Ruminations on Yookay

Language and identity are inextricable concepts.

Scarborough Castle has a longer and more storied history than some countries that exist in the world today. Harald Hardrada raided the castle when he invaded in 1066; the Earl of Warwick fulfilled his self-made prophecy, playing the part of the 'Black Hound' by fatally 'biting' Piers Gaveston, Edward II's favourite, after the barons had risen up in rebellion over Edward's incompetency and Gaveston's arrogance in 1312; the Roundheads laid siege to the castle in one of the bloodiest and longest lasting sieges of the English Civil War in 1645. Indeed, the hill situated on the outskirts of Scarborough, Oliver's Mount, which is today primarily used as a motorcycle racetrack, takes its name from Cromwell, who is purported to have mounted artillery cannons upon it, firing on the castle during the siege. The castle is of course not the only attraction that Scarborough has to offer. The Old Town; of course, all medieval British cities have an Old Town; holds a singular serenity to it, with its narrow streets and overhanging houses, its tiny pubs and charming cafés, its magnificent church and ancient graveyard (in which Anne Bronte's remains are interred), a welcome break from the South Bay, the most popular spot in the town for visitors, with its promenade permanently powdered with sand and teeming with throngs of tourists, enjoying the bright lights of the arcades.

Round the back of the Town Hall, if one walks down the hill from the gardens outside the front entrance, where a statue of Queen Victoria sits in judgement of uncontrolled kids tossing cold chips to bold gulls, one may find arguably the best panoramic view of the castle, the Old Town, the South Bay and of course, the endless North Sea; the view only marred by the insulting and imposing Ferris wheel that is erected over the summer. Once, during summer, a man in his early fifties, who I took to be a Punjab, approached me while I was smoking, making a comment regarding the heat and my choice of clothing; my office had had an important meeting that required a full suit on that day. We had a brief conversation, and discussed the view in front of us, of the North Sea that local companies dump sewage into, of the South Bay where flocks of dead gannets wash up, of the Old Town beautiful in its own way but subsumed by an inexorable procession of red-brick new builds in the greater Scarborough area, before discussing Scarborough Castle itself. I told him the same thing I told you, of the castle's long and storied history, one that must be remembered and one that must be told, and not just by or to Scarborians. He had a rather inscrutable face as I told him of this and I asked him if he had ever been, and as he pursed his lips and rubbed his beard, he said, in something of a bored tone of voice 'it's just a pile of rubble, there are much better things to see elsewhere in the UK'. I made my own expression as inscrutable as I could, shoved down the blazing anger that was rising inside me at his comment, stubbed my cigarette out and thanked him for his time, wishing him a lovely stay. I am English, after all.

It was not the description of Scarborough Castle as a pile of rubble that angered me. If we are being fully honest, all that remains of the rich legacy I have discussed with you and with him is literally a pile of rubble, doubtless a far cry from the storied fortress that preceded it in better times, just as the newer built up area of Scarborough is a far cry from the Old Town, just as the South Bay did not resemble a deleted scene from an old Hitchcock film, just as the tide of the North Sea once ebbed and flowed without human excrement floating in it. No, it was the description of my country, Britain, as 'the Yookay' that got on my nerves and raised my hackles.

There is no doubt in my mind that the insistence to refer to this country as Yookay is part of a concerted effort to redefine the notion and nature of Britain. By describing this country as thus, Britain ceases to be a nation that excludes non-Brits from its definition. By describing this country as thus, modern Britain is dissociated in form from the historical context that the British identity was forged in. By describing this country as thus, non-Brits, and most especially first-generation immigrants, have a simple linguistic term that requires very little effort to enunciate.

