BARD RECORDS

Tag: RebelliousBard

  • NON PM

    NON PM

    Two opposition leaders.
    One historic agreement. Zero governments.

    Non-PM takes aim at the political theatre of Nigel Farage and Jordan Bardella presenting a future UK–France agreement while neither currently leads the country he proposes to negotiate for. Flags, handshakes and an impressively large piece of paper make it look like diplomacy has already happened. RebelliousBard merely notices the small complication: first they have to win the elections.

    ► BUY
    EVIDENCE

    Birmingham hall, a metre-high scroll
    Two men in suits who don’t run a thing
    One’s the PM of Clacton-on-Sea
    The other’s the PM of someday, maybe
    They call it a treaty, they call it entente
    It’s a photocopied handshake with a fancy font

    Stand for the anthem of things that might be
    If the French vote right and we wait till ’29

    Non-PM signs with a non-PM
    World peace in a conference hall
    Stop the boats forever, lads
    Subject to winning, subject to law
    Subject to voters agreeing at all
    Subject to both of them winning their side
    And nobody laughing too hard in the stalls

    Lecornu’s still in Matignon, government intact
    Macron still decides what France actually signs
    Bardella brought tomorrow dressed up as today
    Farage brought Downing Street without winning the keys
    They signed it on stage like Versailles in June
    Then went for a photo and a warm pale ale

    Promise the Channel will finally behave
    If two opposition parties both get their way

    Non-PM signs with a non-PM
    Historic, historic, historic again
    Returns and costs shared, boats turned around
    Once they’ve got keys and a working plan
    Till then it’s a banner and a standing ovation
    And tomorrow the dinghies still leave as they can

    It’s not diplomacy, it’s cosplay with flags
    A memorandum of understanding the gag
    They’ll visit in October, they’ll toast and they’ll pose
    While the real PMs keep doing the prose
    You can frame it and hang it, you can call it a pact
    It’s a government agreement minus the governments

    Non-PM signs with a non-PM
    The new entente cordiale of pretend
    Stop the boats forever — asterisk, fine print
    If the stars align and the voters consent
    We clapped in the hall like it already worked
    Then went home and watched the same boats as before

    Giant paper, tiny power
    See you in ’27
    Or ’29
    Whichever comes never

  • Expires At Nine.

    Expires At Nine.

    Today’s firm commitment.
    Expires at nine.

    Expires at Nine takes aim at a government increasingly fond of strategies, consultations, guidance and reassuring announcements while borders, defence and national security remain permanently under review. For RebelliousBard, another plan is no substitute for capability, preparation or action. When every failure produces a new document and every promise comes with a shelf life, perhaps the only thing Britain can reliably defend is the paperwork.

    ► BUY
    EVIDENCE

    The border is controlled.
    So we’re told.
    The military is ready.
    In theory.
    Britain is secure.
    Presumably.
    Please see the enclosed leaflet for further details.

    A country has a border
    Or it’s colouring on a map
    Wave them through, lose track of who
    Then call the questions crap
    Hotels full, another boat
    Another statement from the top
    Everything is under control
    They just can’t seem to make it stop

    No country without borders
    That’s apparently extreme
    Much easier to manage
    If you redefine what borders mean

    Watch the lips
    Wait for the line
    Today’s firm commitment
    Expires at nine

    No border
    No defence
    No country
    Makes perfect sense

    Stop the training
    Print advice
    Put it in colour
    That’ll be nice

    No border
    No defence
    Nothing left to hold
    But another bloody pamphlet
    Telling Britain to be bold

    Cut the ranks and call it modern
    Cancel training, save the cash
    Every year another promise
    Every promise built to last

    Till the budget
    Till the briefing
    Till another target slips
    Then the men who won’t defend us
    Stand and lecture us on risk

    You can’t rehearse a war
    With a strategy and a screen
    You can’t defend a country
    If defence becomes a theme

    But don’t worry, troops
    There’ll probably be a module
    Teaching soldiering by June

    Watch the lips
    Here comes the line
    National security
    Has never looked so fine
    Possibly.

    No border
    No defence
    No country
    Makes perfect sense

    Stop the training
    Print advice
    Put it in colour
    That’ll be nice

    No border
    No defence
    Nothing left to hold
    But another bloody pamphlet
    Telling Britain to be bold

    Problem with integration?
    There’s a leaflet for the men
    Problem with the public?
    Build a little game for them
    Problem with the military?
    There’ll be guidance by July
    Problem with the government?

