Luke Kennard
Wolf Nationalist
I
After studying the census the wolf discovers that he is exactly one
quarter Welsh (maternal grandmother), one quarter English
(maternal grandfather), one quarter Scottish (paternal grand-
mother) and one quarter Northern Irish (paternal grandfather).
‘This raises all sorts of issues,’ he says, solemnly. ‘I’m not sure
who I should be angriest with. Therefore I have decided to dedi-
cate a day of the week to each. Mondays I am Welsh, Tuesdays
Northern Irish, Wednesdays Scottish and Thursdays English. Fri-
day is my day off having a nationality.’
‘What about the weekends?’ I ask.
‘On the weekends I am American,’ says the wolf. ‘Because most
of my favourite stuff is American: cheeseburgers, the music of
the Byrds, Herman Melville and so on.’
‘You can’t just choose—’
‘You English think you can tell everyone what to do,’ snaps the
Wolf. ‘Well it won’t do. The time of your hegemony is finally at
an end. Except on Thursdays.’
II
It is Monday. The wolf strides up and down wearing a red Chinese
Dragon suit, swinging a cane and singing, ‘As long as we physi-
cally assault the English.’
‘It’s beat the English,’ I say. ‘As in beat them at games.’
‘That’s not how I interpret it,’ says the wolf. ‘And it’s about time
my people had more of a say in how things are interpreted. My
ancestors have been oppressed by yours for centuries.’
‘If you want to get teleological,’ I snap, ‘I think you’ll find my
ancestors did no more than taylor or skivvy or make gravestones
for the ancestors who oppressed your ancestors.’
‘Balls,’ says the wolf. ‘Your ancestors should have found out what
was going on and seized power in a humourless coup.’
‘Bloodless coup,’ I say.
‘Blood is one of the humours,’ says the wolf.
III
‘Fortunately my mother was Opus Dei and my father a
Methodist,’ says the wolf. ‘Thus, on Tuesdays, I am Catholic in the
mornings and Protestant in the afternoons.’
‘And at night?’
‘I become Scottish at midnight,’ says the wolf, ‘so that’s simple:
I return to my Presbytarian roots. But between eight pm and
eleven fifty-nine I’m an atheist.’
‘It all feels a bit tokenistic,’ I say.
‘Oh and I suppose you can see inside my head and judge the
weight of my convictions, can you?’ spits the wolf. ‘How like an
Englishman. Let me assure you: whatever it is I’m supposed to
be believing at the time, I believe it fully and without question. If
I doubt there is a God, I pray for faith; and when I’m an atheist,
should I doubt that there isn’t a God, I hold my head in my hands
and wait for the faith to pass.’
At lunchtime I find him drinking a cocktail of Bushmills and
Jamesons, thumbing through a clothing catalogue.
‘This national dress business is much more complicated than I
first thought,’ he says. ‘For instance, bagpipes, kilts and short-
bread were originally Irish. Yet now they are seen as
quintessentially Scottish. Do I pander to stereotype or historical
accuracy?’
‘Depends who you’re trying to impress,’ I say.
‘A very English thing to say,’ mutters the wolf.
IV
The wolf releases a box of midges into the house. ‘It makes me
feel at home,’ he announces, scratching his arms, feverishly.
Two hours later I find him slumped in the corner with a mangled
Edition of Crossways and a bottle of cachaca.
‘Drinking before noon again,’ I say, putting the empty bottle of
cachaca by the fridge with the others. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,
but this nationalism business just seems to be an excuse to get
drunk all the time.’
‘Piss of, limey,’ the wolf slurs.
‘And cachaca?’
'The Scottish enjoy a special relationship with Latin America,’
says he wolf. ‘If you check the archives you’ll find Things Fall
Apart was best received by Scottish literary critics.’
‘Chinua Achebe is Nigerian,’ I say.
‘You should know,’ says the wolf. ‘You colonised them.’
