TRUE BRITS

by Vinay Patel

! Tania Hurst-Brown & Kelly Knatchbull

Sayle Screen 11 Jubilee Place London SW3 3TD t: +44 (0)20 7823 3883 e: tania@saylescreen.com kelly@saylescreen.com

Characters Rahul, twenty-ve in 2012. Well spoken. Affable. Considered. Eighteen in 2005. Estuary accent. Boisterous. Searching. This part is written for one actor but can be shared between more. Dates are given as guides, not necessarily to be indicated during performance.

"Flags are bits of coloured cloth that governments use to rst shrink wrap peoples brains and then as ceremonial shrouds to bury the dead. - Arundhati Roy "Love for ones country is part of faith. - Prophet Mohammed (Disputed) "This I would say, standing as I do in view of God and eternity, I realise that patriotism is not enough. I must have no hatred or bitterness towards anyone. - Edith Cavell

2012. All 2012 sections are indicated by a dashed line. Rahul, 25, enters. The roar of a crowd, he looks around and takes it in. He looks into the audience and makes a couple of aborted attempts to start and then, calm and confident, as if delivering an after-dinner speech: Rahul I'll tell you a funny story. When I was fourteen, a man with a microphone, said he was from the BBC World Service, this man with a microphone hijacks me outside of McDonalds on Bexleyheath Broadway and asks "Do you feel British?" And that seems pretty simple, seems pretty reasonable. "Yeah, of course I do." Microphone Man smiles a big ol' BBC smile. "And what's that mean to you? Being British? To be part of a country?" Rahul makes an exasperated sound. I muttered something like "tolerance?" and lodged myself into my Filet O Fish. I wish I wish I wish my Granddad had been there because he would have had an answer, that man would weep whenever he saw the Union Jack flying over a public building. To be British was exactly what he came here for. He considers this statement. I mean that, and to make as much money as possible, but you're allowed to want that if you're poor and it's astonishing to think that by coming here you can go from dirt eating poverty to double vodbulls in two generations. He would tell me about his early days here - him studying engineering at night, gran in a factory making screws - and I'd look in his eyes and in them I'd see the arc of history. Eight decades, three continents, two independence movements and a World War, all so I could grow up here. Belong here. I'd see decency, compassion, dignity, sacrifice, struggle. Love. I vow to thee my country, what's more British than struggle and love? That's the Olympic spirit. Did you enjoy the Olympics? I only got to see the handball and that's basically a child's game. I went with mum, she doesn't get to go out a lot anymore, so I'm trying to make an effort. It was Team GB and the Copper Box was buzzing. I mean, we were getting absolutely tonked by 1

True Brits

Sweden who are quite handy at handball, but it didn't matter. The cheers, the painted faces, the flags flying, oh you couldn't not love it, not get sucked in. Unless you're my mum. She sits, cross armed, saying that nothing's really different, nothing's changed, she says that she'd read that there were only two British Asians in the whole squad. I tell her that doesn't seem very likely, she's probably got that wrong, but anyway she's too hung up on the fractions. It's all about the moments, not the mix. Maybe for her the flags over Buckingham Palace are the same ones wrapped around the bricks that came through the windows when she was a kid. I painted my face for the Royal Wedding last year, and I tell you, when she saw that... I know what my Granddad would tell her: "Forget them. Those are just thugs. The majority of this country's people are decent, that's their defining characteristic. That's what Mr. Orwell says, and he's right." A Brit born in India. My Granddad's just like George Orwell. But I do understand, I do. It's a lot less common now, but I've had my share of trouble, we all have, I mean Ill never forget Rorys mums pumpkin soup, no matter how I try. That's not as random as it sounds, it's another funny story, honestly really funny about the first time I knew I'd been racially abused. I'm eight years old, walking through town with my new best friend Rory who's just moved here from Porthcawl, and we're stuffing our faces with Flying Saucers, arguing about whether Oasis or Blur are better. Me: Blur. Him: Oasis. We're waiting to cross at the mini-roundabout when this skinhead, tough boots, proper military jacket with a billion Union Jack patches, bowls past, knocks my Flying Saucers out of my hand and as he skips across he turns and says to Rory: "Wouldn't hang around with a paki, mate." Now I understood that there was a distinction being made - "I'm vanilla, you're chocolate", but it was all still ice cream, at that age I didnt scan the venom just yet. Though Rory, who's like this weed of a child, felt strongly enough to try and kick the guy, but just trips on his perennially untied laces, slips on my saucers and falls on his arse. The skinhead doesn't even notice, strolls off down one of those streets with a flag in every window that I've been warned not to go down. 2

True Brits

We get to Rory's and tell his mum what's happened, and she looks guilty for some reason, maybe because she's Catholic. She apologises to me and then says "have some pumpkin soup." These are not words of comfort for a child. I poke at it for a bit, because she was my best mate's mum and while I didn't fully get racism just yet, I knew that you have to be nice to your best mate's mum, so I lean forward and slurp it in. "Mmm...!" It's foul, I can't hold it there. It starts to dribble bit by bit out of the side of my mouth and splashes back into the bowl. Her face. Bloody hell. She was definitely thinking something racist. And I knew it. He allows himself a little smile. Um, I looked it up. There were only two Asians in Team GB. Out of five hundred and forty two athletes. And one of them was called "Neil Taylor". Not sure that counts. But hey, whose fault is that? That's no one's fault but ours. ------------------------MID MARCH 2005 Rahul, 18. I'm gonna put it out there. I don't think a protest march makes... I just don't think a protest march makes for a very good birthday. I don't mind sharing with the Iraq War, but it's only two and I'm eighteen so surely mine takes precedent. Should be in a pub, nursing my first legal pint, but instead I'm staring at a banner that says "Make Tea, Not War" and all I can think is: 1) Can't you do both? And 2) Where's my bloody pint? But Rory's keen on some girl, so we're on this train. And he did get me a birthday card with a massive flashing badge, so... I ask the most important question: "Rory, is she a munter?" "No."

True Brits

"Bet she is." "No." "Definitely is." "No, I don't fancy munters, do I?" "Mmm. Guess it's hard when your mum sets such a high standard." Fucking ow! Never used to hurt when he hit me but he really shot up last summer, bit of a unit now. Still got that Honey Monster bowl-cut though. There's a big group from our school and the girls' grammar packed into one carriage, with more joining at every stop. We reach Hither Green, where this girl's meant to be and though a chatty gaggle gets on, surprise surprise, she's not with them. This new lot are already in full flow - disembodied voices, speaking in turn, trying to sound more clever than the last. "Do you remember Robin Cook's resignation speech? I nearly cried." "The defence budget's projected to top thirty two billion by the end of the decade, it's a disgrace." "You hear they disbanded the Republican Guard? That's just what's needed, millions of desperate military trained men with nothing to do." But then I hear... "This country, we tossed out our international reputation like Blur tossed out Think Tank. Without a second thought. And we're both better than that." Controversial. "Hey, let's say...Blur is Blair." Who's this talking? Can't see. But she's very loud. "New Labour - flash, everyone seems to like them, prone to the odd disastrous misstep. Oasis are Major's Tories in '95 - sullen, more honest, not quite as popular, with a phenomenal instinct for infighting." Got her. Oh Jesus, that hair! Has she stuck her finger in a socket? 4

