By Arnold Jansen op de Haar

‘Doctor, I’m an Anglophile, do you think that’s dangerous?’ Every time I visit my GP I’m tempted to ask this question. But, at this practice, you keep seeing a different doctor. The last one I saw was called Georgios, and I don’t think Georgios would get my question.

So, I’m an Anglophile. Someone with a strong preference for England and all things English. Or, as a London-based, Dutch-speaking friend who is a Lady (holding a British passport, but raised in the Netherlands) recently put it: ‘I was too outrageous for The Hague and too posh for Amsterdam.’ In other words: quite an eccentric. That’s what they love, here in England.

You can also be a Francophile, but they are in decline. The era when people hung a fishing net over the ceiling, lined their eyes with kohl, dressed in a black jumper and opened a bottle of wine to quote Sartre and listen to French chansons is well in the past.

Some countries don’t have a word for it, for someone who loves their country and all that it represents. Take Scotland, but there they suffer from Anglophobia instead: a disgust for everything related to England.

Last week, I voted for the first time here in London. Well, as a UK resident from an EU member state, I’m not allowed to vote in the referendum which will decide whether we Europeans can stay, or in general elections, but I can vote to elect a London Mayor and the London Assembly. And I’m also allowed to vote in European elections. I can even choose whether I want to vote in the Netherlands for a Dutch candidate or here for an English one. Or both, because I don’t think this is being checked.

Being an Anglophile, I had expected that elections would be better organised here than back in the Netherlands. But you didn’t have to provide proof of your identity, or even show your poll card. This created problems in one of the boroughs because they had incorrect lists. But, in fact, here you can simply pretend to be your uncle Harry.

Now, I have to be careful not to be too critical because, even though I’m very much an Anglophile, the English don’t like people who think they really understand their country. Once, I started a conversation with someone about the fact that in some ways Margaret Thatcher has been a blessing for this country, and this put me in fear for my life.

Because I’m an Anglophile, certain things particularly strike me. Especially when I hear or see the Dutch news. Over here, the fact that William’s Kate has been wearing a rather frumpy dress can certainly make the headlines.

When, during a state visit to Bavaria, the Dutch Queen Máxima is seen wearing a ‘swastika coat’ (one of the patterns on the coat resembled a swastika) and it is reported in the German tabloid Bild, the entire Dutch media try to outdo each other in saying that it is just a storm in a teacup, and that, of course, she didn’t mean to cause any offence.

Here in England they would also point out that Máxima’s proficiency in Dutch isn’t improving. Do take note, though: I’ve got nothing against Máxima. Actually, I think she’s much lovelier than Kate. But I use this example to demonstrate that here in England you can be more outspoken. We are all supposed to call Kate Catherine but, of course, no one really does. Maybe it’s because the grip of the British Royal Family is not that tight, or because it’s less likely you tread on any royal toes. Or that the politicians are less in awe.

But what I want to say is this: I’m a true Anglophile. I suspect I’m rather like the English in many respects. That’s why I’m not a Europhile.

I’ve heard artistic friends say that it’s important from a cultural point of view for the UK to stay in the EU. My reply would be: The Beatles and Mary Quant thrived without the EU. England has always been a cultural leader, not a follower. With or without the EU.

The British need to stay in the EU. Not because of the economy, nor for culture, but to provide a counterweight in Europe. And to add a touch of eccentricity. Well, you don’t have to be convinced by my arguments; I’m just an Anglophile European.

© Arnold Jansen op de Haar
© Translation Holland Park Press

Visit Arnold’s home page to find out more about his other publications.

Previous columns:
Mary Magdalene of Notting Hill
No Hugging of Brits!
The God of Rochester
A ‘Bare Buttocks Face’
A Coach Full of Exes
On a Knife Edge
A Very British Secret
End-of-Year Chat
A Cigar in Brussels
Burning a Catholic
Ted or Sylvia?
Unsuitable for Class War
England-bound
The Weather in Arnhem
Accident & Emergency
The Plumber and the Little Prince
A Trojan Horse
Pilloried!
Portobello Hipster
A Celebration Every Day
Diana is Back
Loved by All
Cooking in Peacetime
A Bit of a Genetic Mess
Email a Fairy
A Peeing Neanderthal
Fictional Brits
Bare Burka
Is Van Gaal a Turkey?
An Estate Agent in High Heels
A Boy from Westminster
Adventure in Amsterdam
Amalia & George
Cheering Quietly
Human Waste
D-Day for Poetry
A Dog in London
Van Gaal and Wurst
Baby King George
The Virgin Train from Birmingham
Nuclear Hospitality
Vladimir the Viking
Ski Girl with Moustache
Phoenix
Message From the Bathtub
A Consistent Resolution
Nigella’s Law
Selfie
Cowboy in the Kingdom
An Angry Philanthropist
Oligarch with Red Umbrella
The Lives of Others