'I can't believe you ask that,' he said, standing up. He was getting angry.
'Well, you're not answering the question,' I said.
He pointed at me, looking around the pub for support. 'How can you ask that? Just look at you...'
I wasn't sure what that meant but it sounded like it might get personal. And personal usually led to physical.
He was sitting at the next table. We had started talking. We talked about the news. Then he started talking about how They would overwhelm us, about how We were an island, about how Our culture was in danger...
'I just want to know what you think it means to be English,' I repeated.
'Well, what does it mean to be French?' he said in a loud voice.
I looked at him, confused. Images of Sophie Marceau swirled in my mind. Damn his rapier sharp polemic. 'What...? What has that to do with anything?'
'I can't believe you are asking that,' he said. 'Look at you...' He shook his head, gathered his things and stormed off. People watched him go.
I sat there, had another beer, got drunk. As an Englishman, I thought it was the least I could do.
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