True Brits

"That leaves the Lib Dems who are...what? Pulp! A little greasy, worshipped by weirdos and you suspect that drugs have had a major influence on their work." "You a New Labour fan, then?" I've said that a bit loud. Everyone stares. Don't think they even realised we were here. Eyes are drawn to my flashing birthday badge. I hope they think it's ironic. The girl grins. Fairly toothy grin. Lots of metal. "Not today I'm not." The train pulls into Lewisham. Rory tugs at my jacket. "This is bollocks, I'm gonna bail, mate." Says the guy who put down six politics courses on his UCAS. "So? Dosser's course, that's the point." "Don't even want to pretend you're interested?" I see the gears grinding. "Nah, fuck it. Come on, will get you that pint." Tempting, but... "Reckon I'll stick it out actually." "Really?" "Yeah yeah. Quite fancy having a look." "Pft, suit yourself. Text us when you're back." Calling this a march is blatant false advertising, it's not a march, it's a jostle, I keep getting jostled, me and my massive backpack that's mostly full of Rory's shit actually, me, my backpack and all these fucking people moving, but not going anywhere, we shift maybe five feet in twenty minutes and I feel a bit of a berk without a sign to hold so I dump my bag down in the middle of the road, plant myself on it and tuck into the samosas my Granddad's given me. If I could go all Jesus and feed thousands with a pair of samosas, I would do it here because a lot of these guys look malnourished, but I'd need more than this tupperware box 'cause the crowd is fucking massive,

True Brits

a hundred and fifty thousand, they reckon! Sounds like it. Someone kneels down next to me, and hands me a spare sign. It's Frankenbraces from the train. "Samosa?" She looks at me like I've just offered her a poo pudding. "No thanks." I ram it my mouth instead, this shit's too good to waste. "My dad teaches at your school, you know." "Does he?" "Yeah, Mr. Collier." "Really! Fuck. He's a leg-end." "Is that good or bad?" "Bit in between. I don't have him, but Rory winds him right up. Managed to snip off a bit of his beard once when he weren't looking." "Ahhh, yes, I heard about that. Nonstop. For the next six months." I'm suddenly very worried that Mr. Collier is going to appear and give me a detention for talking to his daughter. "He's err not up here with you, is he?" "Nope. Came in 2003 though, this is nothing compared to that, that was like ten times this. Still. At least some of us still care about this country, eh?" She reaches for her banner and hoists it back into the air. The sun sparks off the glitter in the paint, carefully arranged lines of blue, white and red combining to spell out "TRUE BRITS 4 PEACE." It's the most gorgeous bit of signage I've ever seen. I turn mine over. "BLIAR". Smears of green on black. Looks like it took ten seconds to make. Now the girl is screaming, screaming a lot, really giving it some, which from what I can tell is what you're meant to do here. Her passion is violent and honest and...really, really attractive. I get this urge to scream along. 6

True Brits He screams but tails off quickly, embarrassed. Can't quite muster the same intensity of feeling. I wonder if I'll ever have that. I wonder how many of this rabble have come here just to impress someone they fancy. The girl is shooting me evils after that scream. Or is it evils? She's flashing the teeth again. A band starts up somewhere and she shouts over the noise. "Andik oyoon helween!" "What the fuck?!" "That means 'You have beautiful eyes'!" "Oh yeah?!" "Yeah!" The light's dropping out by the time we get home, but everyone still makes it to the park. I can't find Frankenbraces anywhere, and her mate tells me her name is actually Jess and that she always fucks off for a cry when she's had one too many. I'm the only one that can still see shapes so I volunteer to be the search party. Who lets a grammar school girl drink that much? That's just irresponsible. It's fucking freezing, getting properly dark now and I've been traipsing for what feels like a day when I spot a figure, over the hill, sitting halfway up the climbing net in the playground. Jess? Yeah, can tell by the hair - it's her most striking feature. I mean, apart from the teeth. And how thin she is. I stumble over the hill, and there's a group of guys already there at the bottom of the climbing net, talking to her, I don't recognise any of them, I don't think they're one of "Oi!" Uh oh. The smallest one's pointing at me. Always the smallest one. "What you looking at?" 7

True Brits

"Erm..the stars?" "Well Patrick Fucking Moore, why don't you fuck off and look at them over there and we'll call you when we're done." Something is rooting me to the spot. Not chivalry or uncertainty. I think I'm too scared to move, my brain is doing this all wrong. Tiny Tim bowls over. "Where you from?" he sneers. Ah. This old chestnut. Dunno why they ask, they don't actually care, might as well just get on with it, really. I lock eyes with Jess, as I imagine how it might go if they'd wait for the reply: "I'm from Bexleyheath, mate." "Oh yeah? Me too." "Small world!" "Yeah!" "It's a fucking hole, isn't it." "Yeah." "Do you think that girl there's pretty? I'm not really sure." "I reckon so, yeah." "Cool. What do you think of Trimm Trabb?" "It's not their their finest work, musically, but it really gets me in here." "I think I love you, sir." My head jerks sidewards, and I realise that I have just been punched in the face. Didn't hurt that much, actually, guess he's Rahul reels backwards. Ok, that hand had a ring on it, that one hurt quite a bit. That's going to leave a mark. I don't hit him back, feels like I'm better if I can just take it and move on. 8

True Brits

"Don't disrespect me." "I didn't." "Fucking did. I ask you a question, and you fucking ignore me? " I don't want this. Just let him win. "Didn't mean to." "You're a dickhead, mate." "I completely agree." That's thrown him. "Say sorry." "Sorry." "Get on your knees and say sorry." His mates are chuckling. The little knobend, he is loving this. "I said, get on your knees, and say you're sorry." Nope. That's the line there. "Fuck off, you chav." A beat. The thing with headbutts, right, is that they're fast and before I can, before I can even blink, he's jumped up and his forehead's crashed down onto the bridge of my nose, and the blood's blasted onto my only smart shirt, which I've only just ironed today, for my birthday for fucks sake and it just keeps sluicing out and I...I'm grinning as the blood slides over my lip and laps over my teeth. The guy looks absolutely disgusted. He whistles to his mates to go, and clocks my badge as he leaves. "Happy birthday, you cunt." Cheers. As I'm gathering myself together, tasting the metal of my own blood, I see Jess tumble down the net and stroll towards me. "Bet that stung." "Naaaah...be nice if the park'd stop spinning though." 9

True Brits

She tears two strips of mascara stained tissue paper out of her hand, and shoves them up my nose. Behind me, there's a commotion, I turn and there's Rory, must've been on his way to meet us, must've saw it all and now he's got a guy pinned up against a wall. I mean, right up against the wall, it's properly impressive. "I got him, mate, only fucking got him, ain't I!" I stagger over and don't want to say it, you know? It'd be a killjoy and I am grateful, but I kinda have to. "Um, that's not him, mate." "Oh. You sure?" I put my hand on his shoulder, urging it down. "Pretty sure, yeah." "Who's this then?" "Not a fucking clue." Rory deflates but sucker punches the guy anyway before letting him go. Harsh. The guy stumbles off and I slump down by the wall, as my face finally starts to sting. Rory just stands there looking a bit of a tit, which he is. Jess blags a take-away bag full of ice from the Wimpy over the road, and presses it to my nose. I twitch away and she laughs at me, she's got one of those infectious laughs and soon I start laughing at her laughing at me and my laugh blows one of the tissues out of my nose and..do I? Do I quite fancy her, actually? She looks me up and down. Tissue up one nostril, blood down the shirt, badge flashing merrily away. "You're a fucking state." I think I do. LATE MARCH 2005 "Who's this Jess and what's she like?" Granddad's on a scouting mission. Mum holds her tongue for all of three

10

True Brits

minutes of the drive before the inevitable... "Why don't you go out with any Indian girls, Rahul?" "Hardly know any." "That's because you make no effort with our people. Why don't you meet up with Mihir, Sheenamasi's son? He's your age." "'Cause he's a idiot, mum, and I don't give two fucks about sports cars, mobile phones or R'n'B."...I say to myself. Granddad clears his throat. "Let the boy be, don't turn him into you, only playing with your Gujarati girlfriends." Mum decides to really concentrate on her driving. We pull up outside the pub, and Jess is already waiting inside. I point her out to Grandad who gives me the "so-so" hands as they drive off. Yeah, whatever, Dada, I've seen the photos of Grandma, she weren't no prize. As I settle in and we get chatting about music I realise I really want this one to work out. I'm nervous. Properly nervous. So nervous that it appears that I have just said to Jess...what I've just said very loudly, so that the whole pub can hear: "Yeah, I reckon I preferred All Saints to Spice Girls because they were a bit edgier, you know?" Fucking hell. Plan B. Go big. Thumb War. Palms out, fingers locked. I do a passable impression of the ref from Gladiators - 1, 2, 3, 4, I declare thumb war - and we're off. Darting, dodging, stretching, waiting. Almost got her...ooof!...allllllmoooooost Wait, hang on. Does this count as holding hands? This lapse in concentration proves fatal. She pounces, shoves down on the joint of my thumb, and combat is over. But we're still there, hands tucked in each others and neither of us are moving. That's got to be a good sign. As I look up to stare meaningfully into her eyes like you're meant to in a moment like this, I catch a face behind her, and another 11

