More from Kevin Myers...

A return to form here for one of my favourite columnists, Kevin Myers of the Irish Independent, who prods both the English (specifically) and the Irish with similarly pointed sticks as a consequence our what he perceives to be our ahistoric attitudes to our pasts.

Spot on in my view; but what do you think?

Happy St George's Day

I suspect that everyone who visits this site today will know precisely what day it is, and as such, allow me to remind you of Cecil Rhodes' famous injunction to one of his countrymen:


"Remember that you are an Englishman, and have consequently won first prize in the lottery of life."


Or perhaps this one from the late (and great) former Master of the Rolls, Lord Denning, who was born a draper's son in Hampshire:


"There are many things in life more worthwhile than money. One is to be brought up in this our England which is still the envy of less happy lands."


Indeed. And as it now "beer o'clock", to quote Detective Chief Inspector Gene Hunt, may I wish a very happy St George's Day to Englishmen and Englishwomen everywhere.

Well done, England...

Little more to add to the tidal wave of publicity which has accompanied England's retention of The Ashes on Australian soil.

Not only did we retain the trophy however - merely drawing the series would have been sufficient to achieve that target - we won the series 3 - 1, winning three test matches by an innings, which for the uninitiated, is a thrashing.

We have effectively mauled the Australians on their own soil. They hate it; they really, really hate it.

Which makes our victory all the sweeter, because as any sports fan will attest, there is nothing as awful as an Australian bragging about his country's latest sporting success; magnanimity in victory is a concept utterly lost on them.

So well done England and roll on 2013...

Well? Let's have their names, then...

It is now becoming clear that a number of the FIFA conclave, possibly as many as six, had 'promised' their votes to England in the first round of voting, only to susbsequently vote for someone else. Rumoured to be amongst these liars - what else are they, saying one thing and doing another? - is the truly appalling and dishonest Jack Warner of the Trinidad and Tobago Football Asociation. That would be the same Jack Warner who has been mired in previous corruption investigations and a man whose disdain for all things English goes before him.

It is as well that his name has emerged from the omerta which has surrounded the voting fiasco which cost England the tournament, because I think that our FA should now grow a pair, man up, or whatever other label you may choose to attach to it and publicly name each of the representatives who said they would vote for the English bid, before reneging and voting for another one, possibly under pressure from the utterly nauseating Blatter.

What have we (meaning the English FA, of course) got to lose by adopting such a course? They've made it perfectly clear that we won't be hosting the World Cup finals any time soon (2030 at least) because can't win in a fair competition, even when our bid to hold the tournament was streets ahead of the competition, so no problem there.

But they may exclude us from even taking part in future World Cups, I hear some faint-hearts cry...

Unlikely. If FIFA is anything it is a rapacious money making machine and the English pounds spent by our fans and our television channels are very much sought after by Blatter and his kleptocracy.

No. Name the guilty men. Publish their names in the English press the FIFA panjandrums so clearly fear and despise for their unerring ability to expose their deceit and graft.

Then we can approach each of them individually and ask them, in the full glare of publicity, why they lied to our faces.

We cannot allow this issue to simply die a death, or the whole sorry caravan of deceit graft and self aggrandisement which is the governing body of world football will simply carry on as if nothing had happened, even after the hideous Blatter and Warner have disappeared into well padded retirement, rather than the secure 8' by 10' rooms that both of them so richly deserve.

Were you suprised? Really?

Is anyone actually, really surprised that England lost out to Russia (and all the other competing bids, as it happens) in the race to host the World Cup finals in 2018? Not disappointed - I suspect millions of us are experiencing that emotion; no, surprised, because I'm not.

By common consent, we appear to have submitted the best technical and commercial bid to host the tournament, but ended up receiving just two votes out of a possible twenty-two in the first ballot - one of which was our own, apparently(!) and were consequently eliminated at that stage.