    Watch their lips
    and wonder why

    Every failure gets a slogan
    Every scandal gets a phrase
    Every promise has a shelf life
    Measured now in working days
    Nothing ever quite collapses
    It gets renamed and reviewed

    Then relaunched on Monday morning
    New font.
    Same fucking news.

    They don’t solve it.
    They announce it.

    They don’t defend it.
    They redefine it.

    They don’t control it.
    They produce guidance.

    And when the guidance fails?
    Consultation.
    Probably.

    No border
    But we’re sovereign

    No training
    But prepared

    No answers
    But a minister
    Is deeply, deeply concerned

    No backbone
    But a podium

    No action
    But a plan

    No fucking clue
    What happens next

    But there’s a leaflet
    if you can.

    No border
    No defence
    No country
    Makes perfect sense

    Cancel practice
    Print advice
    Put it in colour
    That’ll be nice

    No border
    No defence
    Still they tell us all is well
    While the people running Britain
    Couldn’t organise themselves

    Watch the lips
    Wait for the lie
    Today’s firm commitment
    Expires at nine

    Britain is secure.
    So we’re told.

    In the event of national emergency
    please remain calm
    and read the enclosed leaflet.
    Carefully.

  • Terms And Conditions Apply

    Terms And Conditions Apply

    Affordable. British. Priority.
    Three very simple words. Apparently.

    Terms and Conditions Apply takes aim at the language surrounding Labour and Reform’s competing housing promises. “Affordable” can still mean beyond the reach of the people supposedly being helped, while promises of priority for “British” people raise another deceptively simple question: who exactly do politicians mean? RebelliousBard isn’t interested in the headline. He wants to read the small print.

    ► BUY
    EVIDENCE

    Good news.
    They’re building affordable homes.
    Affordable to whom?
    Terms and conditions apply.

    Another housing promise, another number on the screen
    Thousands of affordable homes, whatever that might mean
    Take the market price that’s already out of sight
    Knock a little off the top and suddenly it’s right
    Can’t afford the deposit, can’t afford the rent
    But the minister says affordability’s money well spent
    Same land, same shortage, same ladder pulled away
    Just stick “affordable” on the brochure and everything’s okay

    Don’t ask what the word means
    Don’t spoil the surprise
    It’s affordable on paper
    Just don’t look at the price

    Terms and conditions apply
    Affordable homes that you still can’t buy
    British first, that’s a lovely little line
    Till you read the definition in the smaller type
    Labour sells the promise, Reform changes the sign
    Same housing circus with a different design
    Affordable, British, priority too
    Lovely little words
    What do they mean to you?

    Reform joins the party, fifty thousand more
    “British-born” gets priority at the council door
    Closer to the question, still dancing round the name
    Another careful adjective inside the housing game
    British when it suits them, British when they count
    British when they tell you who gets what amount
    Passport, place of birth, ancestry or home?
    Funny how the meaning shifts depending on the tone

    One word for the headline
    Another underneath
    By the time you’ve read the footnotes
    They’ve already sold the dream

    Terms and conditions apply
    Affordable homes that you still can’t buy
    British first, that’s a lovely little line
    Till you read the definition in the smaller type
    Labour sells the promise, Reform changes the sign
    Same housing circus with a different design
    Affordable, British, priority too
    Lovely little words
    What do they mean to you?

    A passport tells me who the state accepts
    It doesn’t tell me who my ancestors were
    And affordable doesn’t mean I can afford it
    Just that somebody wrote a definition for the word
    So spare me the slogans
    The launches
    The plans
    Tell me who gets the houses
    And who owns the land

    Build another thousand
    Build another ten
    Keep the prices climbing
    Then subsidise them again
    Protect the bloody bubble
    Call the sticking plaster bold
    Keep the young renting forever
    While the assets turn to gold

    Terms and conditions apply
    Affordable homes that you still can’t buy
    British first, but define it this time
    Who exactly gets to stand at the front of the line?
    Red tie, turquoise tie, promise redesigned
    Same magic adjectives doing overtime
    Affordable, British, priority too
    Tell us what they mean
    Before you tell us they’re for you

    Affordable.
    British.
    First.
    Three very simple words.
    Apparently.