True Brits

and another and another and what I realise right, what I realise is...there are a lot of people looking at us. Jess notices too and leans in. "Hey", she whispers in this bassy drawl. "Think these guys are big on Spice Girls?" That whisper. Holy fuck. She talks and talks and talks about all sorts of clever things that go right over my head - politics, philosophers, polling data, systemic injustice, syntax, semiotics - getting more and more animated and it's great 'cause I don't have to say a thing, just admire her force of nature display. As I walk her back, I'm still not really paying attention because in my head I'm mapping out how to approach the doorway snog. But I shelve the mental blueprints because Jess' dad, Jess' big chested, big bearded, big everything school teacher Dad, is waiting in the drive. And he looks fucking pissed. Oh wait...it's just the beard, he's actually smiling! Turns out Mr. Collier's a councillor, head of racial equality for a ward with approximately nine ethnic people in it so I think he was pretty chuffed when he heard about me. I reach forward to shake his hand. "Nice to meet you, sir." "Salaamallahkum!" Oof, swing and a miss. Marks for effort, if not attainment. Jess cringes then tells him where we've been and the jolly falls right off his face. "The Coach & Horses? The one down by the miniroundabout?" "Uhuh." "That's a National Front pub." Whoops. "Not anymore, surely?" "I mean, they never had a sign or any - well, no no, they did have a sign, quite a big sign, and they've taken it down now but - " Bless. He might be a Tory, but I like her Dad. She likes her dad. How rare is that?! "It's fine." I tell him. "It's not like that anymore, not around here 12

True Brits

anyway." He doesn't look convinced. Doesn't matter. The thing to take away from the evening is that at no point did Jess realise I'd taped my Converse together and that means that she was looking at my face more than my shoes, and that is definitely a good sign. EARLY APRIL 2005 "So, question: Why the fuck would you want to study Arabic?" I don't think Jess and Rory are going to get on. I'd rather this weren't happening in the middle of our weekly Pro Evo session. "I've been studying it myself for years." "Learning. By yourself?" "That's basically what uni's going to be." "Shoot! Shoot, you mug! Yeah but I mean, if you're gonna go to somewhere fancy like Cambridge, why not focus on like...French. French is sexy, classy. Arabic sounds like...like a deaf guy doing a tongue twister." "Bit like Welsh then. That's your lot, isn't it?" Jess and Rory are definitely not going to get on. Time to step in. "I think Arabic sounds very sexy, actually." I mean, I still don't understand any of it, Jess could be telling me her shopping list or declaring a fatwa, but fuck me, it's hot. Rory scans between her and my face and forces a laughs. "Easy, easy I'm just joking, aren't I?" He clinks cups with me and belts back his tea. Don't really like it, it's nothing compared to my Granddad's chai, but I'm a social drinker. Through the corner of my eye, I notice Jess shooting me a glance I don't want to acknowledge. I bring up Rory's post-protest cock-up, thinking it'd be an easy laugh but instead of making it a badge of pride like I thought he would, Rory says:

13

True Brits

"Next time, mate, I swear I won't let you down. I'll knock his spine in. The right one, this time." He flashes me a smile. "Come on then, let's get this done." Jess looks super unimpressed. I take a free kick. "Oh..oh...oh, it's on, it's so on, passpasspasspasspass GOAAAAAAAAALAAAAZO!" There it is! Through a combo of well-practiced routines, stout team spirit and judicious use of the sprint button, Wales have won the World Cup. Rory pulls his t-shirt over his head and does his traditional victory lap of the downstairs of the house. Jess watches him leave the living room and as soon as he's out she settles next to me and whispers: "Bousni." Eh? That unimpressed look again. "It means 'kiss me', stupid." I do. Shivers. Everything falls away. "'Pumpkin soup anyone?" Rory's standing in the doorway, adjusting his t-shirt, staring at us. "Mum's made a batch. Got some going spare." LATE APRIL 2005 Jess is sexy. Jess is smart. Jess is allergic to pine nuts. Jess only drinks vodka coke with no ice and nothing else. Jess has really big pores and really small wrists. Jess has banned me from using the phrase "Cool Britannia".

14

True Brits

Jess has put up with me for a month today. I even have her picture as my phone background, which means it's properly official, doesn't it? I'm sitting in the canteen looking at that picture when Rory creeps up to me. "Mate, you've got to see what's going on in the hall, you'll be stunned. The new kid's being an utter bell." Those eyes. It's true what Jess says about Rory's eyes. They bulge. Now I've seen it, I can't unsee it, I wanna cup my hands in front of him in case they fall out. The hall's an old building, there's a churchy feel to the place, and in the middle of it stands an Asian kid, right in a light beam, shirt off, flexing. His limited array of muscles sliding between rolls of chub. He spins around and - oh fuck. It's him! Mihir. He's one of those guys who shaves railroad tracks into his eyebrows, so you can tell he's a prick from ten paces, though I never say anything 'cause he's one of my Mum's mates kids. A crowd's gathered, admiring the elaborate tattoo on his back: Sikh symbol one side, Hindu symbol on the other, one for each parent I'm guessing, with the wings of a massive eagle connecting them. Rory is right, I am stunned. "Alright, Rahul? Thought I'd see you about." "What you doing here?" "Come to do my exams, innit." "No, I mean now, what's all that on your back?" "Acknowledging my roots." He nods approvingly to himself. "Is it? "Don't want to forget. We shouldn't forget where we come from, bruv." "Yeah? Well, 'bruv', that's the Nazi swastika, you fucking donkey, not the Hindu one." "Wot? No, it ain't." "It fucking is. Eagle. Swastika. It's like a Neo-Nazi's jizzed up your back." 15

True Brits

He doesn't believe me - would you want to? - so I take a photo of his back with my phone, drag him up to the common room, shirt still hanging off him and Rory pulls up the relevant Google search on the computer screen. Mihir does a triple take. Screen. Phone. Screen. Phone. Screen. Hindu. Nazi. A matter of degrees. "Oh. Shit. My Dad's gonna kill me." Everyone's howling. When I tell Granddad about this he's gonna laugh so hard, it'll cut ten years off his life. "EXCUSE ME, GENTLEMEN!" Mr. Collier booms in. Got his cricket bat tie on today. "This is not a common room, it is a study area!" And his little Rule Britannia lapel pin. "If you're not here to decide on your UCAS offers, kindly vacate the computers for those with some pride and ambition." My uni offers are far and green. Dartmoor, the Norfolk Broads, the Pembrokeshire coast, Arthur's Seat, the Peak District, I'll end up near one of 'em. All places I could take Jess for some serious National Trust shit when she comes up for the weekends. When I think about her, marching through heather, maybe yelling at a warmongering chaffinch, even Mihir - the accidental white supremacist - even he I cannot hate. "Heh. UCAS? U.CAN.FUCK.OFF." Pindrop silence. Rory's said that right to him. What's he doing? "Mr. Sykes, whilst I appreciate that you're upset with your inability to attract any offers, language like that isn't going to help. Accompany me to reception, please." This is news to me. "You didn't get any offers?" "Nah." "Why didn't you fucking tell me, you div?"

