagines passports being issued from the Village Hall between the coffee morning and the raffle. Customs officers will be stationed at the entrance to the cricket field. Foreign relations with Upper Arncott will remain cordial, though negotiations with Lower Arncott continue. The Army will consist of three retired colonels, a sheepdog and Dennis, who once organised traffic at the church fête. The Secret Service remains Mrs Jenkins, whose net curtains have never knowingly failed the Crown.
Students of British history will recognise that this is nothing new. In 1642 the nation divided itself into Cavaliers and Roundheads and in many ways has been fighting that civil war ever since. Though the British have turned the war into comedy. If you dear reader do not recognise the title of this piece, I suggest you google Passport to Pimlico and get yourself educated about your heritage. You will learn that it is every Englishman’s right to call himself whatever he likes, even if it is a Burgundian, are
Britain has accumulated a surprising collection of independent states over the years. There was the People’s Republic of Frestonia in West London, complete with passports, stamps and applications to join the United Nations. Hay-on-Wye crowned itself a kingdom. The Isle of Lundy issued its own coins. The Principality of Sealand continues to bob about in the North Sea insisting it is perfectly sovereign despite having a population roughly equal to a bridge table. One might even say that the USA was merely the first People’s Republic of Piddington to become successful.
The remarkable thing is not that these places exist. It is that Britain rather likes them. Most countries suppress secession. We put it on postcards.
Even our new PM is getting in on the act. He proposes a “Number Ten of the North”, reassuring us that power is to be decentralised. This is splendid. Soon every region may possess its own Downing Street: Yorkshire can have its own Number Ten and Cornwall can have one as well. The People’s Republic of Piddington will doubtless settle for Number Three, opposite the village green. It will save on postage.
In short, despite or maybe because of the mass immigration into this country, it is still the Britain of Ealing Studios. Still the Britain of parish meetings. Still the Britain where local people confronted by bewildering decisions from distant authorities instinctively form another committee and, if that fails, they can always move to another country! Spain, Portugal, Australia, New Zealand, even Canada may reap the benefits of the British Disgruntlement that created the empire.
By desiring a country where everyone can argue with someone they know personally, the British scatter and slowly turn everyone around them into little Brits just as determined not to have one United Kingdom or even call themselves English for that matter, unless playing football, or they’re Welsh, or Scottish… The Irish fit the pattern as well for that matter, though I think they’d hate to think they caught it from the English.
In short, we merely maintain a loose federation of villages, counties, football clubs, housing estates and garden fences which periodically remember that they were once perfectly capable of governing themselves. And so, we wish the People’s Republic of Piddington every success. May its borders remain secure, its fête well attended, its village hall fully booked, and its passport office closed on Wednesdays for bowls.