Un-British

Keir Starmer has declared that pro-Palestinian protests on the anniversary of 7 October are “un-British”. Which is a curious claim, because if we’re honest, the only official definition of Britishness we’ve got comes from the Department for Education – a laminated relic listing democracy, rule of law, individual liberty, and mutual respect and tolerance. The great Monolith of British Values, dreamed up by Michael Gove and now recited by teachers somewhere between times tables and fire-drill procedure.

By that measure, the protesters are model pupils. They’re practising democracy by marching for what they believe in. They’re following the rule of law by applying for permission and staying within it. They’re exercising individual liberty by speaking their minds. And unless shouting “ceasefire” is suddenly classed as intolerance, they’re passing the mutual-respect module too. In other words, they’re being gloriously, infuriatingly British.

But politicians love to pretend Britishness is fixed – some moral jam-jar labelled Best Before 1953 – because it lets them define it as whatever flatters their reflection. And that word “un-British” still carries its old undertone of xenophobia – the faint suspicion that true Britishness is something fragile, forever under siege from the foreign, the different, or the loud. It’s been thrown at pacifists, at Irish immigrants, at Suffragettes, at reggae and jazz, even at curry houses – anything that didn’t fit the fantasy of the island fortress. It’s a purity test for a country that’s never been pure.

The truth, of course, is that Britishness is a glorious mess: Empire and anti-Empire, monarchy and punk, scones and samosas, Shakespeare and Stormzy. It’s that odd mixture of politeness and protest that means we’ll queue to overthrow something. The country’s soul lives in the argument, not the anthem.

So when a Prime Minister calls dissent “un-British”, it’s not the crowd that’s out of tune – it’s the hymn sheet. The people on the streets are living the curriculum version of Britishness, while those in power are failing it with spectacular consistency.

If there’s a monolith at all, it’s not in Westminster – it’s somewhere in the middle of the crowd, wedged between a hijab, a flat cap, a racist, a rainbow, a St George’s flag and a Greggs pasty. That’s Britain. Noisy, contradictory, principled, occasionally ridiculous – and never, ever obedient.