16

True Brits

He shrugs into himself. "Rahul, are you looking to follow?" "No sir." "Then I'd suggest you get on with it." Rory scoffs. "Oh yeah, you let him off, I wonder why." "Fuck off, Rory!" "What? I don't like her, alright? She looks at me like I'm a piece of shit." "You are a piece of shit, mate." "No, I'm not joking, yeah?" His eyes are all bulging at me. "Alright, don't cry about it..." "I'm not crying, just - don't see why you get away with shit 'cause you're going uni and banging his daughter." Mr. Collier's hugely fucked off, and it's not the beard this time. "RORY! DOWNSTAIRS, NOW!" We all watch Rory get dragged off. Fuck. Mihir's smirking. "Don't think he'll be back, bruv." EARLY MAY 2005 Jess' room is wallpapered with revision timetables. "My favourite out of that lot? The Norfolk Broads, definitely." And just like that, she's made my uni choice. "Oh, that's great because I'm going to Norwich, actually. Which ain't that far from Cambridge..." "Thinking pretty long term there, aren't you?" "We're doing alright, aren't we?"

17

True Brits

"I meant that you've still got exams. Coming up. And you still can't tell me what a ribosome does. Or how to use the conditional tense." Fucking exams. Babelfish Translate's not gonna get me out of this one. I chuck the textbook and look over the CD I stole from work. The new Oasis, feel a bit dirty, wish Blur weren't on bloody "hiatus". Jess sighs. "Why do you want to go to uni, Rahul?" "Er...Dunno. What my family wants, I guess. Make them happy. Why you going?" "If you want to make a difference, you've got to go into politics, and if you want to go into politics, you've got to go to Oxbridge, it's basically the rule." "Is it?" "Uhuh." "Sounds like a pretty shit rule." "Yeah, well..." She looks really miserable now. I take her hand. A peak of smile. I draw her in to me and we sit there, curled together and I don't think I've ever felt so...calm? Happy? Connected? All of it, I can feel her blood pumping, I don't ever want to move. What am I going to do when she's gone? I'll send her a CD every week. My favourite songs, mixed with extracts from my diary. Yeah, with innovation like that and a strict MSN Messenger timetable, I reckon we can keep this alive. "Cup of tea, then, before we knuckle down?" She straightens up and starts collecting her pens together. "Um, I think I better crack on by myself actually." Oh. "I'll call you in a few days." Huh. No, that's fair, she's right. No time to fuck about, it's time to get 18

True Brits

cracking. Norwich here I come! MID JUNE 2005 Just out of my last exam. Feeling pretty confident, pretty chuffed despite the drizzle. Then I turn on my phone and the voicemail totally throws me. It's pissing it down now, weather disrupts the service, and by the time I manage to the hospital, he's a babbling wreck. Most of his English, hell, most of his consonants, out of the window....nothing but a procession of vowels, so I just hold his hand. He beams at me and I stay just like that, riveted into his milky eyes - he was going to have a cataracts operation but - I do this until I can't bear to look at him anymore, couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes, pathetic, and I slide myself away. Mum's just heard the prognosis. She's staring at the bin like she's trying to set it on fire. "You know why this happened, don't you? When we got here, last night, I complained about your Granddad's treatment, left on a trolly for three hours. I complained and so they've punished us. They punish us with this stupid black nurse, doesn't know what she's doing. They're ruining this place." "Come off it, mum..." "Not just me, your Granddad's saying it too and worse! Been screaming it all morning." I don't want to hear this. I head straight for the door and run towards the station. I start tapping out a text to Jess, then remember that she's locked herself away for exams, doesn't even answer the phone at the moment. I hold it together 'til I get on the Tube, and then, four stops in, I burst out bawling, can't help myself, and most people are ignoring me, looking awkward, as you would, but a good-looking couple wearing rugby tops unfold out of an embrace and conspire to hand me a tissue. Which makes me feel bad for pegging them as twats when they got on at Clapham. "It'll be alright." says the girl.

19

True Brits

As they tuck back into each other, the thought rises in my mind that they will die, so will everyone I love, that I still have so many people to bury, to burn, and I find myself wishing a strange thing, I find myself wishing that all of them would go at once. The same act. That I could get it all out the way in one hit. Dada. Born into Indian sunshine, dies in British darkness, last thing he sees is some grim South London hospital ward. Just like Gran, just like Dad. Three generations of my family now have lived and died south of the Thames, the Thames is our lifeblood. But Mum still spreads his ashes in the Ganges. EARLY JULY 2005 "Really need a hol - who fancies a last-minute Continental jaunt? Cheap flights if we go tomorrow!" This is loneliest MSN Messenger status in the world. Suits the post-school hermit beard clinging to my face. No replies. Jess is in Scotland visiting family, we haven't talked properly in weeks... "Anyone? Jaunt?" Nothing. Except for. Rory. "I'll go." Five exclamation marks. "We could catch up!" Now the thing about the south of Spain, the shitty Lads on Tour, full of Brits strip, is that though it's scummy and depressing as all hell...the absinthe is cheap as fuck. Rory keeps trying to do the fancy shit, with the sugar and when you set it on fire, and say a prayer to your ancestors or whatever, but he always cocks up and burns the hair off a different part of his body. Me, I just take it straight and find small causes to do so. Made scrambled eggs? Absinthe. Suffer through the new Oasis. Absinthe. Get Rory talking to a girl in a club. Absinthe. Get Rory talking to a girl in club and not throw up over her? Absinthe. Trying to row to Africa in our twenty Euro rubber dingy and failing but not getting washed out to sea and instead end up buzzing a banana boat loaded with blokes on a stag do? "LADS ON TOUR!" That's right, mate, you are so

20

True Brits

on tour. Absinthe. Finished the absinthe? Absinthe. And in the middle of all the fun... Beep Beep. It's a text. From Jess. "Sorry I've been so shit, I miss you". KissKissKiss. Smiley face. Hah. "That her, yeah?" "Yeah." "Still don't like her." "I know. It's alright." "But I'll make an effort. Honest, I will. It's not on." I tell him what I've been like is not on either but I like her, more than like her and I just feel I gotta make a go of it, before uni, else it's not gonna last. He looks at me all serious and says not to rub it in. Fuck, forgot about his UCAS. Shit. I'm such a prick! A smile breaks across his face. "Always Clearing, ain't there." Our second-to-last night Rory, making another valiant effort to light the sugar, lets out that he's always known his mum's a bit fit, and the sheer weight of his confession must've got to him because he manages to spill half the bottle over his arm, and set it blazing. He runs around, screaming to call an ambulance, and I sit there, pleasantly not on fire, and tell him it's just the booze burning off, he'll be fine. I'm right of course, and within a few seconds it's over and he collapses into a plastic patio chair to collect himself. I cannot stop laughing. "Admit it," I say. "You have no idea what you're doing, do you?" He raises what's left in his glass for a toast: "To your Granddad, mate. I'll always remember the pakoras he made for Diwali Day at primary school, they were wicked, burned my tongue right off." I really have been a prick. And his eyes aren't that bad. And neither are at least three songs on the new Oasis.

