For Pither.... Zee Vorr Would Have Been Over Dead Quick

Takes you back, doesn't it? Well, it didn't take Steve back, if you remember (he got shot!) Me, on the other hand? I had this exact poster on my bedroom wall at home during my formative years.

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Have you got what it takes to be British? Well, have you?

Ok, some of you aren't British so.....well.....well you haven't - and whatever it is, no doubt you don't want it. But what about those of you born ON these septic isles? Are you made of the right stuff?

I always thought I was. I always thought I had what it took. As a youngster, I used to watch films about good ole W..W..I..I and pictured myself as a fearless flyer, going wing tip to wing tip with the Wingco and downing bally Gerry in his hundreds before victory rolls, a cup of tea, a few jam sandwiches and a night on the town with Julie Christie.
When I wasn't winning the Battle of Britain I was alongside Johnny and Dickie and the chaps in the north Atlantic, braving the mountainous waves and playing cat and mouse with Johnny U-boat.

All that was blown out of the water this afternoon. Well, strictly speaking, and continuing the aquatic theme, it was probably worn away in the years after I left school, inevitably eroded as would be a man's forehead under the dripping tap of the Chinese Water Torture.

I watched a good old British war film this afternoon - day off, don't ya know! - and it was about a bunch of Tommies intent on breaking out of a German prisoner of war camp. That was the premise which made me re-evaluate my Britishness.
So, Johnny Nazi has captured me - it's my duty to escape, isn't it? They say that in all the films, don't they? Here's a poser for you, however............WHY??
Picture the scene. My Rover MG tank has broken down in Dusseldorf, all my pals have fucked off, grey seems to be the uniform of choice of those around me.....and it's 1944 - oops! So, I get led away to Stalag Luft Laughalot and "for you Tommy, zee vorr ist over!"
What does the future hold for me? Well, I haven't got to go to work again, I get a communal home, a bed, food and the chance to leap over a vaulting horse in my spare time. When the war is over - win, lose or draw - I get to go back to some twat, somewhere, telling me what to do all day.
What, on the other hand, happens if I escape? Well, if I dodge the bullets from the watch towers, if I dodge the bullets as I run for the woods, if I don't die of exhaustion heading for civilisation, if I don't get arrested and shot by the SS as I try to board a train for Switzerland and if I'm not stopped at the border and strung up with piano wire....I face a two week, exhausting trek getting back to good old Blighty where I am dusted down, given a fresh rifle and sent back to die fighting Johnnny Hun again over in Germany, where I've just come from! If, by some miracle, I don't get stabbed, shot, garotted or blown up during the course of the rest of the war what lies in store? I get to go back to some twat, somewhere, telling me what to do all day.
Now, call me anal if you like. Call me disloyal. Call me unpatriotic (Oh please, please, please call me unpatriotic!) but why the fucking Hell would I want to escape from somewhere where I am dry, have a place to sleep and something to eat, surrounded by a bunch of pals, to somewhere where I face imminent death shortly after arrival?
It leads me to think that I would have dreamed of being captured. "Ok Fritz, it's a fair cop. Look, I'm laying down my pistol and putting up my hands. Right, now does your camp stage comedy revues?" "But, Mein Herr, I am just bartender. You vait for soldier to surrender?"

That's about it, I think. Patriotism can go to Grantham - so can escaping.

P.S. I was going up update this post anyway but The Scurra has, as usual, beaten me to it. Young Vicus suggests that I might not be altogether in favour of Lord Goldsmith's proposals aired the day after I wrote the above.
The loony, loaded lord suggested that "Britishness" - whatever the fuck that is - should be taught in our schools and our snotty-nosed delinquents should be made to swear an oath of allegiance to the Queen.
Am I in favour? - of the flower of this nation swearing loyalty to a German, who is married to a Greek, who lives on benefits, in a council house, pays no rent, has a bunch of disfunctional kids all likewise on some kind of handouts - all paid for by the taxpayer - and who has, to date, refused every job opportunity offered to her by the Mayfair JobCentre? Uuuurrrmmmmm...............no!