  • The Leaflet

    The Leaflet

    If basic decency needs explaining,
    perhaps the problem started earlier.

    The Leaflet takes aim at government guidance issued to asylum seekers covering British laws and expectations around equality, sexual consent and acceptable behaviour. For RebelliousBard, the leaflet exposes an uncomfortable contradiction: cultural differences long dismissed as prejudice when raised by the public suddenly become real enough to require official explanation when written down by the state.

    ► BUY
    WORDS

    A pamphlet for grown men…
    Because the government ran out of ideas.

    A PM nobody voted for prints a little guide,
    How not to attack women, how not to cross the line.
    Consent in cartoon form for men who just arrived,
    While the girls on the street learn how to stay alive.
    They opened the door, then printed the rules,
    Teaching basic decency like nobody knew.

    If you need it in writing, the country is lost,
    We’re teaching the obvious at the public’s cost.

    The leaflet, the leaflet, what a joke of a state,
    Import the chaos, then educate too late.
    Don’t rape, don’t groom, don’t treat women like prey,
    We put it in a booklet and looked the other way.
    The leaflet, the leaflet, Burnham’s proud new plan,
    If they need the pamphlet, they shouldn’t have come.

    We lecture our own kids till they can’t say a word,
    Then hand grown men a leaflet like they’ve never heard.
    You called us bigots for saying values collide,
    Now Whitehall prints instructions explaining our side.
    If everybody shares them, why explain at the gate?
    Funny how the truth arrives officially late.

    If you need it in writing, the country is lost,
    We’re teaching the obvious at the public’s cost.

    The leaflet, the leaflet, what a joke of a state,
    Import the chaos, then educate too late.
    Don’t rape, don’t groom, don’t treat women like prey,
    We put it in a booklet and looked the other way.
    The leaflet, the leaflet, Burnham’s proud new plan,
    If they need the pamphlet, they shouldn’t have come.

    You don’t fix a crisis with a folded A4,
    You don’t import the problem then explain the law.
    If basic decency needs a government course,
    The policy failed before it left the source.

    The leaflet, the leaflet, what a joke of a state,
    Import the chaos, then educate too late.
    Don’t rape, don’t groom, don’t treat women like prey,
    We put it in a booklet and looked the other way.
    The leaflet, the leaflet, Burnham’s proud new plan,
    If they need the pamphlet… they shouldn’t have come.

    Printed in colour.
    Paid for by us.
    Taught to the ones they let in.

  • What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

    What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

    New Prime Minister.
    Familiar faces. What could possibly go wrong?

    What Could Possibly Go Wrong? captures the political reshuffle that followed Andy Burnham’s arrival in Downing Street in July 2026. Familiar figures, familiar controversies and a new Prime Minister without a general election mandate gave RebelliousBard little sense of a fresh beginning. Instead, the song looks at the government’s new line-up and wonders whether changing the names above the doors really changes very much at all.

    ► BUY
    WORDS

    New government, same old circus…
    What could possibly go wrong?

    A convicted fraudster back in the big chair,
    Phone that wasn’t stolen, still climbing the stairs.
    A woman who underpaid her house tax with a smile,
    Now she’s housing secretary — “Hold on, I’ve not finished yet. Stay a little while.”
    Defence minister with no boots on the ground,
    Prefers the rainbow hotpants to the khaki around.
    And a Prime Minister who got there with twenty thousand votes,
    Zero mandate, just a by-election and a few well-placed notes.

    They call it a fresh start, they call it a clean slate,
    While the country’s still bleeding under the same old weight.

    What could possibly go wrong?
    A fraudster, a tax dodger, a fashion parade in the M.o.D throng.
    A PM with no election, just a coronation song,
    What could possibly go wrong?
    The ship’s already listing, the crew’s a joke,
    What could possibly go wrong… while the country goes broke?

    They put the foxes back in charge of the hen house,
    Same faces, different titles, same old louse.
    Experience optional, integrity on the shelf,
    Just keep smiling for the cameras and blame someone else.
    The mandate’s missing, the trust is long gone,
    But the photo ops keep rolling, the circus goes on.

    What could possibly go wrong?…

    They say it’s change, they say it’s renewal,
    But it’s the same old faces in a brand new costume.
    A government built on thin ice and thin air,
    What could possibly go wrong… while nobody cares?

