Silly Sausage Britain — and Why It Matters

Sofie Jenkinson wrote a piece for the Guardian yesterday that made me actually put my coffee down, read it twice, and then sit thinking for a minute. It's called "Count Binface represents the Silly Sausage Britain I know and love" and it is, hand on heart, one of the best things I've read all year.

The thesis is simple and I'm frankly amazed nobody put it this well before. Nigel Farage's byelection in Clacton — where he's standing against Count Binface — has, as Jenkinson puts it, "inadvertently pitted two versions of Britain against one another." On one side: the cynical, divided, jaded Britain. On the other: the lovers of nonsense, ready to bind us back together with the unifying force of laughter.

"Count Binface symbolises what I like to call Silly Sausage Britain. The Britain that has a laugh and doesn't take itself too seriously, but is underpinned by self-deprecation, our kindness toward each other and fairness."

She lists the canon. The Liz Truss lettuce. Boaty McBoatface. Mr Blobby. Louis Theroux rapping on Chicken Shop Date. Alison Hammond's laugh. The Vimto statue behind Piccadilly station. "Can he do it on a cold, rainy night in Stoke?" The movement to nationalise Greggs. A tinnie on the train. Rating meal deals.

It's a beautiful list because it's true. Every single one of those things is real, and every single one of them makes me smile. And that's the point. We find our common ground through not taking ourselves seriously.

The patriotism of taking the piss

Jenkinson draws a crucial distinction that I've been trying to articulate for years. There are (at least) three kinds of British patriotism:

• Twee Paddington patriotism — the sentimental, heritage version. Nice, but not really how we live.
• Reform's top-down "Rule, Britannia!" patriotism — the aggressive, prescriptive version. This one tells you what to be proud of and punishes you for deviating.
• Silly Sausage patriotism — taking the piss out of yourself and your mates, and rolling up your sleeves to help someone carry a pram up the stairs.

That third one. That's the one I recognise. That's the Cornwall I grew up in — where a farmer will call you a daft sod while fixing your fence for free. Where the pub quiz answer is always wrong but nobody cares because the banter is worth the admission. Where being patriotic isn't about Britain being perfect. It's about loving a place because you see yourself in it, and making fun of it because it's yours.

I grew up in a village where the biggest controversy was whether the church fête should have a bouncy castle. I now spend my days writing COBOL and thinking about evolution simulators. I am, in many ways, a product of Silly Sausage Britain.

Satire as a weapon

"Satire has long been a weapon in the fight against dark political forces. Our humour is a touchstone of our shared culture; it is why so many of us feel a burst of British pride when we see Count Binface on the news."

I think about this a lot. Count Binface's policies — nationalising Adele, restoring the 99 Flake to 99p, reintroducing Ceefax — are obviously nonsense. But they're purposeful nonsense. They're reminding us that politics doesn't have to be grim. That we can laugh. That the people who want us to be angry and afraid and divided are trying to take something from us, and the best way to resist is to refuse to be miserable.

There's a COBOL parallel here, because of course there is. COBOL was designed in 1959 to be readable by managers. It uses English words. It's deliberately not obscure. It was a choice: make the code accessible, make it understandable, make it something people can share. The opposite of gatekeeping. The opposite of "you wouldn't get it."

Silly Sausage Britain is the same spirit. It says: you're allowed in. You don't have to be serious to be taken seriously. You can laugh and still be political. You can wear a bin on your head and still have better policy ideas than the people who've been at it for thirty years.

What we'd lose

Jenkinson ends with a line that hit me right in the chest:

"We should not cede our silliness, our kindness or our joy to those who want to drive division."

That's it. That's the whole thing. The people trying to divide us — the Farages, the Trumps, the culture-war merchants — they want you to be angry. They need you to be angry. An angry person doesn't laugh. An angry person doesn't connect. An angry person votes for the person who says it's someone else's fault.

Silliness is the antidote. Not naivety — silliness. The deliberate, defiant choice to find joy in a world that's trying very hard to make you miserable.

So here's my small contribution: I'm going to be more deliberately silly. More Ceefax. More 99 Flakes at 99p. More tinnies on trains. More rating meal deals. More "can he do it on a cold, rainy night in Stoke?"

Because Count Binface isn't a joke. He's a reminder. And as long as Silly Sausage Britain exists, there's hope.