21

True Brits

Three kisses and a smiley face. Gotta text back. I do five different drafts, all stupidly long, but in the end I hack it right back to... "I love you, Jess." Can't believe I just did that by text but...Top. My. Glass. Up. A beeping cuts through my absinthe dream. I've just been hanging underneath a zeppelin, trying to lasso a brachiasaurus during a thunderstorm, but now my eyes creak open and I'm immediately hit by both the light through the window and the magnitude of my hangover. We'd been celebrating. Something big if I feel this shite, something we heard about quite late in the evening... OH! The Olympics! We got the fucking Olympics, didn't we?! WE. ARE. FUCKING. AMAZING. He does a little dance. London, you beauty! Dsol Paree, see you NYC, shit bid Madrid and as for Moscow? It's the Summer Olympics, guys... The beeping's sending tectonic tremors through my skull, I lunge for the phone. Rory stumbles in and I throw up my other hand for an Olympic High Five. His phone's to his ear, and while his movements are drunken, his face is sober. Sober beyond sober. And his eyes they're - fuck. I look at my phone. New message "Mum". Says "Shave your beard off. We fly in early the next day. I've never seen a machine gun in real life before. Only on Playstation. They look...heavy. Rory's mum's at the airport to pick us up. She's on edge. Maybe 'cause we're a bit late, they uh, they put us through the scanner twice and took me aside to ask a few questions. Nothing unfair, nothing you wouldn't expect. She hands me a Snickers. No pumpkin soup this time, thankfully. "Are you both ok? Anything happen to you?" Anything happen to us? Er, we didn't just get bombed! How is she? "Everyone here's fine, thank God." I start to crack a joke about God being the reason for all the fuss in the first place but stop myself, she's just trying to be nice. Rory hardly says a word all the way home. 22

True Brits

-----------------------Still confident. Strolling as he speaks. I don't know what your office was like but at the one I was temping at, instead of going for a boozy lunch, people would nip down to see whatever was going on near us. I tried to ignore it during work hours, telling them that the world doesn't shut down for us so we can't for them but...I finally cracked on the 7th. Got myself down to Hyde Park, trampled through a flowerbed, Pot Noodle in hand, just in time to see the Brownlee brothers steam past, with all that love and good feeling carrying them along. It seemed so easy for them, it looked like they could go forever. Triathlon eh? I'd not even get to the running by the point they finished, I'd be firmly nestled into the bottom of the Serpentine! He laughs. There's the slightest note of hesitancy in it. He stops moving. After that, I dumped the Pot Noodle, and took up a full year's gym membership. Though I've not yet, as of the current date, made it down for the induction. But that was the day that inspired me to let go of some bad habits. Did anything inspire you? Anything plant a dream in your head? My dream is that my kids will walk down the street, and no one will question, even for a fleeting second if they're English or British or...or...or loyal or whatever, rather - Olympic espirit d'corps - it'll just be. Everyone will just know. He nods to himself. The shine begins to come off the confidence. Think I'll grow a beard in celebration of Team GB. He feels his future beard. Obviously it doesn't compare to...I mean, it'll be nowhere as good as yours, but One day's growth for every bronze, two for every silver, three for every gold. One hundred and eleven days. -------------------------

23

True Brits

EARLY AUGUST 2005 A see-through backpack - a sign of cowardice, an admission of guilt, or just a plain old fashion disaster? Seen them about in the last couple of weeks, and I can't decide. I can't decide from what's in front of me either, I don't know Jess' preference, so I ask the chubby flower bloke, "What sort of flowers do girls like?" "In my experience, mate" he says "anything's fine for girls." Feels good to be back in a country with friendly customer service. "Anything's fine as long as it's flowers." Wise. Friendly and wise. "But try these." The stench of urine on the bus gives me waves of nostalgia instead of the usual nausea. Gonna miss all this when I'm at uni, though Norwich piss and London piss probably smell the same. A kid gets on and sees me. Sees my flowers. Can't be more than ten. Screws his little face up. "Who are those for?" "My girlfriend." It's still fun to say that. "Does she like flowers?" Hadn't actually considered that. But everyone likes flowers. "Course. Everyone likes flowers, so I'm giving her flowers." "Why? Did you try to blow her up?" Woah. I mean, I laugh, I do laugh, I like a dark joke as much as anyone, but tell him that it might be a bit soon. He makes a face and goes back to what I think passes for a Game Boy these days. When I ring the bell to get off, the boy starts to sing, and he's got this sweet soprano voice... To the tune of "If You're Happy And You Know It." "If you're a paki and unhappy, fuck off home. If you're a paki and unhappy, fuck off home. If you're a paki and unhappy and you wanna go jihadi. 24

True Brits

Just fuck off little paki, fuck off home." No one says anything, you wouldn't would you? On a bus. It's not quite The Universal but it's actually sort of catchy. I find myself singing it as I knock on Jess' door but manage to stop myself when she opens it. She's had a hair cut. And looks. Well. Thinner. A lot thinner. I comment on the hair and give her the flowers. Which she loves. Nice one, chubby flower bloke. As expected, she's got three As. Two Bs and an A for me but it's enough and I think my Granddad'd be proud of that. Dinner with "the inlaws" is always a tight rope, never know what to say, but no problem here, 'cause Jess is back to her old self, doesn't let anyone get a word in edgeways. She's excited about uni, she should be, she deserves it, and as we get through starters - well, if you call a stick of Sainsbury's garlic bread starters - her Dad just lets her run on and on, he's happy to sit there, his face stupid with pride and I'm glad we're all doing ok. Jess pushes her plate away, hardly eaten a thing and says she's going to get some water. Mr. Collier looks at me, starts to say something, then doesn't. Forgotten maybe. It's alright, I've got my lines prepared. "You see the second test, Colin?" Expression noted. Don't call him Colin. "Not been following it this year." "Oh you should, it's been epic. Scraped it by two runs!" I know fuck all about cricket, but I've gleaned enough from Rory over the years to make conversation. Colin just cuts at his vegetables. "How about the Olympics, you excited about the Olympics? Imagine the borough'll go big for it." "That's all a long way off. Way things are going, we might not even get there." I nod and put fully half a pie into my face. "Are you a Muslim, Rahul?" Pastry flakes from my mouth.

25

True Brits

"H-hey?" "Muslim. Yes? No?" "I, um...well...why are you asking?" "Are you?" "It doesn't really matter, does it?" "You are then". There's no winning this, and he's her Dad, so I shouldn't even be trying to, but something in me doesn't want to let it go. "Would you prefer it if I was, or if I wasn't?" "I don't have any preference, of course I don't. I was just curious is all, you seem a bit evasive about it." "Not trying to be evasive, Mr. C." "But trying to make a point?" "No point, never a point, an eternal broken pencil, me." He snorts out a laugh. His Big Belly Tory Laugh. "Well, it's a pork pie we're having here, so...thought I'd check!" She's back. Safety. Jess senses disquiet and throws me a questioning glance, but I've got nothing to add. "You forgot the water, dear." She's out again. "You can eat with your hands, if it'd make you more comfortable." He's smiling through the beard. There's some broccoli stuck in it. I look at my hands. I try to smile back. The rest of dinner is torture and when I get in the car I let Mum know that for once I'm grateful for the lift. She tosses me a see-through backpack. "What the fuck is this?"

26

True Brits

She belts me, proper hard, I'm too stunned to speak. Apparently the windows at the shop have been spray painted with something obscene. And she read in the paper about some Asian kid, a Sikh, getting beaten up two nights back, five guys, forty three stitches. "See!" she says, starting up the engine. "You can be friends with the whites, but when it comes down to it, the only ones who'll really care for you when it gets rough, is us, our people." Bet she's been waiting to say that for years. "Spray paint's not exactly a brick, Mum, and people get attacked all the time, it doesn't necessarily - I mean, who's to know?" "He wasn't even one of them!" She's not listening to a word I've said. "Hey maybe you'd be happier in India, Mum, back in Gujarat. I mean they only have murderous riots over there, much better than a couple of beatings." She loves to make a big show and dance, but she can't even speak the language, can she? Not properly. Neither of us can. And anyway, we're in Britain, we should reset. I mean you don't hear the Royal Family banging on about their German roots, do you? They don't invite you to the palace garden for tea and bratwurst. Mum's a coward and she can go wherever she wants. Me? I'm sticking around, I'm making it work. I'm the reset button. EARLY SEPTEMBER 2005 "Next customer please!" Can't tell if I'm paranoid or if I've genuinely had less people coming to my till these last few weeks. I've shaved, I've been extra cheery. Maybe it's a bit much. Maybe it's putting them off... Doesn't matter, gave my notice in today. Sad to be leaving, but uni's calling and the Good Ship Virgin Megastore will have to sail on without me. No lift today, I'm not talking to Mum, so I walk home and it's taking ages. I've got Music Is My Radar on repeat to keep me company, but it starts freaking me out instead because it's late and properly dark and I 27

