Down towards the known roots of Malcolm’s family tree is the Man from Brabant — still one of his more visited postings. Further back there are indisputable Norman-French, Scots Grants and other undesirable aliens.
The Lady in Malcolm’s Life has an Ulster background; and happily, like many — if not most — of her ilk, records French Huguenot ancestry. Where would the linen industry have been without them?
The Redfellow Number One Daughter lives with her American brood in New York.
Malcolm is currently seventy-odd pages into David Miles’s beautifully-written The Tribes of Britain — still in the Neolithic, but he’ll get to the later immigrants in due course. The history of British imperialism, why so much of the map was that curious pinky-red, is another bit of the story.
All of which means he isn’t greatly impressed by the BBC’s Lucy Ash recognising that London is France’s sixth biggest city.
Just as Boston and Philadelphia probably rank close behind Dublin as major Irish cities. And the English in Paris are none too difficult to find.
Hancock: (Sigh) I wish I hadn’t got up now. Your dinner wasn’t worth getting up for, I’ll tell you that for a start!
Hattie: Ah, well, I don’t know, I ate mine!
Hancock: That is neither here nor there. You also ate Bill’s and Sid’s and mine. I thought my mother was a bad cook but at least her gravy used to move about. Yours just sort of lies there and sets.
Hattie: That’s the goodness in it.
Hancock: That’s the ‘alf a pound of flour you put in it! Oh, dear! (Sigh) What a life!
If Mr Salmond dared extend his referendum to all the hemi-semi-demi Scots, he’d be getting very short shrift.