They say we are nothing without our brothers.
Don’t tell the family, but I think they might be right.
The leader of the pack, on tall stilts with no legs.
All Glory. No Guts.
Something like that.

We cling to our roses, their provenance unknown. Probably a scar from a battle fought quite some time ago – the lives of countless poor boys and forgotten girls buried under a few centuries of ceremony. Pomp and circumstance are the tools for tending this green and pleasant land. We grin and bear it. Like we do with our shame. Who doesn’t like a day off with the rest of the nation? Shower us in Pimm’s and let it wash away our benign misery. We’ll dry out in the sun, if it comes. Tops off, bellies out, letting it trickle down to the next generation of noble scum.

The glory! The glory.
The pain of it all.

And what about our pride?

World-beating,
Rule the waves,
We will rock you.
Nice to see you, to see you nice.

It makes sense if you squint a bit.
A sense of pride tied up in the beautiful game and the long shadow of empire.
No thistles, no leeks, no harps.
All princes and dragons.
A kid would tell you they don’t exist.
But we’re old enough to know better.

Go deeper. Go deeper. Dig beneath it all. Claw your chewed-up nails through the tarmac, past the tangled bunting and mouldy ration cards, and lose your hands in the dirt.
This is our birthright, our destiny. Oh what an honour to hold a land unmired by conquest! This must be what it feels like.

Don’t cry for me.

It’s a land no more ancient than the rest, no more storied, but still laced with the essence of Albion.
Pagans done good. Look how far we’ve come.

Farther than we ever imagined,
Farther than we’d ever known.
Why am I too small to think of England?
Hallowed be thy name.

We stand firm in one place, where the sun once shone. Muddy boots on a musty carpet. You don’t notice the smell once you get used to it – I promise.

It’ll be alright.
Don’t cry for me.

I don’t mind it if I’m honest.
I don’t think it gets any better than this.

But. But. But.

Our brothers are moving out soon.
We’ll sort it all out
Now mum’s not around any more.
Tie ourselves over forever after.
Happy and glorious
In a state of a nation.