Was it a form of revenge against the repeated exposures of alleged corruption, (simply type the words 'FIFA corruption' into Google and you get pages of links, such as here, here, here and here), amongst FIFA officials by our media, as suggested in the linked article by Mark Palios and David Davies?

Very possibly, although Graham Taylor – he of the turnip head – dismisses that theory, suggesting, "England have had little or no influence. We are considered to be arrogant and know-alls."

I suspect it may be a combination of the two, with a little palm-greasing thrown in for good measure; but whatever the reason, we were resoundingly rejected by all but one of those entitled to vote and that is despite our sending the next but one King of England, the Prime Minister and, in David Beckham, one of the most iconic sports stars this country has ever produced, to pitch for us at the final presentations in Zurich.

Well, so be it. As a football fan, I hope that the Russians stage an excellent tournament that we can all enjoy in seven and a half years’ time. Ditto the Qataris – a country with a smaller landmass than the Falkland Islands and daytime summer temperatures of 50 degrees Celsius - in 2022.

Meanwhile, I sincerely hope that Messrs Blatter, Warner and co are going to conduct themselves like Caesar’s wife from now on; because I can guarantee that every investigative journalist in this country is currently working out how to further expose them as the deceitful, grubby criminals they really are.

And please, let's not delude ourselves that we have any hope of hosting the competition again in 2030 - the next time we'll be able to bid. Leave it to the corrupt narco-states and third world tyrannies with which the FIFA voting panel have so much in common.

Today is Lancashire Day...

I'm sure that most readers will recognise the flag I reproduce at the head of this post as that of the County Palatine of Lancaster; a county of which I am proud to be a native son.

What some of you may not know, however, is that today, November 27th is Lancashire Day, named as such in commemoration of the fact that on this day in 1295 the first elected representatives from Lancashire were called to Westminster by King Edward I (Scottorum malleus) to attend what later became known as The Model Parliament.

To further commemorate the occasion, this proclamation is read out by town criers throughout the county each year on 27th November:

TO: THE PEOPLE OF THE CITY AND COUNTY
PALATINE OF LANCASTER
GREETINGS!

Know ye that this day, November 27th in the year of
our Lord Two Thousand and Ten, the 59th year of
the reign of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II,
Duke of Lancaster, is Lancashire Day.

Know ye also, and rejoice, that by virtue of Her
Majesty's County Palatine of Lancaster, the citizens
of the Hundreds of Lonsdale, North and South of
the Sands, Amounderness, Leyland, Blackburn,
Salford and West Derby are forever entitled to style
themselves Lancastrians.

Throughout the County Palatine, from the Furness
Fells to the River Mersey, from the Irish Sea to the
Pennines, this day shall ever mark the peoples' pleasure
in that excellent distinction - true Lancastrians, proud
of the Red Rose and loyal to our Sovereign Duke.

GOD BLESS LANCASHIRE AND
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN,
DUKE OF LANCASTER.

I shall be raising a glass (or two) to my fellow Lancastrians tonight; cheers!

St Crispin's Day...

The more historically aware amongst you will know that today is St Crispin's Day.

More famously, of course, it is also the anniversary of the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, when an English army only 6,000 strong defeated French forces six times as large on their own soil.

As such, it's time to turn once agai to the greatest ever Englishman's take on what Henry V told his men on the eve of that epic battle:

WESTMORELAND.

O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work to-day!

KING.

What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland?
No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have.
O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Show a little respect, please...

Just a very quick one.

Watching the build up to England's match this evening against Bulgaria, I was more than a little disappointed to hear the first few bars of the visitors' national anthem being booed and whistled.

Such behaviour is simply unacceptable. It is downright rude and offensive and should not have occurred; visiting countries' anthems should be listened to in respectful silence (even the French), just as we would expect ours to be in their country.

One other interesting point here, though.

Every one of the Bulgarian players was visibly mouthing the words to their (rather long!) anthem, even if they were not actually singing it, whereas a number of England players made no effort whatsoever to join in with the rendition of GSTQ.