True Brits

find myself peeking behind me every now and then without meaning to in case anyone's there. I notice the people watching me as I pass and I wonder what's going on that I can't walk through town anymore without being stared at and I'm quite fucked off that Mum's got into my head. I yank out the headphones and check my texts, hoping for something from Rory. Radio silence for a while now, wonder what he's up to. Nothing. But there's something from Jess. "Are you about? We should talk." Two kisses. No smiley face. At first, this doesn't make sense to me, what she's saying doesn't make a single fucking bit of sense. But then I can hear her Dad's voice as she goes on. He's asleep next door, so we're keeping it down, but it's his words she's saying. The flowers I got her are propped up in a a pint glass on top of her bookshelf and they are dead, very dead, and behind that I spot the fading paint of her protest banner. I want to mention something about that being fitting, something about symbolism, something clever that'll impress her but I know she won't appreciate it just now. She's making a face that I can't really read. I thought that she'd be willing to, I thought we were... There's a lingering silence now we're done talking about what I was summoned there to talk about, to be talked to about, and to fill it, she asks if I'm hungry. "No," I say. "I never eat very much anyway." Which totally sets her off. Panic. Guilt. Neuroses. It's a stupid thing to tell someone like that, stupid and unfair. But I said it on purpose. I knew what it'd do. She says she'll make me something, a risotto, a fucking risotto, and disappears. I count to fifteen, the time it takes to get to her kitchen, then slip out of the room and through the front door which I slam as loud as I can on the way out. Hope I wake him up, I hope I wake up the whole fucking street! I peg it to the stop one along from her house so she can't find me and get the night bus home. Which is surprisingly uneventful. 28

True Brits ------------------------Nervy. I forgot the anniversary this year, think a lot of people did. Only remembered when I saw the tribute in the Opening Ceremony. Sitting alone in my living room, volume bumped, one minute David Beckham's looking smug on a speedboat then the energy drops all of a sudden...and the photos came up and I was a bit ashamed. He grows agitated. But not for long, you see? Galvanize kicked in, the athletes started pouring out and I forgot about it again! Wouldn't happen in America, they'd not let you not forget, but we're not so bad at it over here. More agitated still. We don't turn everything into an eternal performance of grief and anger and guilt, to be kept aflame and passed down, that's a bad habit and maybe...actually...a lot of things are just better off forgotten. Right? Why commemorate the sad, the bad, when there's so much funny stuff, so much good stuff out there, you know, and So I guess why I'm here is, why I wanted to talk to you, what I've been trying to get around to saying is...what happened between us...could you...do you think we could just ------------------------MID SEPTEMBER 2005 It's hot for September. The old lady on the train is looking at me. Still looking at me, she's been doing it since New Eltham, I can feel her eyes on the sweat of my neck. I turn to catch her out, and she flicks her head back to her book, like she's subtle, but she ain't. I'd rather she just punch me, y'know? The punch I can take. But the look...all these frightened half-stares they...they just...I put on my most refined accent, and find a reason to ask someone: "Excuse me, this train's to Charing Cross isn't it?" Blank faces. On public transport, in terms of desirability, I guess 29

True Brits

bombers are rivalled only by people who attempt to start conversation. He chuckles, brief and nervous. Doesn't help. The old lady, she cocks her head as if to say "you're not fooling me!" Can't she see I'm not a threat? Maybe I should just come out and say...I want to say: "Hey, I'm not religious, and my family are all -, we're I get in fights down the park. I go on shit holidays in the south of Spain. I don't give a fuck about Allah! We're not the ones who you..." Fuck. I step off the train and shuffle into Charing Cross station, scanning about for Rory, when I catch eyes with the fatter of two policemen standing lookout in the middle of the concourse. He nudges his partner, the Laurel to his Hardy, and make their way for me. I swing my bag around, my see-through bag, and there is nothing in it really, a jacket, a can of Coke for later and my wallet - but I know the drill by now. "Excuse me sir, we're conducting random searches under the Prevention of Terrorism Act 2000..." "Right, sure thing, whatever you need to do." Inspection. One paws, the other scrawls. Height? They guess five foot, eleven, an inch more than last time. Clothing? Brown jumper, blue jeans, Adidas trailers. They're Gola, but I'm not going to correct them. Intimate parts exposed? ...No. Not had to tick that yet. They are friendly guys these, Laurel's machine gun aside, doing what they need to do. The public are scared, they want to feel safe, this is a way, the only way to make that happen. It'd be so easy in the future to forget what it felt like. I'm not saying that when a Brazilian electrician on an expired visa by the way, I know it's not important, but just saying when a Brazilian electrician gets shot through the head due to a catalogue of fuck ups, that we should just dismiss it. No. BUT. They're 30

True Brits

doing their best under some unbelievable pressure, they never asked for this. "Where you come from?" says Hardy. "Sorry?" Laurel to the rescue: "He means 'where have you travelled from today?'" They hand me the form so I can self-identity myself. I see all the check boxes, all the options, and I can't help myself, I can't help but ask... "These are random searches?" "Yes, sir." "How random are they?" "Sorry?" "I mean like, d'you have like a list? To keep track." "No." "Then how does anyone know that it's random?" I'm not trying to cause trouble. "What my colleague is getting at" says Laurel, cutting in again "is that there is a list, but we aren't allowed to show it, I'm afraid." Fair enough. I thank them, they give me my souvenir. My pink slip. Can add it to the collection. A voice calls out. "What the fuck d'you do this time?" Can't see who. "Oi!" That came from the corner and in the corner is a man and the man is...Rory? "Blimey, look at you. Couldn't recognise you." "Yeah, thought I'd get a head start" he says, rubbing his buzzcut. Between that, the shades, and the stubble, he looks bloody stern. "Pumped to fuck up some darkies then, are ya?" I punch his arm jokingly. He scowls.

31

True Brits

The training, he tells me, "The training is all about looking after the guy next to you, not fucking up the ones in front of you. We're not out there to kill people." He's read the textbook. Guess he's finally managed to learn something, find something. Which is great, though I'm kinda worried this'll be the last time I'll see him, and not because I'm off to Norwich next week. "You see on the news this morning another soldier's just been killed out there?" "So?" "So you might not want to kill people, but they're gonna try to kill you and you're not a particularly lucky person, Rory." "Whereas luck like yours" he says, looking at my pink slip "please buy me a lottery ticket." He doesn't know about Jess yet, so I rush him through the details. She's gone already, didn't even call to say bye. No MSN, no text, no nothing. "Tsk. That's a shame." Can't read his expression behind the sunglasses. But fuck her anyway. He hands me one of his Strongbow cans, doubly warm from the day and his sweaty hands. I'm not fussed, I'll drink it. "Better get going, it's already filling up." Didn't think he'd give a shit about celebrations, but apparently the English cricket team represents Wales. Confusing. They are random. I know it doesn't seem like it, but they are. By the time we reach Trafalgar Square, it's packed and we're way way back, but can still just about see the team waving from the parade bus. Flintoff is already pissed out of his head, what a hero. You don't have to like cricket to like Freddie Flintoff. A foreign TV station host, Italian maybe, head to toe in what looks like white vinyl rocks up asks me what I think about it all. What do I think? I tell him "We better make the most of this, because it's never going to happen again. This is the probably our finest sporting moment." Music starts blasting from the speakers and everyone's dancing. The 32