    What could possibly go wrong?
    A fraudster, a tax dodger, a fashion parade in the M.o.D throng.
    A PM with no election, just a coronation song,
    What could possibly go wrong?
    The ship’s already listing, the crew’s a joke,
    What could possibly go wrong… while the country goes broke?

    What could possibly go wrong…
    Hold on, I’ve not finished yet.
    Stay a little while.

  • Who Killed Ann?

    Who Killed Ann?

    Same investigation.
    Different pictures. Plenty of questions.

    Who Killed Ann? was written amid public confusion surrounding the reporting of the Ann Widdicombe murder investigation. As different images circulated and details appeared to change, questions emerged about whether the public was always looking at the same individual and how the various accounts fitted together. RebelliousBard takes those apparent inconsistencies and does what comes naturally: refuses to stop asking questions simply because an official version has arrived.

    ► BUY
    WORDS

    Ladies and gentlemen… the plot thickens…
    And the face in the dock doesn’t match the pictures.

    Who killed Ann?
    The man in the dock looks nothing like the plan.
    Shaven head in court, longer hair on the tape,
    Drive times that don’t add up, what a state.
    Police said “this is him” with a straight face grin,
    Now he stands there looking like a different man.

    Is it the same man? Is it a double?
    Or just another chapter in the national muddle?

    Who killed Ann?
    Who killed Ann this time?
    The pictures don’t match, the story’s a crime.
    Who killed Ann?
    Who killed Ann today?
    The face in the dock looks a million miles away!

    Two-fifty miles in a handful of hours,
    Stick in his pocket and a trail of powers.
    Non-political one day, terrorist the next,
    Far-right arrests that leave the public perplexed.
    None of them charged, the story goes quiet,
    While we stare at the silence and the latest riot.

    Is it the same man? Is it a double?
    Or just another chapter in the national muddle?

    Who killed Ann?
    Who killed Ann this time?
    The pictures don’t match, the story’s a crime.
    Who killed Ann?
    Who killed Ann today?
    The face in the dock looks a million miles away!

    Columbo would have noticed, Morse would have scowled,
    The Sweeney would’ve kicked the door in and howled.
    But here we are again with the same old farce,
    A face that doesn’t match and a case falling apart.

    Who killed Ann?
    Who killed Ann this time?
    The pictures don’t match, the story’s a crime.
    Who killed Ann?
    Who killed Ann today?
    The face in the dock looks a million miles away!

    Who killed Ann…
    Who killed Ann…
    The face doesn’t match…
    The face doesn’t match…

  • Please Sir, Can I have Some More?

    Please Sir, Can I have Some More?

    Released 10 July 2026

    Please Sir, Can I have Some More?

    Keep paying. Keep clapping.
    And whatever you do, don’t complain.

    Please Sir, Can I Have Some More? is RebelliousBard with the politeness finally wearing thin. Across the album, Britain’s institutions, political class and changing sense of itself are dragged into the argument: who gets listened to, who is expected to accommodate whom, what we’re still allowed to value, and why questioning any of it so often seems to be the greater offence. Angry, sarcastic and deliberately unwilling to find a comfortable middle ground, this is a record about watching the country change, refusing to pretend everything is fine, and believing that what remains is still worth fighting for.

    FOR THE RECORD

    Select any track to read the lyrics and listen to the recording.

    1. I Dont Think You Have Mate
    2. Fellow Veteran
    3. Roots Run Deep
    4. Diverse Country(Side)
    5. The Sacred Cow
    6. Two Years For A Tweet
    7. Tolerance Is a One Way Street
    8. Two Tier Silence
    9. Digital ID (How Quaint!)
    10. Government of Oops (National Embarrassment Tour)
    11. Buh-Bye Keir
    12. Please Sir, Can I Have Some More?
    13. UK Wake Up
    ALBUM NOTES

    Please Sir, Can I Have Some More? is a collection of political frustration, cultural arguments and institutional failures seen through RebelliousBard’s unapologetically personal perspective. Angry, sarcastic and occasionally profane, these songs document a Britain he increasingly struggles to recognise, but also one he believes is still worth defending. Beneath the frustration is a simple refusal to accept decline as inevitable, and a demand that people look at what is happening around them, question what they’re being told and expect better.

    ← RebelliousBard

  • Fellow Veteran

    Fellow Veteran



    REBELLIOUSBARD

    Some titles are earned through experience.
    They shouldn’t become campaign accessories.