They could have done with turning round and following the example of the barrel-chested NCO stood behind them in the flag party, who bellowed out the words with such gusto they could probably hear him in Hertfordshire!

Well done that man, I say

Come home England...

I didn't get to see very much of today's game against the Germans due to pressure of work, but ironically, the five minutes I did manage to catch encompassed our given-goal and the-one-that-never-was from the boot of the unlucky Frank Lampard.

But, irrespective of that clear injustice, what is an average German side simply swept us aside, scoring four goals in the process. I understand that it could easily have been many more.

I suppose in the final analysis the problem can be summed up in five words: we're just not good enough.

End of.

Come on England (3)

Unfortunately, I didn't get to see any of England's final game against Slovenia due to pressure of work (we have a very important presentation to manage next week and a large new project to deal with at the same time).

Perhaps, for the good of the nation, I should arrange to go in to work on Sunday and avoid even glancing at a television set between three and five o'clock that aftenoon, in the hope that my absence may inspire the team to overcome the Germans.

Worth considering, I suppose!

Here we go again. Come on England!

Well there's about ten minutes to go before kick off in the England versus Algeria game.

Once again, the magners is chilled, the ice is ready and I've developed a respectable thirst.

Here's to a better performance than last Saturday evening and a much needed morale boosting win.

Come on England!

Inebriation permitting, I'll be back after the game with an update...

Update 9.30pm

Very disappointing, I'm afraid. Let's be honest with ourselves, we weren't good enough - and nor did we deserve - to beat Algeria, did we.

Oh dear. Not a very happy birthday for Fabio, all in all...

Come on England!

Like many of you, I suspect, I'm just settling down to watch England take on the footballing might of the USA in the first game of our World Cup campaign.

I am going to stick my neck out here and predict an English victory, either two nil, or possibly two - one.

I'll be back after the final whistle has blown to update my assessment. Unfortunately, whatever I write will probably be utter drivel (no change there then, I hear you all intone as one) because by that time, I will have put myself on the outside of about a gallon of Mr Magner's finest carbonated apple juice...

Come on England!

Update 9.30pm

Hmmm. Could have won it; probably should have won it, but we didn't convert our chances; then again, neither did the Americans. If this had been boxing match we'd have shaded it on points, but it isn't, so well done USA and well played Bob Bradley.

I think we can all agree that we'll have to improve if we want to stay in the competition for longer than a fortnight.

Anyway, back to my evening with Mr Magner...

Beautiful England (3)

Regular visitors will know that every now and again, I like to post images of the English countryside in all its glory.

I took this one in a clearing in the middle of a heavily wooded area just outside Great Harwood town centre, of all places.

I'm not too sure this photo does the view justice; it really is a beautiful place, even though it's no more than two hundred yards from one of the roads that connects the town to its larger neighbour, Blackburn.

That's one of the best aspects of Lancashire: wherever you are - and the county has is share of urban blight - you are never far away from outstanding natural beauty such as this...

Kevin Myers asks why the English are universally disliked...

Regular, or even semi-regular visitors will have gathered that I haven't posted for well over a week. Once again, I'm afraid the twin conspirators of work, both formal and domestic have combined to deprive me of the necessary time to compose even my rambling and structureless.

However, not for the first time, my favourite columnist, Kevin Myers of the Irish Independent, has ridden to the rescue with another one of his neatly observed articles, in which he discusses the antipathy towards England and the English not just by his fellow Irishmen, but by virtually every other nation on earth, even our so called 'special' friends.

Hits the nail squarely on the head, in my view; but what do you think?

And you, good yeoman, whose limbs were made in England...

May I take this opportunity to wish all my fellow Englishmen and women a very happy St George's Day. But in addition, it is also the anniversary of both the birth and death of perhaps the greatest Englishman who ever lived: William Shakespeare. And so, in tribute to him, I hope you enjoy this small section of the speech made by Henry V before the Battle of Agincourt:

And you, good yeoman

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here

The mettle of your pasture; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;

For there is none of you so mean and base,

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start.