True Brits

presenter cuts his hand across his throat, calling it quits, and over his shoulder I see it from a distance a large green and white banner, red writing scrawled across it. Some in Arabic, which I can't understand, and some in English, which I do. "BLIAR." Jesus. Today? Really? Rory thrusts another can into my hand and points to Flintoff who is now hanging off the side of the bus and inspired, we surge into the centre. There's a circle around one guy who's trying to break dance, but it just looks like he's really hurting himself. The song switches and I sense my moment. "Make way for the Lord of Shapes!" Did I really just say that? Hah! I'm in the middle, hurling myself about with absolutely no rhythm but shit loads of enthusiasm and soon everyone's cheering me on. My people. Clapping. Cheering. Laughing. The sun is blazing, and I am the show. I swing my bag around like a catapult, King David showing his subjects how he took down a giant and then I pull the can out, crack it open and it erupts everywhere. Hah! This one guy's totally soaked. ...Might be a bit much. The track changes again, a new pretender to the throne steps up, and we get pushed back out. I'm panting - that was probably the most exercise I've done in like forever - and Rory up ends his can over my head. "That'll cool you down." What a knob! What a brilliant knob he is! Fighting our way out to the back of the square is easy, crowds part like the Red Sea when you're drenched in booze and then I hear it. The first few notes. No dancing 33

True Brits

now. Just waiting. My spine chills. Jerusalem. Different from when I heard it in school. There's something in it... He sings the first few words. The sides of my eyes are going. Rory's shaking his head at me. "Soppy twat." But my heart is swelling, and I feel like I'm lifting off when "Do you know who that is?" The banner bearer's snuck up on us. Nasally voice, instantly grating. Grating, but familiar. Mihir. But he's got a beard now. Big, bushy one. Nasty, like rolled up pubes. He's pointing at the statue. "WHAT?" "Do you know?" I do, as it happens. A form at our school was named after him. The cider's slicking off the ends of my hair. "Yeah." I tell him. "Henry Havelock." "Sir Henry Havelock" Rory chips in. But Mihir isn't interested in Rory, doesn't seem to recognise him. "And you know what he's there for, yeah?" "Yeah. Of course." How is this anything to do with me? Or anyone here? "It's an affront to our people. That it's still standing is a complete mockery, a glorification of Imperial militarism, it perpetuates -" "Who's been teaching you all the big words, Mihir? You think the people here want to hear this shit? We're just here for the fucking cricket." "Why not? This country's got a strong tradition of protest, bruv." "It's got a stronger tradition of getting the hell on with it." Smash. Rory with the boundary. Mihir's seething. "I wasn't talking to you."

34

True Brits

"Oh whatever. It's just a statue." "It's what it stands for. It's why this whole mess happened in the first place." Oh my God, how the hell has he tangled all this together? "What do you stand for? You're not even a Muslim, you're just trying to be a martyr." "Solidarity, innit. Sikh kids getting the shit kicked out of them out there 'cause the dumb gora fucks see a turban, think "terrorist" and wade in." "There's a Sikh on that bus and he seems alright." "Obviously not him." "Mmm...maybe the others should get tattoos?" His jaw clenches. Got him. "You know they're right about you, Rahul, you're a disgrace." Boohoo. "I heard you used to try and scrub yourself white in the shower when you were little, you fucking coconut." Fucking Mum and her fucking mouth! Rory offers him a Strongbow. "Come on then. Solidarity." Mihir sniffs at it. "I don't drink." Of course he doesn't. "Right...well, I fancy some lager anyway, so I'll leave it here for you, champ, in case you change your mind." Rory. What a hero. We go. Yet Mihir, Mihir the fucking Martyr shouts out after us: "It's for our people to make a difference! We have to be the ones to question!" My head is busy and buzzing, but my stomach is, my stomach is Burger King. Swaying in the line, quite fun actually. I have a moment to myself and I realise I might be a bit pissed. I realise I might be a bit heartbroken.

35

True Brits

The brown guy behind the counter smiles at me. Is that pity? You're not in the position for that, mate. Maybe it's a knowing smile, but what does he know about me? Fuck all. Give me my burger, dickhead. Few minutes later, just along The Strand, we're finishing up our fries and the Martyr is suddenly bang in front of us. He starts up again. "If you're wilfully blind to this nation's crimes abroad, you're complicit in them." I'm done with this. "Shut up with the soundbites, he's going over there soon." The Martyr scoffs. "If you're friends with a wannabe baby killer, I should be saying a whole lot worse." And that's when I spit at him. Now I'm not sure who pushed who first, but it's not me, cause I'm watching the two of them twist into the alley next to us. It's almost comic, fights always look way more rubbish than you think they will, more grappling than anything, like they're trying to tear each other's clothes off. I follow them in, just in case, but Rory's got the handle on this, of course he does. He's managed to get the The Martyr's arm pinned up against his back, just holding, not hurting, and he writhes and squirms like an oveturned beetle. "Hey let's calm down, alright, calm down!" Rory's sliding the arm up tighter and tighter. The Martyr manages to swing his other arm free, swinging towards me, his fingertips brush mine. "Brother, please!" I bat it away. I'm not his brother. I know why he thinks I am, but that doesn't make it true. Brothers don't fuck stuff up for each other do they, so I don't know why he, his lot, wanted to fuck stuff up for the rest of us who were trying so hard to make it work, I'm tired of proving - I mean, today is a day of celebration and we just fucking needed that, can't he see that, why does this guy have to be such a cunt. I grab his hand as he swings it out again. So quick to wave a banner, but never the flag. Scream out slogans, but

36

True Brits

not the anthem, I wanna rip his teeth out. But instead, I pull his thumb back 'til I hear it snap. The sound surprises Rory and he lets go. I step in, shove the Martyr against the wall, grazing his face up against a graffiti cock and yank back an arm. And I twist, keep twisting until it cracks, ruptures and gives way, a chain reaction, snap snap snap, all the way along. He yelps and tumbles backwards. I catch the back of his head and taking a moment to acknowledge the fear on his face, I ram it towards my knee which connects with the ridge of his eye socket and I hear it crumple. Somewhere, muddied, distant, Rory's screaming. As the Martyr hits the ground, I plant the heel of my shoe into the base of his nose and the eruption mists over us like an ocean spray. Rory's hands clamp around my arms and he lifts me clear of the carnage. The blood freckles our skin. The Martyr, seeing his opening, tries to scurry off and I stick out a leg which catches him and he tumbles into some bin bags. He wades through, trying to get away. I shake free of Rory and grab at his ankles. He kicks out, thrashing like a crocodile. My hands are tight on his shoes, but he wiggles out of them and does this chimpy, on-all-fours run out of the alley, into the light of the street. A breadcrumb trail of blood follows him. I stand there, holding the Martyr's shoes. A pair of rotted knock-off Converse. I spin to find Rory, breathing hard, his sunglasses off, looking at me like I'm a stranger and I feel like I'm seven years old again, meeting him in the playground for the first time, the scared little boy who couldn't tie up his laces. I drop the shoes and stumble towards the front of the alley. Around the corner, in the mid distance, Laurel is holding Mihir up as Hardy listens. Hardy peaks up, clocks me and starts at a pace in my direction. I dart back and shove Rory hard in the chest. "What you doing?!" "Fuck off." I shove again. He doesn't move an inch. "Fuck off, Rory. They ain't gonna let you join the Army if you get 37

True Brits busted." "What? What about uni?" "They let any old cunt into uni these days." "Rahul, mate - " "Just fuck off, Rory, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, FUCK OFF!" I shove and and shove and shove 'til he gets the idea and slowly trots away, looking over his shoulder at me all the while, as he gears up into a sprint. Back to the front of the alley, I bump into Hardy as he comes around the corner and see myself plant my fist into his doughy gut. Hadn't planned that. He doubles up and waddles back a couple of paces. Rory's footsteps are fading but not quite gone. I kick out, same place, with less purpose. I'm fading too. Hardy groans. Laurel's on his way over, machine gun in hand. I glance over my shoulder. No sign of Rory. Good. Enough. He raises his arms above his head. He kneels. He winces. As the cuffs click shut, I take a look back up the Strand. Hundreds of people staring and I don't care. I can tell it's going to be a gorgeous evening, the heat'll keep up long into the night. He sits. He brings his arms down. It does. The world moves on. MID AUGUST 2012 "Mum. Mum. Mum, Mum! Mum! Youre missing the best bit. She looks up from the paper. "Oh its Mr Bean! I love Mr. Bean! 38

True Brits We're watching the Opening Ceremony on iPlayer. She wasnt at all keen before but something hooked her at the handball. Mum's scowls back at the paper. "Where's he from?" "Who?" "This one. Here. Doing the thing with his arms." He points to a familiar, bony figure. "Oh. Well, he's British." "I mean, originally. He's was from somewhere else, wasn't he?" "Yeah. Somalia. But -" "Bloody Somalis. I tell you one thing, they never pay their rent on time." "Mum!" "I'm joking! Can't we joke? I thought we could joke now." I bet Mo Farah pays his rent on time. I bet Mo has a mortgage. A Mogage. Note to self: Tweet that later. "Hey Mum..." "Yes?" "Do you think I let Granddad down?" She pretends she's not heard, and hands me some A4 paper. Two printed tickets. To the Closing Ceremony Concert. "What's this for?" "A little thank you. For the handball. Nice to get out." She doesn't get to much these days. I have somewhat dented her social standing. "But...didn't think you liked Blur, Mum." "I don't. Guess who's back to look after her Dad? Bumped into her at Sainsbury's yesterday."