    Fellow Veteran is an angry response to the casual use of military service as political currency. Drawing on RebelliousBard’s own years in uniform, the song contrasts the reverence afforded to the word “veteran” in public rhetoric with what it sees as the far less comfortable reality faced by former servicemen once the speeches, photographs and campaign appearances are over.

    Fellow Veteran



    ► RebelliousBard • Fellow Veteran • Please Sir, Can I Have Some More? BUY
    FOR THE RECORD

    Another day… another photo op
    Another “fellow veteran” in the spotlight

    They dilute the word till it don’t mean a thing
    Reserve weekend warrior suddenly one of the lads in the firing line
    Nine years I gave them, three in the Troubles up north
    Never once called myself a veteran going back and forth
    But now every weekend soldier gets the hero treatment
    While the uniform’s honour gets sold for cheap political rent

    They wear the title like a fancy costume pass
    While real service gets dragged through the mud and the grass

    Fellow veteran, my fucking arse
    Cheapening the word like it’s nothing but farce
    We gave real years, real blood, real nights
    While you lot turn service into soundbites
    Fellow veteran? Spare me the lie
    Some of us actually served… and some just learned how to cry

    Meanwhile real veterans sleep rough on the street
    While illegals get hotels with four-star sheets
    The government hunts down old soldiers for sins long ago
    Charging them for war crimes from decades ago
    But the new breed gets parades and a pat on the back
    While the ones who actually bled get thrown on the scrap

    Fellow veteran, my fucking arse

    I did nine years. Three in the Troubles, clear as day
    Never asked for medals or a pat on the back
    But watching this circus makes my stomach turn
    Cheapening the uniform just to chase a few more votes in return

    Fellow veteran, my fucking arse
    Wearing the title like a cheap costume pass
    We gave real years, real blood, real nights
    While you lot turn service into soundbites
    Fellow veteran? Spare me the lie
    Some of us actually served
    And some just learned how to cry

    Fellow veteran
    Fellow veteran
    Some of us actually served

    WHY THIS SONG EXISTS

    Fellow Veteran was written after a Reform UK campaign appearance involving former SAS soldier Ant Middleton and a local plumber who had served as a part-time reservist. When the reservist was presented as a “fellow veteran”, the phrase struck a particularly personal nerve. RebelliousBard had served nine years in the military, including three in Northern Ireland during the Troubles, and had never regarded that service as something to be casually turned into political currency. The incident became the starting point for a song about what the word “veteran” should mean, who gets to wear it, and the uncomfortable contrast between celebrating military service when it suits a campaign and the treatment some former servicemen receive once their usefulness as political imagery has passed.

    Please Sir, Can I Have Some More? RebelliousBard
  • Roots Run Deep

    Roots Run Deep



    REBELLIOUSBARD

    Britain wasn’t a blank page
    waiting for somebody to write on it.

    Roots Run Deep rejects the increasingly familiar description of Britain as little more than a succession of arrivals. Beneath the convenient slogans is an ancient native history, stretching through generations of people, places, names and ancestry that cannot simply be edited out of the national story. The song argues that recognising those roots should require neither apology nor permission, and that a country capable of celebrating every identity except its own has forgotten something fundamental about itself.

    Fellow Veteran



    ► RebelliousBard • Roots Run Deep • Please Sir, Can I Have Some More? BUY
    FOR THE RECORD

    They keep telling us Britain’s just a hotel on the shore
    A blank page for whoever washes up

    Built by migrants, they say with a knowing smile
    Romans, Saxons, waves across every mile
    But the land remembers every bone in the clay
    Ancient names carved in stone that refuse to fade away
    Celtic roots running centuries deep
    Now dismissed like a story we’re no longer allowed to keep

    Talking heads rewrite the tale so clean and neat
    While the foundations crumble beneath our feet

    Roots run deep, but they’re desperate to bury the past
    Celtic Britons were here long before the latest cast
    Not a blank canvas, not just another phase
    This island has memory they’re frantic to erase
    Roots run deep, in the blood, in the stone
    While they celebrate the new and mock our own
    This is home, not a footnote in their grand design
    Stand your ground… while there’s still time

    Cameron called it “great because” with polished ease
    Blair stitched a fabric without the original weave
    London’s mayor says it belongs to everyone now
    Funny how the natives are told to take a bow
    Praise every new arrival, scorn the ancient core
    Then act surprised when the cracks begin to show