The game's afoot:

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

Majestic.

As you might expect, I'm going to celebrate in my usual way later on, so before I do, here are two more appropriately English-themed poems by the great GK Chesterton for you to enjoy:

The Englishman

St George he was for England.
And before he killed the dragon
He drank a pint of English ale
Out of an English flagon.
For though he fast right readily
In hair-shirt or in mail.
It isn't safe to give him cakes
Unless you give him ale.

St George he was for England,
And right gallantly set free
The lady left for dragon's meat
And tied up to a tree;
But since he stood for England
And knew what England means,
Unless you give him bacon
You mustn't give him beans.

St George he is for England,
And shall wear the shield he wore
When we go out in armour
With the battle-cross before.
But though he is jolly company
And very pleased to dine,
It isn't safe to give him nuts
Unless you give him wine.

Or, quite appropriately and pointedly as the General Election looms...

Elegy in a Country Churchyard

THE men that worked for England
They have their graves at home:
And birds and bees of England
About the cross can roam.

But they that fought for England,
Following a falling star,
Alas, alas for England
They have their graves afar.

And they that rule in England,
In stately conclave met,
Alas, alas for England
They have no graves as yet.

Guess the location, anyone?

I had thought of introducing this post by posing the question 'can anyone identify the stretch of river depicted in this photograph', thinking that some may have thought it was in Scotland, Wales or rural Northumberland.

I decided against doing so, because I suspect that anyone who has visited the Throne will have automatically - and accurately - assumed that it is actually in Lancashire.

In point of fact, it is a section of the River Ribble which runs through Dinckley in the Ribble Valley and, as I'm sure you'll agree, strikingly beautiful it is, too.

Possibly more surprising is the fact that this rural idyll is only seven miles from the centre of Blackburn. I'm not a gambler, but I'd have laid good money against anyone suggesting that!

St George he was for England...

This photograph depicts part of King Street in Whalley, which, as you can see, has been liberally decked out with the Cross of St George in anticipation of their celebration of our patron saint's day next Friday.

In point of fact, every business premises on the road was sporting our national flag, creating a parade of red and white about a quarter of a mile long.

Looks like the people of Whalley intend to take their St George's Day celebrations seriously this year; not too strenuous a proposition even for the most athletically challenged, given that there are four pubs within a fifty-yard radius of the spot from which I took this shot, alarming the two men in it in the process, I suspect...

Lancashire at its best...

For those of you unfamiliar with the Red Rose county, this shot, taken once again on my trusty mobile, is of the hills surrounding Whitewell in the Forest of Bowland.

The area is best known for the inn which shares its name and I think you'll agree with me that it is a beautiful part of the world; and if my recommendation doesn't convince you, Her Majesty the Queen owns a good deal of the land in this vicinity, though the Duchy of Lancaster estate.

Recommendations don't come much higher, or more significant, than that.

Breathtaking chutzpah, Archbishop...

I'm not normally one to comment on religious stories, but I couldn't let this one pass without offering my two penn'orth. What's more, I certainly don't consider myself a religious scholar of any sort, and certainly not one in Dr Williams' league; but given the record of the Church of England on this topic over the years, I would have thought the following lines from the Gospel according to Matthew (from the beautiful King James Bible) would be more than apposite:

Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye.

And for the avoidance of doubt, I am a confirmed, but seldom-attending member of the Church of England, just like upwards of ninety five percent of its members...

The Battle of Bosworth Field and inevitability...

My regular reader will probably know that I am something of a history buff; not quite in Ana's league, I would happily concede; more of an enthusiastic amateur with an abiding interest in the history of medieval England, which is why this story from last Friday's Times (I've been a bit busy lately!) caught my eye.

