As an amateur Hubert Watergipridget scholar, it brings me great joy to bring his renowned Mockratic dialogue to you today. For those who don’t know who Watergipridget is, I assume you’re some sort of illiterate scum of whom the world would be better off without!

Anyway, here it is.

It always astounds me that people refer to cold as bitter and yet the idea of warmth is one synonymous with all things good. Heat is stifling; cold inspiring.

A thin layer of ice had formed on the roads and paths, sending the aged sliding to their doom or keeping them safely locked away in solitude. Nothing is more disheartening to the soul than having to behold the elderly. A man does not wish to be reminded of his mortality but rather wishes for it to come as a surprise when he’s intoxicated and, the gods willing, naked.

Trashymachus and I entered The Chequers, it’s air smoke scented. I ordered a pint of ale called Lumpy Bogsprot and Trashymachus ordered one called Party Down at Hubert’s.

What ho, said Racisites, who happened to be sitting atop a tall stool at an unnecessarily high table along with Idiotus. Mockrates will surely join us in this discussion! Racisites bellowed.

A foreboding statement where Racisites is concerned, being the sort of person who spoke much but said little, and the little he said tended to be utter horseshit. Whilst I support the right to free speech, my support for shutting the hell up is often greater. By the gods I hate him. If I didn’t have to maintain the flimsy façade of civility, I’d happily beat him to death with a snooker ball in a sock.

Having said that, The Chequers was busy and Racisites and Idiotus had a table.

You will have noticed the flags festooning the lamps about town, said Racisites with a grin thick enough for a cart to get stuck in. What is your view on them, Mockrates?

My view is blocked by the walls of the pub at the moment, said I, for I am very witty.

What indeed is your opinion of them, then. Said Idiotus who never appreciates my wit, perhaps owing to his idiocy.

My opinion is that they are flags. Made from nylon or polyester, if I were to guess.

Is that an opinion or an observation? Asked Racisites

Perhaps, said Trashymachus, your question needs refining, Racisites.

Perhaps your mum needs refining, said Idiotus guffawing and glancing about to bask in the guffaws of others, of which there were none.

Very well. What is your opinion on what they represent?

Ah, my dear Racisites, I believe they are said to represent a nation. I declared in a manner that would perhaps be described as smug, were it not for my innate and obvious brilliance.

That’s a poor answer, claimed Racisites.

It is the very answer you asked for, said I. If you wish to go further, as to what a nation represents, then it would appear you are in need of a lesson in metaphysics.

Or maybe, Trashymachus chimed in, good Racisites means what do we make of the act of putting the flags upon the lamps?

Ah, but the two are intrinsically linked and would still require the lesson. For would the intent of those putting up the flags not be influenced by what the flags represent?

They represent patriotism. Pride in one’s nationality! Said Racisites, taking a gulp of his Spanish lager.

The flags represent patriotism? I asked. So, anyone can look upon them and feel patriotic and have pride in their nationality?

Yes. Said Idiotus slamming his hand upon the table.

Even a Frenchman? He could look upon these flags and feel proud of being French?

Absolutely not, said Idiotus.

No one can feel proud of being French, said Racitides. 

Then the flags cannot represent patriotism or national pride as concepts in themselves.  I took a sip of my beer. It tasted like someone had rubbed an orange on a handful of loose change. And so, I went on, I cannot answer your question unless you can define your terms.

The flags, they represent Britain, they represent Englishness! Said Idiotus as though it were obvious.

Ah, said Trashymachus, now we get somewhere.

If that somewhere happens to be the middle of nowhere at all! I plonked my glass down upon the table with enough force for some beer to slop upon it. A deliberate tactic to enjoy my beer with less beer in it. For are not Britain and England distinct entities? I asked.

No! said Idiotus.

Well… technically, yes. Said Racitides

They are?

Indeed.

So, which do the flags represent?

It would depend very much on the flag, said Trashymachus, there are Union Jacks and St George’s Crosses out there.

Union flags, Trashymachus. I corrected him.

Yes, I said as much.

No, you didn’t. You said Jack, when what you meant is flag.

What’s the difference?

Jack is for when flown at sea. Flag is for any and all other uses of the colours.

Seems a pedantic point to make considering the nature of the conversation, said Trashymachus with the air of a man who was already regretting leaving his house.

We are sophists, good Trashymachus. Teachers to one and all. What are teachers beyond professional pedants?

You make a good point, as always. Said Trashymachus, for I had made a good point as always.

Let us talk of the Union Flag, for the time being. I said. For St George’s Cross raises many questions, such as why the cross of a Cappadocian knight in the Roman army came to represent a tiny island he never came to.

You say the Union Flag represents Britain, though, though it cannot by definition. I said, coolly awaiting the rebuttal I was well equipped to counter-rebut! For, I am the great Mockrates, inventor of the Mockratic method and I had carefully made a clever trap.

It’s the flag of Britain for goodness sake! Blurted Idiotus. Who was an idiot.

A flag of the United Kingdom. I replied.

It’s the flag of the United Kingdom, for goodness’ sake. Said Idiotus.

With no reference to the flag of Wales. Is that not one of the entities which is supposedly united?

Ah yes, I always forget about Wales, said Racitides.

The people with the single greatest flag known to man, and the powers that be (or rather were) decided not to include it in the big one. If there’s one thing the Union Flag represents, it is oversight! I plonked my beer down again, this time with enough force to shatter the whole class and empty it completely.

