There is not one drop of English blood in my body. I know this because, like many others, I succumbed to the DNA testing fad. I spat into a test tube and forked out 79 quid only to be told what I already knew: I’m a Mick. 

Ninety-three per cent of my DNA is from the west of Ireland. There’s a smattering from Scotland and an even smaller splodge from Wales, conjuring up the delightful image of one of my peasant ancestors bumping uglies with a lost Welshman 800-odd years ago. But Englishness? Not a speck. Cupboard’s bare, as I believe you English folk like to say. 

I am not a ‘blood and soil’ person. A man is more than his DNA. And yet, it’s not insignificant, is it?

I am not a ‘blood and soil’ person. A man is more than his DNA. And yet, it’s not insignificant, is it?

Does it matter? My instinct is to say no. I am not a ‘blood and soil’ person. A man is more than his DNA. And yet, it’s not insignificant, is it? I may have been born in England but every one of my ancestors was from somewhere else. I’ve spent my entire life ticking the ‘White Irish’ ethnicity box on official forms. It would be mad, not to mention rude, if I were now to turn to someone called Dave Smith and say: ‘I’m as English as you, pal.’

Am I English? This rather navel-gazing stickler whacked me again........

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