Stewart Lee explains his experiences with a taxi driver who said “These days, if you say you are English, you can be thrown in jail”.
The story of John Picklesworth
John Picklesworth was a man of staunch convictions, none more firm than his belief that to be English in modern times was akin to inviting legal doom. “These days,” he’d pontificate at the local pub, “if you say you are English, you can be thrown in jail!” His mates, accustomed to his hyperbolic rants, would nod half-heartedly, more interested in their pints than in engaging his absurdities.
One evening, after an especially dramatic soliloquy on the plight of the Englishman, a newcomer to the pub named Alice challenged him. “John, do you honestly believe that? That simply declaring your English heritage could land you in prison?”
“Absolutely!” John declared, his voice dripping with righteous indignation. “It’s the politically correct madness taking over this country!”
Alice, a solicitor with a sharp mind and a penchant for exposing nonsense, decided to press the issue. “Tell you what, John. Why don’t we test your theory? Tomorrow, we’ll go to the town square. You can loudly proclaim your Englishness. If you get arrested, I’ll pay your bail and publicly apologize. If not, you admit you’re wrong.”
John hesitated, his bravado momentarily flickering. But faced with the expectant gazes of his fellow pub-goers, he had no choice. “Fine, Alice. You’re on!”
The next day, the town square was bustling with shoppers, children, and the usual assortment of street performers. John, with Alice by his side, cleared his throat and shouted, “I am John Picklesworth, and I am proudly English!”
People glanced his way, some amused, others bewildered, but no one seemed particularly alarmed. Emboldened, he repeated, “I am English! English through and through!”
A few tourists snapped photos, thinking it was some quaint local tradition. A police officer walking his beat paused, raising an eyebrow at the commotion. Alice caught his eye and walked over. “Excuse me, Officer. This man is loudly proclaiming his English heritage. Are you going to arrest him?”
The officer chuckled. “Why would I do that? He’s not breaking any laws. Bit loud, maybe, but not illegal.”
Alice returned to John, who was starting to sweat. “See, John? No handcuffs in sight.”
“But… but…” John stammered, his certainty crumbling. “It’s different in other places! Yes, in the big cities, that’s where it happens!”
Alice, relentless, proposed they visit the nearest big city, Manchester, to put his theory to the ultimate test. John, cornered, agreed, secretly hoping some fluke would vindicate him.
In Manchester, amid the throng of Piccadilly Gardens, John once again proclaimed, “I am English!” His voice was swallowed by the city’s hum, barely drawing a glance.
An officer nearby, noticing Alice’s expectant look, approached. “Is everything alright here?”
Alice explained the situation. The officer laughed heartily. “Sir, you’re free to declare your heritage as much as you like. No laws against being English or saying so.”
John’s face turned a shade of crimson. “Well, maybe it’s just a rumour then,” he muttered, deflated.
Alice smiled kindly. “John, it’s alright to have pride in who you are. Just don’t let unfounded fears ruin that pride. No one’s going to jail for being English.”
John nodded, the wind completely taken out of his sails. He returned to the pub that evening a quieter man, his grand proclamations replaced by a newfound humility. His mates, ever supportive, welcomed him back without a word of his defeat. In the end, John learned that sometimes, the loudest voice is best used for singing praises rather than spreading fear.
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