I'm sure many of you will have read or heard about the new research, suggesting that the Battle of Bosworth Field, fought in 1485, actually took place a couple of miles from the location in which it was previously believed to have occurred.

So far, so good: despite the fact that the battlefield visitor centre was built in the 'wrong' place, it is still close enough to be of service and in some ways, doesn't actually sully the ground on which our last Plantagenet king, Richard III, lost his life and his crown to the future Henry VII.

But what I found particularly thought provoking about Ben Hoyle's article (I can only assume he is not an historian -he is billed as the paper's Arts correspondent) is the content of this paragraph:

In those few frenzied moments the future of England — and by extension much of the world — changed course. Bosworth became the bridge that links the Middle Ages to modern Britain and ushered in the dynasty of Henry VIII and Elizabeth I. If Richard had killed Henry there might have been no English Reformation, no Church of England and no Elizabethan golden age to inspire artists, explorers and empire builders.

Yes, in those few moments, the future of England changed; the dynasty that had provide the country with fourteen kings in an unbroken chain from 1154 until that moment, was unseated and a new one, the Tudors, took their throne; that much is unarguable. It is the suggestion of inevitability contained in the sentence "If Richard had killed Henry there might have been no English Reformation and no Elizabethan golden age to inspire artists, explorers and empire builders."

Did Richard's defeat, deposition and death really inevitably lead to those eventualities? Or, is all history - including this section of it - essentially the outcome of a series of sometimes random, often unplanned and unforeseeable events?

Let me use the accession of the Tudors and their developing history to illustrate my point.

As many of you will know, the future Henry VIII was not his father's eldest son and was not, therefore, born to be king. That role initially went to his elder brother, Arthur, Prince of Wales, who died aged only fifteen in 1502, seven years before his father. Arthur was (famously and subsequently) married to Catherine of Aragon, who was to become his younger brother Henry's wife after his death.

Imagine, as was entirely possible, that Arthur had lived to maturity and that he and Catherine had produced children. The man we now know as Henry VIII would never have become king and would have been known to history as a mere royal duke; a footnote at the bottom of a page.

Continuing that thought process, had Arthur not died prematurely and he and Catherine had produced children, there would have been no split with Rome (at least when it actually happened), England would have remained as it had hitherto always been: firmly and devoutly Roman Catholic and the Dissolution of the Monasteries may have been unheard of even today.

So much for inevitability.

But Arthur did die, Henry did become king and went on to marry his brother's widow. Their union was blessed with only one surviving child, Mary (the future Mary I); but the couple also had a son, Henry, Duke of Cornwall, who catastrophically died aged less than two months in 1511.

Returning to the concepts of randomness versus inevitability, what if baby Henry had lived to become Henry IX of England? Given his obsession with securing a male heir, the very obsession which subsequently led to his divorce from Catherine and his cataclysmc split with Rome, is it not entirely likely that Henry VIII would have remained happily married to his first queen, as his son and heir grew up, married and had children himself?

Such an eventuality would have meant that Anne Boleyn may have never graced the pages of our national history, other than possibly becoming Countess of Northumberland. A similarly anonymous fate would have befallen Jane Seymour and as a consequence, neither the future Edward VI or, crucially, Elizabeth I, would have been born, still less occupy the Throne in their own rights.

I could go on; what if Mary had not died without issue from her marriage to Philip of Spain, what if Edward VI had lived to adulthood and had children - both eventualities would have meant that Elizabeth would never have ascended the Throne; but I think my point is made.

There is nothing inevitable about the course history takes; it is entirely random and subject to the vagaries of life, death and even human fertility.

I'm sure Ben Hoyle was only using his assertion as a convenient journalistic vehicle in order to illustrate the importance of the discovery of the real Bosorth Field and I am grateful to him for doing so, for prompting me to write this post.

By the way, can anyone else spot any similarities between this related story, also written by Ben Hoyle and published in the Times in September 2009 and the one which I link to above?

Cut and paste journalism in the Times? Perish the thought...