    History becomes dangerous when the numbers climb high
    Memory labelled toxic in these modern times

    Roots run deep, no more rewriting the past
    Celtic Britons were here first, and that truth will last
    Not replaced, not ashamed, not a relic to discard
    This land has memory, and it’s weary, weary and scarred
    Roots run deep… hear the whisper in the stone
    Before the Britain we knew is completely overthrown

    Roots run deep… roots run deep
    This is home
    Don’t let it sleep
    History remembers

    WHY THIS SONG EXISTS

    Roots Run Deep was not written in response to one particular news story. It came from the continuing argument in Britain, and increasingly across Europe, over native identity, mass migration and who can claim a meaningful historical connection to the country they call home. RebelliousBard rejects the idea that centuries of migration make Britain a blank canvas with no native people or inheritance worth defending. The song was written because that history matters, and because treating attachment to it as something suspicious, outdated or shameful does not make it disappear.

    Please Sir, Can I Have Some More? RebelliousBard
  • Diverse Country(Side)

    Diverse Country(Side)



    REBELLIOUSBARD

    Integration used to mean joining a country.
    When did it start meaning changing it for you?

    Diverse Country(Side) takes aim at what RebelliousBard sees as a profoundly one-sided version of integration: established customs repeatedly altered, renamed or restricted to accommodate people who arrived with cultures and beliefs of their own. From pubs and dogs to Christmas, schools and the countryside itself, the song’s argument is deliberately uncompromising. If living in Britain requires Britain to become less British in order to accommodate you, perhaps Britain was never the country you wanted to live in.

    Diverse Country(Side)



    ► RebelliousBard • Diverse Country(Side) • Please Sir, Can I Have Some More? BUY
    FOR THE RECORD

    Welcome to the new British countryside
    Where everything changes… but only in one direction

    They’re making the countryside diverse, y’know
    Planting flags from afar, watching the old ways go
    Dogs on leads? Better ban them quick
    Some folks don’t like them, so we all take the hit
    Pubs with pints and proper laughter in the air
    Now suddenly “problematic”, better not go there
    We twist our traditions, bend them till they snap
    While others keep theirs intact, no compromise, no crap

    One-way integration, the game is crystal clear
    We bend over backwards, year after fucking year

    Oh we change for you, sacrifice it all
    In our own fucking land we take the fall
    You arrive and we roll out the red carpet wide
    Pay the price while we smile and swallow our pride
    Islam won’t fit? That’s what they quietly say
    But it’s us who keep folding every single day
    One-way street, this integration game
    The West keeps bowing… what a pathetic shame

    Countryside hikes now scattered with prayer mats laid
    No more bacon sarnies in the summer shade
    Festivals toned down, the wild cheer restrained
    Culture clash? Best make ourselves fade
    Schools teaching tolerance, but only one direction
    Our own history quietly erased from the lesson
    We fund the new mosques, light up foreign nights
    While village churches slowly lose their lights

    Oh we change for you, sacrifice it all

    Burqas in the village pool, halal in the schools
    While our own traditions get treated like fools
    Holidays muted, no more Christmas cheer
    We give up our ways, year after year
    Time to wake up before it’s too late
    Reclaim what’s ours before it seals our fate

    Oh we change for you, sacrifice it all
    In the land our fathers built we take the fall
    You come as guests but we treat you like kings
    While the old country fades on broken wings
    One-way street, this integration game
    The West keeps bowing… what a fucking shame
    Diverse countryside… what the hell have we done?
    The old ways are dying… under the midday sun

    Diverse countryside
    We change for you
    Every single time
    What have we done?

    WHY THIS SONG EXISTS

    Diverse Country(Side) grew from recurring stories and public arguments about diversity reaching into increasingly ordinary parts of British life, including claims that the countryside itself is insufficiently diverse or inclusive. Around that sit the smaller controversies that accumulated into the song: changing familiar terminology in the name of inclusion, objections to dogs, alcohol and other established customs, and the expectation that British traditions should continually adapt around different religious or cultural sensitivities. RebelliousBard’s position is simple: integration should involve adapting to the country you chose to make your home, not demanding that the country continually dismantle its own customs to accommodate you.

    Please Sir, Can I Have Some More? RebelliousBard