As seen on X

‘Another,’ I say with a belch, letting fork and knife fall to my plate. ‘Pork belly this time, I think.’ The waiter scuttles off to the kitchen of our local Greene King pub. This will be my fourth roast dinner of the afternoon. Beef, chicken and gammon have come and gone – each with heaps of crispy roast potatoes, lashings of gravy, golden brown yorkies, steamed cabbage and carrots piled high. I wash them down with Aenglish ale.

I’ll have to put in a double session at the gym to work it off. Romanian deadlifts and kettlebell swings. But it’s worth it. Because there is an active intelligence operation to subvert the British Sunday roast. Two ‘conservative’ publications, the Spectator and the Telegraph, have each recently (in the past two years) published articles bashing the nation’s favourite meal. It is quite literally impossible not to enjoy melt-in-your-mouth beef and cauliflower cheese, so we must conclude from this latest development that the centre-right press has abandoned all pretence of opposing immigration and has instead rowed in behind the Great Replacement.

I relay this to Dad, who is sitting opposite me in an almost comatose state. Spurning my offer of a roast dinner, he has instead elected to spend the afternoon sinking pints; the empty glasses now form a sort of cairn around him. He bobs his head up and down in silent assent. But, as ever, he doesn’t seem entirely convinced. Typical Torygraph boomer. ‘Wake up and smell the coffee, Dad,’ I say gravely, as the latest heaped plate is set before me, leading him to stir.

‘Would ya mind eating that up as quick as you can, lad – the footie’s on in a half hour.’

I snort. ‘Panem et circenses, as the Romans used to say, while the barbarians were at the gate. That’s you, Dad.’

My paterfamilias sighs. ‘Look, I’ve been thinking. D’ya think maybe it’s time you got a place of your own? You’ve got the money now, with this job of yours in IT… You could move in with Fran.’

‘Dad,’ I say, crunching on a piece of Anglo pork crackling. ‘Dad, I’m literally trying to build generational wealth here, and now you’re telling me to move out and fend for myself. Saturn devouring his own children. Atomised liberal individualism at its worst.’

‘Here we go,’ says Dad.

I continue. ‘We Anglos have a history of individualism, true – but this is a collectivist age. The English ethnicity has got to tribe up like the Italians. Generational living, dynasty building. You must be the capo, with me as your consigliere. And a roast every Sunday.’

‘Not really in the mood for one,’ Dad says, apparently unmoved. ‘Might pop out later for a curry…’ He looks up, face going white. But it’s too late.

‘THE GROOMING GANGS!’ I half-shout, half-scream.

‘Calm down!’ He glances round the pub apologetically, before whispering: ‘I know you like your politics, but…’

‘BUT WHAT?’

By the time I’m done, Dad has accepted that his own inaction led directly to the atrocities in Rotherham

‘Well. Well, you know. Chicken tikka masala. It’s our national dish.’

I properly lose it then, and terrible is my wrath. My prophecies of death and downfall. Eat your curry, Dad – but some day curry will be the only legal food and you will be partly responsible. I fulminate. I harangue. I beat my breast. I analogise events to the Siege of Vienna of 1683, with myself cast as the Polish ‘Winged Hussars’ who carried the day for Christendom. Then I slam him with the philosophers. Evola, Nietzsche and a bit of Carl Schmitt as a garnish. My hundreds of hours spent half-digesting YouTube essays by alternative historians prove too much for my father, who is mute in the face of my barrage.

By the time I’m done, my plate is empty again, and Dad has been thoroughly cowed, having accepted that his own inaction led directly to the atrocities in Rotherham. He’s reduced to begging me to leave the pub with him. ‘Another,’ I say to the waiter.

If only Rupert Lowe could see me now. If only Rupert Lowe were my father.