The point is, said Racisites, I believe the flags were put up in defence of British culture.

And what –

And what, good Racisites, is British culture? Trashymachus interrupted me. I allowed it in this instance, as the man needs a win sometimes.

It’s under threat is what it is, said Idiotus.

His attempt at wit no doubt. He was not a witty man. To look at him was to be aware that somewhere a sack was down one potato.

You see, said Racisites, people effectively have to apologise for being British these days. Britain’s culture is being erased. Walk down a London street and you shall hear almost every language on the planet bar English!

Did not the English spend a great deal of time and resources in attempting to erase the Welsh language? A language that is, by definition, British? Said Trashymachus, which irritated me, because I hadn’t thought about that.

What? No… I mean. It’s a silly language. I had forgotten about the Welsh. We live in the here and now and cannot feel guilty or worry about things in the past that we weren’t around to have any responsibility for. Said Racisites.

Ah hah, so we cannot concern ourselves with the actions of those who inhabited the past? I asked.

No. Would you arrest a man because his great-grandfather committed murder? Said Idiotus.

So, when it comes to assessing British Culture, we cannot allude to the past. Therefore, we should feel no pride in Britain’s role in fighting the Nazis? We should not extol the virtues of any of the ‘British’ inventors and their works, as we ourselves had no direct role in producing them? I had them here. Or at least I would have if my audience had a single functioning brain between them. Alas, what they had was a lumpy sack of prejudice among which hid a single brain cell whose soul focus was keeping them alive, for all the good their living did for the world.

Of course we can be proud. Culture is history. Said Racisites.

Apart from the bad bits, of course. Said Trashymachus, breaking our unspoken agreement that it is I who make the sarcastic remarks. One day I really ought to strike him.

I suppose, said I, it is time for me to get another beverage. Of course. This was a clever ploy to form some witty retorts for future use. As I returned to the table Racisites was unleashing another turgid diatribe.

For example, simply look at the number of mosques that are popping up all over the place. He began. Britain is historically and culturally a Christian nation. Why should we let them start spreading all this Islam about the place?

Religious freedom, one would presume. Said Trashymachus, is freedom not a pillar of British culture?

Erm… said Racisites. Yes. But…

Trashymachus had foolishly disrupted the rhythm of the thing. I had quite the retort brewing. Not wanting it to go to waste, I ploughed on. Of course, said I, my good Racisites, with your great knowledge of history and British culture, you will be aware that Britain is only culturally and historically Christian after a certain point in history. Before the Romans came, our Anglo-Saxon ancestors, worshipped their own version of the Nordic pantheon and had their own cultural practises established. But our Great British ancestors gave up their established culture the moment some foreign invaders brought with them some stories of a magic Palestinian baby. They wholeheartedly embraced this Middle Eastern import. Surely this shows that culture is a rather fluid thing. Trying to preserve culture is like standing on a beach telling the tide to fuck off.

I’d stand on the beach telling the small boats to fuck off. Said Idiotus.

As would I. Said Racisites. I’d love to stand on the beach with a machine gun and shoot them all.

And this was supposedly a representative of Great British values. A man who would preserve Great British culture, revelling in the idea of shooting children for the crime of being born on a different landmass.

Would they not, Trashymachus began, be more deserving of a place in Britain, owing to the fact that they’ve put a lot of effort and taken great risks to be here? All we did was fall out our mother’s fannies.

Traitor! Yelled Idiotus. How dare you make me think about my mother’s fanny!

The fact is, said Racisites, who seemed unphased by the introduction of his mother’s vagina to the conversation – it’s a sad state of affairs that ‘the fact is’ is often followed by anything but a fact. Very rarely does someone say, ‘The fact is, the summit of Ben Nevis is 1,345 metres.’

The fact is, Racisites repeated as though reasserting himself after a brief narrative tangent. Foreigners coming here, are often criminals and will often commit terrible acts of sexual violence!

But my dear Racisites, are you suggesting that native Britains are incapable of committing such acts. Was Britain free of all crime and a bastion of women’s rights before the arrival of foreigners?

Well, no… not exactly, but… I think victims of crime would prefer to be victims of a proper English criminal! Idiotus replied on Racisites behalf.

No… not that. Said Racisites who realised he had got himself stuck in his own trap. The fact is, Britain is a very specific thing and just so happens to adhere to the world I have created in my own head, and anything that deviates even slightly from my comfortable image, is a threat and must be destroyed. And that is why I – I mean they – put up the flags. Look at my flag, it says, this is mine. Everyone must conform to how I want reality to be or suffer my wrath!

We all fell into a depressive silence. Ultimately, this is why we cannot have nice things. For all our talk of intelligence and rationality, unique to humanity, the fragile nature of society is subject to the whims of those possessed of a dangerous mix of ignorance and arrogance.

Given the option of a truth, backed up by the evidence of their eyes and ears or the option of a false reality that allows them to revel in their worst prejudices, humanity will, by and large choose the latter.

And there you have it. The Mockratic method had once again won out. I, the Great Mockrates, had once again proven his intellectual superiority and done a great service to mankind.

We finished our drinks and went back out into the cold.

For those who wish to read more of Watergipridget’s work. You can download a collection of his short stories here.

For those who don’t wish to read more, you can go back to rolling around in your own filth, I guess.