It takes very little effort for the mouth to say Yookay. It is, fundamentally, a guttural noise. The first part of the word, Yoo, is formed at the very back of the throat, with the second part, Kay, being formed by lightly pressing the back of the tongue against the roof of the mouth. Try it yourself. The two parts of the word are sounds that likely form part of most of the languages in the world, and may well be one of the easiest words for anybody, of any linguistic background, to enunciate. By describing this country as thus, a linguistically accessible term is provided for non-Brits to use that requires no effort to say correctly. Now try saying Britain. Don't be lazy in your speech, by using a glottal stop (the consonantal sound that gives us the phrase (that Americans love to tease us about) 'boh'ull o' war'uh'). In the English language, proper nouns ought not contain a glottal stop; it would be unusual to refer to someone as 'Chris'opher'. Indeed, the history of Britain is so long and storied, that to lazily and carelessly describe it as 'Bri'un' or its people as 'Bri'ish' would be doing that history, that identity, that culture a disservice. The first syllable of the word, 'Brih', is formulated at the front of the mouth, in front of the teeth; with the second syllable 'Tun', the sound embarks on a short sojourn to the rear of the upper layer of front teeth to form the 't', before returning once again to the front of the mouth and being pushed forward, past the lips and into the ears of whichever interlocutor one happens to have. Perhaps I am biased, but there is something in the proper enunciation of the word that straightens one's back, that pushes one's shoulders back, that raises one's chin in pride, a feeling that is absent when a glottal stop is used; this usage pushes the sound back to the rear of the mouth, a vulgar, guttural expression that does not evince the same sense of pride. Foreign nationals, no matter their level of education or their understanding of English, always find it difficult to enunciate Britain in the correct manner, often pronouncing the first syllable as 'Bree' and the second syllable as 'Tan', or relying on a glottal stop themselves just to get to the start and the end of the word. With this in mind, it is no coincidence that the demonym for the nation is homophonic to the name of the nation itself; Briton and Britain. If a foreign national finds difficulty just in enunciating their identity, precisely how attached to that identity can they be? The term Yookay removes that difficulty for them and provides a linguistically accessible term for non-Britons to use to describe the country. Britain is a difficult word to say. Yookay is an easy word to say.

It is not only the difficulty in pronunciation that provides a barrier to identity. Britain is the Land of the British, just as England is the Land of the English and Scotland is the Land of the Scottish, just as Wales is the Land of the Welsh and Ireland is the Land of the Irish. These terms are, by their very definition, exclusionary in nature. By defining our country as Britain, or by defining any of the constituent countries appropriately, one immediately excludes from the national identity those who are not British, not English, Scottish, Welsh, or Northern Irish. Yookay therefore is a term that can be applied to a country that consists of huge numbers of people that do not fall into any of those four categories, or the overarching category that exists as an agglomeration of them. By redefining our Britain, our England, as Yookay, foreigners are able to feel as if they have just as much right to this country as we, the British and the English, do. There is no such ethnic group as the Yookayish, no such language as Yookayish, no history in Yookay; although the country was first officially labelled as 'the United Kingdom' following the Acts of Union 1800, nobody referred to it as Yookay until very recently; in official documentation, such as legislation, Great Britain or the British Empire was always used, but these terms are not present in modern official documentation, or in legislation, where 'the United Kingdom' is always used, and Britain is always absent. Yookay therefore is a neologism, one with the express intention of gaslighting the British people into believing that they ultimately have no home, that there is no Land of the British, that they exist as just one part of the taxonomy of the multiculturalism that defines Yookay. The word Yookay exists to force Britons to willingly embrace the notion of multiculturalism, by removing their intrinsic linguistic attachment to the nation. Britain belongs to the British as England belongs to the English, Yookay belongs to everybody as nothing belongs to nobody.

Indeed, the Britain of today is nothing at all like the Britain of yesterday. If the nation itself has changed to such a degree, ought the nation not be defined with another term? It is not simply immigration that has diluted the notion of the nation. Over the past eighty years; this cultural shift has been happening at an increasing rate and in an inexorable manner since the end of the Second European Civil War in 1945; we have seen the utter collapse of Christianity as a moral order, as a social force and as a community tradition; we have seen rates of abortion skyrocket; we have seen divorce become commonplace; we have seen social degeneracy in such a manner and to such a degree that has not been seen since Weimar Germany; we have seen the removal of the gold standard and the decimalisation of our currency, followed by inflation that has robbed the common man of fair remuneration for his labour; we have seen the outlawing of the death penalty; we have seen wealth and power become concentrated in the hands of a small elite that now views itself as being part of a global elite and a global hierarchy instead of as a British elite there to uphold and protect the British hierarchy; we have seen the total scourging of our natural world; we have seen Napoleon's description of the English as a 'nation of shopkeepers' devolve to a nation of servants of the global order. With all that in mind (and indeed, with plenty more out of mind), how accurately does modern Britain represent the Britain that once towered over the world? Britain is quite unlike modern society. Yookay is quite unlike anything.