Wolf Nationalist
I
After studying the census the wolf discovers that he is exactly one
quarter Welsh (maternal grandmother), one quarter English
(maternal grandfather), one quarter Scottish (paternal grand-
mother) and one quarter Northern Irish (paternal grandfather).
‘This raises all sorts of issues,’ he says, solemnly. ‘I’m not sure
who I should be angriest with. Therefore I have decided to dedi-
cate a day of the week to each. Mondays I am Welsh, Tuesdays
Northern Irish, Wednesdays Scottish and Thursdays English. Fri-
day is my day off having a nationality.’
‘What about the weekends?’ I ask.
‘On the weekends I am American,’ says the wolf. ‘Because most
of my favourite stuff is American: cheeseburgers, the music of
the Byrds, Herman Melville and so on.’
‘You can’t just choose—’
‘You English think you can tell everyone what to do,’ snaps the
Wolf. ‘Well it won’t do. The time of your hegemony is finally at
an end. Except on Thursdays.’
II
It is Monday. The wolf strides up and down wearing a red Chinese
Dragon suit, swinging a cane and singing, ‘As long as we physi-
cally assault the English.’
‘It’s beat the English,’ I say. ‘As in beat them at games.’
‘That’s not how I interpret it,’ says the wolf. ‘And it’s about time
my people had more of a say in how things are interpreted. My
ancestors have been oppressed by yours for centuries.’
‘If you want to get teleological,’ I snap, ‘I think you’ll find my
ancestors did no more than taylor or skivvy or make gravestones
for the ancestors who oppressed your ancestors.’
‘Balls,’ says the wolf. ‘Your ancestors should have found out what
was going on and seized power in a humourless coup.’
‘Bloodless coup,’ I say.
‘Blood is one of the humours,’ says the wolf.
III
‘Fortunately my mother was Opus Dei and my father a
Methodist,’ says the wolf. ‘Thus, on Tuesdays, I am Catholic in the
mornings and Protestant in the afternoons.’
‘And at night?’
‘I become Scottish at midnight,’ says the wolf, ‘so that’s simple:
I return to my Presbytarian roots. But between eight pm and
eleven fifty-nine I’m an atheist.’
‘It all feels a bit tokenistic,’ I say.
‘Oh and I suppose you can see inside my head and judge the
weight of my convictions, can you?’ spits the wolf. ‘How like an
Englishman. Let me assure you: whatever it is I’m supposed to
be believing at the time, I believe it fully and without question. If
I doubt there is a God, I pray for faith; and when I’m an atheist,
should I doubt that there isn’t a God, I hold my head in my hands
and wait for the faith to pass.’
At lunchtime I find him drinking a cocktail of Bushmills and
Jamesons, thumbing through a clothing catalogue.
‘This national dress business is much more complicated than I
first thought,’ he says. ‘For instance, bagpipes, kilts and short-
bread were originally Irish. Yet now they are seen as
quintessentially Scottish. Do I pander to stereotype or historical
accuracy?’
‘Depends who you’re trying to impress,’ I say.
‘A very English thing to say,’ mutters the wolf.
IV
The wolf releases a box of midges into the house. ‘It makes me
feel at home,’ he announces, scratching his arms, feverishly.
Two hours later I find him slumped in the corner with a mangled
Edition of Crossways and a bottle of cachaca.
‘Drinking before noon again,’ I say, putting the empty bottle of
cachaca by the fridge with the others. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,
but this nationalism business just seems to be an excuse to get
drunk all the time.’
‘Piss of, limey,’ the wolf slurs.
‘And cachaca?’
'The Scottish enjoy a special relationship with Latin America,’
says he wolf. ‘If you check the archives you’ll find Things Fall
Apart was best received by Scottish literary critics.’
‘Chinua Achebe is Nigerian,’ I say.
‘You should know,’ says the wolf. ‘You colonised them.’
