This heady cocktail of pride, virtue and sleaze worked as it always has, stoking resentment beyond the reach of words. Now Brussels was vanquished, a real Britishness could find its feet. Life would be better, for a start, if coddled criminals were properly punished. Hanging was discussed again, along with flogging and work gangs for antisocial offenders. Drug use and prostitution must be made properly illegal once more, and ordinary Christian families should no longer be penalised for existing. Loose women should carry their children to term and look after them, and the work-shy must pay their way. The effete metropolitan snobs who opposed these sensible measures should shut up and let the real country be what it was. Judges who upheld the wrong law at the wrong time were dubbed ENEMIES OF THE PEOPLE , and while to the eyes of some so-very-generous commentators the rich and exotic DNA of those of us not entirely Anglo-Saxon might thicken the British ethnic soup just as the Raj had spiced up the national kitchen, most of the time it was clear that people who weren’t from here should go back where they came from—even or especially if they were the devious sort of foreigner who manages to be born in a British hospital and raised like a cuckoo in this green and pleasant land.