39

True Brits

Wow. She looks "Well." That voice, that low drawl. "Sorry?" "You're going to say I look well." She does. "You do." Rounder. Not so much the face, which is older, in an elegant way, and she's lost the braces, but more around the wrists, the neck, general connecty bits, you know, which I admit did make me happy - her being rounder - made me happy to see that, though I think that makes me a chauvinist. "Thanks. All it took was years of therapy and getting the hell out of London." There's no warmth is her speech. "What's with your accent? Didn't think a couple of years in Norwich would make you posh." "Didn't think a couple of years in prison would either!"....is what I want to say, the joke I want to make, but she doesn't seem to know about that. So no need to tell her. She's wearing a badge that says "Death to the nation-state" and she's got a Corona in her hand. Jess Collier has started drinking beer. That makes me happy too. She shuts the front door, digs out another one from her bag, expertly opens it with her keys, and hands it over. We walk in silence down to the station. There's a flag in every other window, it's amazing, feels like we're walking down a parade route. We pass The Coach & Horses. "Remember that, Jess?" "Yeah. National Front place. With the signs." "No, I...got new owners now anyway. Gay couple, top blokes." "You're having me on."

40

True Brits

"Nope. One of them's Algerian and all." "Fuck me." "I know. Could practice your Arabic." The Central Line is rammed. There's a woman opposite us eating a yoguhurt. "Not once?" "Nope." "You haven't felt proud once, Jess? At all?" I look at yoghurt lady and I realise that what I desperately want, more than anything in the world right now, is for this woman to be as happy as me. I try to catch her eye, to try and somehow let her know. "Mmm...When they booed George Osborne at that medal ceremony. That came pretty close." The woman ignores me and my massive backpack for the Petite Filous. Blur. Hyde Park. He sings. "Is this the way they say the future's meant to feel...twenty thousand people standing in a field." No hang on. That's Pulp. The first support act does not inspire, but the screen flashes up to tell us that Anthony Joshua's won gold in the super-heavyweight boxing, our final gold, number twenty nine, and I have no idea who Anthony Joshua is but I'm sure glad he's done it. My celebratory fist pump morphs into a Rocky montage of jabs and hooks and "Don't you think it's all a bit much? A bit forced?" I drop my guard. "No, I don't." "We've done all of this before..."

41

True Brits

"Feels different this time. Special. Not just an excuse to get pissed." She eyes the empty bottle in my hand. "But it's still all about the winning. No one here's proud of Britain, they're proud of a few exceptional people in Britain, a few exceptional people they don't even know. It's easy to be proud of a winner, pretend the rest aren't a part of us. No-one's owning the Great British Paedo, the Rapist, the Murder, the Robber, the Bomber. " I"If we just lost everything, if it went wrong, we'd be going at each other's throats, nobody'd be proud about that, would they?" I"And you think anyone outside of London gives a shit about all this? That they'd rather have the Olympics than x number of hospitals? I spent a few years working in Leeds and let me tell you - and did you know there were only two British Asians in Team GB?" "Yeah, so the fuck what? Better than none! Better than - " Woah. Calm, Rahul, calm. "Sorry. But there's plenty to be proud of." We lay back on the grass, it's a perfect Summer day, the perfect Olympic send off. I can feel her gearing up to say something. "Whilst we're doing apologies...two thousand and five. I should explain." She shuffles her toes into her sandals. "Oh no, you don't have to." "No I should, I didn't really feel I could say at the time..." "Honestly it's - " "It's quite unfair, thinking back..." "It's fine, I understand, you don't -" "...because, well, basically, the thing was, Rahul..." She can't clutch her toes any tighter. 42

True Brits

"...I don't want to - " She turns to me. "You were a bit crap in bed." Oh. "Bit fumbly." "Right, yeah." "Yeah?" "Well. Fair enough." She gives me a look soaked in sympathy. "You believed me! You fucking idiot." And then there it is, finally, that laugh at last. I've missed that laugh so so much. She tells me that she liked me, that she thought I was cool, that having a boyfriend was easier than not, that she was ill, that she needed a lot of time to herself, that we hardly saw each other, that we were going to different unis, that we were just kids and had our time but that she doesn't regret what we had, doesn't regret anything. I tell her that there's lots I regret, and...and she decides that that's a good time to head to the bar. What do I regret? I... Bunting. I regret not investing in bunting. Between this and the Jubilee, I'd have made an absolute packet. An old couple waltz in front of me, the man's wearing a plastic Union Jack hat, there are beaming kids of all colours all around me all sporting lines of blue, white and red on their faces, and one of them's got a bowlcut and it makes me think about Rory again, and I hope somewhere he's got a flag painted on his face, or propped on his head, not draped over his coffin. I think I would've heard, the school'd be playing some sort of Rory Sykes Memorial rugby match even though they hated him and he hated rugby. He's never on MSN Messenger anymore, but then no one is are they. Maybe he was one of the guys patrolling the Olympic Park after the G4S fuck up, proud and appreciated, maybe I saw him, just 43

True Brits

didn't realise, but right here I do see, as the crowd funnels forward for the main act leaving me alone in a gap, I think I... I think I see you. "Don't be stupid" I tell myself, "why would you be here?" But why not? You can like Blur and hate Blair, can't you, that's probably a popular combination nowadays. And I know your mum's still around, even if she doesn't talk to mine. If it is you, you've got new shoes, looks like real Converse this time. I know you'd tell me to "fuck off", if you'd speak to me at all, but I imagine what I would say if you let me reply...if I could make you laugh, if we could just wave a flag together, not serious, for a lark, for the fun of it, for a little bit. Laugh. Sing. I mean, not the anthem, sod the anthem, the athletes don't even sing that, but...I mean, look around you, it feels alright down here now, doesn't it? Less "where you from?" and more "where could we go?' And like, for when it wasn't, can we just - . Please. Just The Sun starts to fall from the sky as Blur fires up and though they aren't anywhere near as good as I remember them being, with this crowd it's a total love-in and then they start playing my favourite song, and when Graham Coxon sings "Love's the greatest thing that we have" I just...I don't believe in Gods, and I'm not sure I believe Graham either but... He looks around, he takes it all in: a moment of minor rapture. I saw the Olympic Games in my city, in my country, in my lifetime! And I can't help but marvel at how lucky I am because it was great, and we're great and this land is run through with hope and affection. I felt that, felt part of something bigger and better than me, the closest thing I've felt to love in years. And love can be an Olympian effort, pulling up with every stretched sinew, bearing the split lips on the cold mornings, through the darkest evenings and...and...it's harsh and confusing and tiring, I'm so tired, and there's still a way to go but in a moment like this, for a moment like this, don't you think it might all be worth... She's back. She takes my hand. Maybe we'll dance? No wait "1, 2, 3, 4, I declare thumb war."

44