An English Makeover

WE ALL KNOW that the sense of what it means to be British has evolved from the days of Empire to something quite radically different now. But to truly comprehend the shape of ‘Britishness’ today, you have to begin by drawing up a catalogue of sacrifices they have made. Indeed, ‘propah’ British institutions have been swept asunder by the hungry tide of the integrationist’s morality. For instance, you will no longer encounter the Woosterian “What ho!” Alas, Britain’s romance with PG Wodehouse (pronounced Wood House) is well and truly over. Suspended from the classroom in the ultimate two-finger salute to that other British institution, ‘class’. Never again will Britons tolerate or contemplate the Blandings variety of ‘toffness’ as it is waited upon by Jeeves watching “master” ditheringly “prong at a moody forkful” on a sunless and Godless morning in good old Blighty.

Pride and Privilege

Apsley House, the imposing abode of the long gone Lord Wellesley, the first and arguably most decorated Duke of Wellington towers proudly above the rabble of woke icono­clasts looking to sock it to the Establishment’s entitled audac­ity. The first Duke of Wellington is known to Indians as the imperialist who tamed the Deccan and firmly tethered the still wobbly British Raj to India’s terra firma. Anyway, under the vaulted and to the untrained eye almost Rococo-Baroque roof of Apsley House nests the latest and ninth Duke of Wellington, Arthur Charles Wellesley. The notable is presently serving in the House of Lords. On a tour of the hallowed address, at one of the most coveted prospects in London, we were informed that his claim to the dukedom was secured back in the day through the rather anachronistic custom of “male-preference cognatic primogeniture”. In simple terms, a duke will be picked only from the eldest male member of the family. Arthur has already picked his successor—his eldest son. “Is this patrilineal privilege still legal, surely not?” we enquired with just the right amount of incredulity.

“Ah well, good question. It appears that Arthur is holding out on the other great idea of Britain—perpetual peerage,” came the suitably circular reply.

The last part of the usher’s answer was drowned out by the disco beats of the passing Pride Parade—an ode to progressive Britain.

The Fugitive

The ‘Last Caravaggio’, liter­ally, is on display in a specially quartered section of the regal National Gallery. Not just his works but the tragic life of Caravaggio, one of the most influential painters of the Renaissance, is the subject of books, exhibitions, novels and films. And just when one thought that the master had bared almost every aspect of his intriguing life to be plumbed for material to enthral and excite, we are being told he unwit­tingly held something back for four centuries. Thanks to two letters that were found in the state archives of Naples, we now know that the painting The Martyrdom of Saint Ursula, previously thought to be the work of another Italian master, is the ‘Last Caravaggio’. Depict­ing lifesize figures in the dramatically lit style of Caravaggio, it is the story of a murder. In fact, the painter, no stranger to living as a fugitive wanted for murder, had painted himself into the bloody scene. An eternal and metaphoric symbol of the dark turns that fate dishes out to the unsuspecting? Perhaps.

Masters of Ceremony

The British are past masters at pomp and pageantry. And the worthies of Durham University (DU) didn’t let the side down when they pulled out all the stops at the annual Summer Congregation.Which is essentially a ceremony organised to felicitate the ‘grad­uands’ (one of whom was my son) who have spent three years at the college to take their place among the world’s imminently employable. The uplift­ing organ music and the parade of DU worthies cloaked in anti­quated gowns embellished by sartorial eccentricities symbolic of some long-cherished tradition marching in syncopation warmed the unusually chilly interiors of Durham Cathedral. It may only have been a tribute to students but it was a spectacle fit for royals. But then graduands are looking for precisely such grandiloquent statements to set them on their way to conquer the world.

Rights of Passage

Finally, apart from the usual argy-bargy at Heathrow immigra­tion—the cretin who has taken more than his allotted time because they didn’t have the sense to prepare their docket for presentation while still in queue or the callous immigra­tion officer who has wandered off for a chin-wag with a colleague of decidedly dyspeptic disposition just because he can—the process has been smoothened appreciably. So much so that the wait is now down to forty minutes.

And that’s saying something. Even so, I still come away feeling rather out of joint after being picked apart at border con­trol. It is mostly down to being gently turned over on the still simmering coals of subcontinental competitive nationalism. Let me explain. There’s such a blessed emphasis these days on promoting race diversity in England that you will almost cer­tainly draw an immigration officer of Asian origin. It’s quite a sight, this buffet of ethnic diversity that’s displayed in perfectly square glass boxes. Ordinarily, it ought to be comforting for an Indian to be examined by someone of matching phenotype down to the colour of skin. Blood after all is thicker than water. But banish the thought. On the contrary, this particular South Asian feather of neo-converts to Britishness always come across as decidedly more tart in their interrogation style. Especially if they are of Pakistani, Sri Lankan or Bangla­deshi origin. I’ve been prompted the following gems: “Indians are really spreading themselves out these days, innit? You chaps think you can buy up London, then? Did you vote for Modi too?”

BritishcultureHeathrow AirportimmigrationIndiansItalylast CaravaggioLondon Diarypomp and show