Let's Talk about Ben-Stokin': An Open Letter to my English Son

After an English Gentle Sir goes rogue, a victim to BenStokin, an English father writes this hard-hitting open letter that everyone will now read instead of just writing a simple, private letter which could have served the purpose easier. You won't believe paragraph 7, line 8. 

Dear Son,

How do I even start writing to you about BenStokin, my Good Old Chap? My instinct, any Englishman's instinct, is not only to divide and conquer but also to CIVILISE. But BenStokin is a shameful issue, old sport. Let me start, dear child, by asking you what you think of the weather today, as we British are prone to. LOL we are so harmless and cute though with our Queen, crows, cakes and tea. But BenStokin is something that promises to rip away at the last strand of decency, we, the English, have tethered to our last great invention: The Gentleman's Game of Cricket. Let me quote a poem I wrote during the “The Great Urination at the Ashes” aka “The Splashes”. You may be too young to remember, as we are so quick to forget our own actions, like when we colonised everything and slaughtered people from the savage region with impunity. But these subjects were too delicate to discuss but now that you are 42, I guess it is time. 

What is this game we play,

That takes away the Brownie's right to celebrate?

So we push and shove and teach them some manners,

And afterwards on the green, we sit and defecate? 

Gentle English sirs always have a cool head

But man this tropic weather can change me;

Crocodile Dundees getting rowdy first, 

How can blue-eyed, Blonde Jesus from Middle East blame me?

I know your head is in a googly right about now but don't feel gutted yet. Your young English mind cannot understand how to avoid BenStokin but as an upstanding citizen of the GREAT Britain, we must always be bastions of decency and thus tend to not discuss vulgar things we may have done in the past or wish to do in the future. But guvnor, we now need to have open conversations over some fish and chips from the jolly old harbour, unbothered by the scousers. Firstly, the problem with BenStokin is that BenStokers were not raised under the bosom of her Majesty, the Queen, God Save the Queen. Apparently, as history has taught us, when you mix an English Man with a New Zealander, you get an Australian and that is never ever a good thing. This gives BenStokers a “mean streak” you would not normally associate with English men who are all upstanding citizens with a lot of common sense, as the Brexit so succinctly sums up.

Son, I cannot impress upon you that despite all that too, sometimes BenStokin happens, especially when yesterday's peasants play at becoming today's champions. Honestly, as ugly and unexpected as that was, the facts of the case are simple. The Brownies were never ones for humility. Especially that bugger from the port and you know all about the port workers and their kind; this wasn't 1930s and no way would we be caught with our pants down again. Am I saying BenStokin is ok? Sometimes it is. Sometimes we bomb hospitals and invade countries to murder leaders based on lies too. Point is, don't hold yourself to the same standards as those that we conquered. 

In conclusion Son, sometimes things can get mad as a bag of ferrets and usually it is never your fault, because of your polished race, of course. ‘Something must have been said’, because everyone knows we are the calmest, coolest lads, just having a laugh while taking the mickey. So ask yourself why we may go Benstokin' sometimes.

And as you ask yourself the question ask what is this country that I live in, that forgets its past indiscretions and sweeps it under the rug under the guise of “oops sorry mate”. We are a nation that refuses to answer for our ancestors. Why should we even begin to think of answering for our own actions then? Remember these parting words:

Lads may go Benstokin

Like the Bush and the Blair

Miffing Chilcot and Tamim alike,

Remember the lads don't really care!

Come join the most tolerant of the crowd

Also PS: No Dogs or Indians allowed. 

Yours,

Dad

The author is a nobody, no one, nothing, and a father of two sons aged 42 and 3.