The quality of Englishness is not strained

… it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven.

It’s not as if it’s a new issue … Somerset Maugham and Mr. Know-All (1925):

I had scarcely started before a man came up to me and asked me if he was right in thinking my name was so and so. “I am Mr. Kelada,” he added, with a smile that showed a row of flashing teeth, and sat down.

“Oh, yes, we’re sharing a cabin, I think.”

“Bit of luck, I call it. You never know who you’re going to be put in with. I was jolly glad when I heard you were English. I’m all for us English sticking together when we’re abroad, if you understand what I mean.”

I blinked. “Are you English?” I asked, perhaps tactlessly.

“Rather. You don’t think I look like an American, do you? British to the backbone, that’s what I am.”

To prove it, Mr. Kelada took out of his pocket a passport and airily waved it under my nose.

This was the latest attempt:

Ed Davey (Mr. Post Office) spoke in parliament on “Englishness” … comment on that:

Lisa is what people might call “white English” but she sports the Union Flag, not St George:

In my time in Russia, I was often spoken of like: “Он наполовину русский,” or “He’s half Russian.” It was an honorary title, not a citizenship claim … I was still “иностранец” or “a foreigner”, officially … but a friendly one who spoke the language passably.