Sitting in a beautiful English garden on a warm summer evening in July. The honey-coloured stone of the ruins of the old house are bathed in warm evening light and glow like gold. Behind the wall, in another part of the garden, a saxophone plays ‘Summertime’ by Gershwin. The garden is sweetly perfumed by roses and lavender; a small fountain adds the sound of water splishing and splashing and the chatter of birds in the waving tree-tops completes the magic.
This is the England that some people say doesn’t exist, that it is just a yearning for an imaginary past, a ridiculous nostalgia for the days of Empire and colonialism.
Well, let me tell you this, all you sneering, snide bastards who would rather sell your arse and your mother than stand up for your culture: This England, this so-called lost world, is not lost yet.
So Fuck You.