Will’s World: My local Facebook group would humble the Mafia
© Richard Stanton What represents Britishness these days? What defines us?
It’s something that I’ve thought about recently, and especially in the weeks following the Queen’s death with all the resulting state ceremonies and reflection on the huge societal changes that took place during her reign.
The days of empire are, thankfully, long gone, so invading foreign countries to beat up the locals and steal their relics and treasures to fill our museums is out.
See also: Will’s World: Football, farming and the footsteps of Flindt
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Only the super-rich can afford good old Friday night fish and chips now, thanks to the highest rate of food inflation since 1982.
And our NHS, for so long the envy of the world, is being run into the ground faster than a plough with new points. It all adds up to rather an identity crisis.
In the Westminster asylum they think they have the answer – flags.
You can’t move for Union Jacks down there; they’re being used as giant sticking plasters to cover up inadequacy and incompetence left, right and far right, and woe betide any minister seen without one.
Patriotic pants
There’s an absurd competition going on to see who can display the most on their office walls.
But Jacob Rees-Mogg has taken it to the next level by wearing red, white and blue Y-fronts under his double-breasted suit in the House of Commons – and now I’ve pictured that, you have to as well.
Despite the current chaos, there’s one group of quintessentially British characters that we can rely on, and I believe they’ll be the very definition of our era: the people who loudly and vociferously complain in village Facebook groups.
There was a post in ours recently where someone was ranting about straw on the pavements and demanding to know who’s responsibility it was to clean it up.
Thankfully, the more enlightened villagers shouted him down and stuck up for the local farmers, with one pointing out that it was, and I quote, “better than dog shit”.
Not the highest of standards to measure by, I grant you, but it seemed to quieten things down again quite quickly this time.
There was the incident where a parent dropping their child off at school accidentally reversed onto one of the residents’ lawns and knocked over a flowerpot.
It led to such a prolonged and bloody online turf war between the two opposing sides of the argument that it made the Mafia rivalries of 1970’s New York look tame in comparison.
It got so serious that some people were expelled from the group for using abusive language, which is the social equivalent of being found dead in the back of a garbage truck one morning.
Stubble trouble
My favourite was last winter when we had tack sheep on stubble turnips next to the village.
I suspected it might lead to trouble, so I put a pre-emptive explanation on the page – “they might get a bit muddy when the tops get grazed off and it rains, but there’ll be plenty for them to eat, there’s lots of shelter, and if anyone has any concerns you can comment here or call me on this number” type of thing.
I’ve never regretted anything so much in my life. The queue of angry animal lovers that lined up to hurl insults were enough to wobble anyone’s stiff upper lip and make them need a second cup of tea.
Still, I wouldn’t change it. They’re great entertainment and an extension of the eccentricity that’s so much a part of our national character.
And let’s face it, anything’s a welcome distraction from the current headlines.
Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the Facebook rage…