“The average human shares 80% of their genes with the average potato. The patriot shares up to 100%.” – The Observations of Prime Minister William Bunsen
The fear of potato shortages was constant during The Great British Potato War. Hunger was always on the menu. The slogan “Get War Done!” kept us going. Three words which roused the mighty British bulldog from his slumber. I saw it as my duty to keep the men’s spirits high when their bellies were aching. There was endless bellyaching.
The soldiers under my command would whisper in the black fondant nights, “When will the proper British potatoes run out?”
I could not answer them. I would crawl between the pickets on our perimeter whispering my mantra, “Get War Done!”.
“What?” they would mouth back.
“Get War Done!”
“Oh. Okay.”
When we marched towards the enemies of the people a different slogan was called for.
“Believe in Great British Potatoes!” I cried it lustily. The men would throw their caps high and cry too! Good men. Men who valued freedom of speech. They would sell their lives dearly. “Trust in Prime Minister William Bunsen!” I encouraged them with that too. “Trust in Billy Burner”.
Of course, no one knew then if it were possible to eat a root vegetable that did not come in a packet with a Union Jack on it. Traitors at them. We knew that, but they weren’t God’s chosen race sprung fully formed from the soil of this sceptred isle. There were rumours in the dark years (before Parliament lent its sovereignty to the Executive in perpetuity) people did eat all manner of forrin foods. Padron Peppers from Spain, whatever they were. Kalamata Olives from the Peleponnese, ditto. And of course avocados, we all knew what they were, they were heresy! But I did not believe patriots had. Patriots would starve first before they let the green flesh of treason pass their lips.
[Ed. It is possible to eat a non-Union flagged root vegetable, but it results in a psychosomatic digestive disorder called by physicians, The Brussels Cramps.]
“Control British Fish!” was another robust slogan to keep spirits high. Ideologically so pure it glistened. The men responded well to it. Shouting about fish always stiffened spines. It said everything about who we are. A maritime superpower! An industrial powerhouse! A job exporting titan! A country that valued its fish above all else and wanted the world to know it.
When I was far from home, when I was bruised and bloodied, when I was burying my brothers in arms in haste in some sodden Surrey field, knowing we had seized back control of British fish kept me digging graves.
The good women of Raylee and Wick River Crossing*, where my regiment was raised, were loyal and sent us what food they could spare. Stout of frame. Round of hip. Busting of bosom. Rosy cheeked. Women you could rely on to be pregnant year on year when it was time to repopulate Brexitannia. When it was time to leave the office jobs, leave the mills and fulfill a woman’s Great British destiny to produce as many Great Britons as they could.
My wife, Mrs French, was prominent in village circles. There was no scandal, no indiscretion she was unable to ignore. She could patch your torn skin as easily as split trousers. Whenever the Government composed a new song for school children to sing you could be certain she would have the Raylee youth drilled within days.
“Make do and mend,” she’d say to the other women. “Here, let me show you how to make that one sock into two.”
If the traitors ever did breach the defences and capture Raylee you could be certain my wife would lead the resistance.
“Starve yourself so that I may eat,” I ordered her on the day we past out of town, headed for that cesspit of traitors. London. “Victory will see us feast!”
It was late in the afternoon. A glorious day, if you ignored the blowflies, if you shouldered past the dark clouds on the horizon, if you blocked your ears to the cries of the widows and orphans. A godly day. The sun sinking its inflamed buttock into the bank of clouds to the west, but enough rays to reflect off the bakelite buttons on my replica TA Catering Corp uniform. A sight to mist the eyes.
My hearty wife stood twisting a damp dish cloth in her firm hands. I wager it was soaked with her tears. She knew the moment had arrived when she must raise that sodden fabric and wave farewell.
“We will meet again,” I reassured her. “I don’t know where. I don’t know when. But we’ll meet again some sunny day.”
“Get War Done,” she replied, lowering her gaze and shaking her head.
“Control British Fish.”
She nodded. I suspect she could not trust herself to say the words she wanted to.
“Don’t beg me to stay,” I ordered her.
“I won’t,” she replied, her voice cracked. “Control British Fish.”
“I have to go. It’s my duty.”
“Go,” she agreed. “Please go.”
She hid her face in her dish cloth and sobbed.
“You did not fully understand the blazing star I was born under,” I told her. “I will uphold the will of the people.”
“Oh Mark, you fool.”
“Shush now. Only speak in three word sentences while I am away,” I ordered her. I moved in close to hold her hands, but she retreated. She would crumble at my touch.
“I will do,” she whispered. Good woman. God’s own.
“I am going to fulfil the will of the people.” I saluted her.
“Don’t miss me,” she muttered.
“I won’t! I will look after myself.”
I was following my destiny.
Destiny is all.
With courage and Union Flag branded munitions I could not fail.
*Raylee and Wick River Crossing was the birthplace of Private Mark French. In the 2016 EU Referendum it voted 98% to Leave the EU Tyranny. A source of great pride to Mark. A percentage confirmed in the Official Records of Brexitannia.