When the debate got going on ‘Englishness’,
I’d pity the only English kid – poor Johnny
in his spotless Reeboks and blue Fred Perry.
He had a voice from history: Dunno-miss,
Yes-miss, No-miss – all treacly-cockney,
rag-and-bone – and while the others claimed Poland,
Ghana, Bulgaria, and shook off England
like the wrong team’s shirt, John brewed his tea
exclusively on Holloway Road. So when Aasif
mourned the George Cross banner swinging freely
like a warning from his neighbour’s roof —
the subway tunnel sprayed with ‘Muslim Scum’ —
poor John would sit there quietly, looking guilty
for all the awful things he hadn’t done.