But what is Britain, and, more importantly, what is Yookay?

Britain is the games of cricket played by starving boys in tattered overcoats on the disjointed cobblestones that snake through old London. Yookay is the Premier League football matches played by mindless millionaires in polyester fabric on the synthetic pitches that pepper new London. Britain is the statesmen, the kings, the warriors who won a hundred battles, who inspired a thousand songs, who touched a million hearts. Yookay is the actors, the singers, the footballers who played a hundred games, who lip-synced a thousand tracks, who distracted a million minds. Britain is Wilberforce and Pitt, Bruce and Longshanks, Wellington and Nelson. Yookay is Harry and Meghan, Posh and Becks, Lampard and Gerrard. Britain is an historic land. Yookay is an economic zone. Britain is the carefully constructed, quiescent cottage with billows of smoke pouring out of its chimney. Yookay is the hastily erected, clamorous tower block with fingers of flame enveloping its cladding. Britain is exclusionary, is intolerant, is monocultural. Yookay is inclusive, is tolerant, is multicultural. Britain is potatoes boiled in water and cod pan fried in butter. Yookay is chips devoid of nutrition and carp deep fried in seed oils. Britain is the English barber that lowers his prices in times of privation. Yookay is the Turkish barber that launders his money to hide his drug dealing. Britain is the Scottish cobbler's shop that has been in the family for two hundred years. Yookay is the Indian corner shop that is owned by a family numbering two hundred. Britain is the spindly tent in the deep, dark, wild woods. Yookay is a package holiday to Benidorm. Britain is the port where tired sailors embrace their families. Yookay is the port where smugglers send flimsy boats. Britain is a well-brewed ale, drunk with well-loved friends, sat on well-worn stools. Yookay is a poorly poured pint, surrounded by strangers, in a franchised pub. Britain is an orderly farmhouse, surrounded by disorderly nature. Yookay is an endless procession of red-brick new builds, built on the graves of a distant memory of a wild England. Britain is the dirt path through the woods. Yookay is the tarmacked motorway where decaying trees whistle by. Britain is the physician that upholds his oath to do no harm. Yookay is the doctor who vaccinates his community to get his bonus. Britain is the wool that warms you in winter and the parasol that cools you in summer. Yookay is the synthetic fabric made with slave labour. Britain is the loving mother. Yookay is an easy abortion. Britain is the eternal congregation that never falters. Yookay is the church demolished to make way for a mosque. Britain is clear. Yookay is blind. Britain is a cog sailing through the North Sea in search of new lands to settle, of new glories to win, of new stories to tell. Yookay is the water companies that pour excrement into it. Britain is a day out at the beach. Yookay is a night out on the town. Britain is a library of ancient wisdom and philosophical ruminations. Yookay is an arcade of blinding lights and deafening music. Britain is a Town Hall with its stone columns and oaken doors, its crystal chandelier dangling in the foyer and the silence that one can only hear in a old building. Britain is an office building with its concrete blocks and plastic doors, its LED lights blinding you, and the low humming that one can only hear in a new building.

Britain is Scarborough Castle, the terrifying devastation that Hardrada brought in 1066, the vengeful justice that the Earl of Warwick delivered in 1312, the steely courage that Charles' Loyalists showed in 1645. Yookay is a middle-aged Punjab riding a Ferris wheel who beholds the cliff above him and the castle atop it and sees only a mound of dirt and a pile of rubble.

If you want your country back, take back its name.