Nothing new here

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.

We migrant humans are the Bisto that lubricates the meat-and-potatoes of life. On which Galton and Simpson put as good a definition as any into the mouth of Antony Aloysius St John Hancock:

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.



Filed under air travel., BBC, Britain, culture, Devolution, Ethnicity, Europe, History, London

2 responses to “Nothing new here

  1. Pingback: Mine is bigger than yours | Malcolm Redfellow’s Home Service

  2. I think that that Hancock’s Half Hour episode is the best description of the English Sunday in the time up to the start of the 1960s. A huge pile of stodge for Sunday dinner, and an afternoon and evening of surpassing boredom, puntuated only by bickering. What children there were had of course been packed off to Sunday School – in my part of the world, morning if you were chapel; afternoon if C of E. Parents tended to not bother with religion.

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