SEARCHING for one's ancestors has become something of a national obsession these days. It seems that everybody knows somebody who has discovered, courtesy of a county records office, that they are related to a foot soldier or earl who came over with William the Conqueror.

I would imagine there is quite a number of people of British descent who can lay claim to having stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the opportunist Norman king.

Names such as Giffard, Goddard, Gower and my own moniker - from Philippe Petit - can all claim direct links with those boatloads of illegal immigrants who waded ashore in late September, 1066.

It's strange, but there isn't a correspondingly high number of people who wish to be associated with the late Harold Godwineson's huscarls. Maybe it's because the defeated rapidly became personae non grata and, in any event, it's probably far better to side with the winning team. It's difficult to tell.

Nevertheless, to have travelled so far back in time as have Margaret and Eric Crossley, is a testament to perseverance and diligence. Mrs Crossley, of Harvington, near Evesham, traced her Gower clan back to the 11th Century and one can only marvel at such devotion to the task.

I have a passing fascination in genealogy but must admit that my attention can only be held if an interesting character or story emerges. My Irish navvy great-grandfather's dalliance with a Stratford-Upon-Avon housemaid that produced my grandmother faded in significance as soon as I discovered that the morals of the Victorian working class were invariably at odds with the myth.

However, the fact remains that more and more people are becoming obsessed with the past. It is not hard to see why. For it is possibly to do with widespread concern over the British identity. Perhaps the following is one reason why this is so.

Thousands of words have been committed to newsprint since the now-notorious Runnymede Trust report was published two weeks ago. As you will recall, this report was the work of a group of academics and journalists in which the word "British" was condemned as being inherently racist.

Just in case this is all news to you, just onder for a second two on this remarkable pronouncement by the great and the good of New Labour Britain. Somehow - so this tortuous logic goes - the generic term for the inhabitants of these islands is wrong because it emanates purely from a white perspective, thus there is an implied exclusion of non-white people.

Dear-oh-dear. We should really laugh at these buffoons. But there is, unfortunately, a real danger lurking in all reports that are submitted for Government perusal. For they all-too-often have a habit of creeping into official policy and before you can say "quango" have become enshrined by law.

There have been two major issues underlying this recent diktat, allied yet separate. The first was the McPherson Report into the disgusting racist killing of Stephen Lawrence which, tragically, went far beyond its remit, thus providing valuable assistance for those with political/career ambitions.

The other great debate has centred around asylum seekers. This whole area has been the subject of frenzied manipulation by Left and Right.

Caught in the middle are ordinary, decent people who only question the ability of a tiny country to absorb -- indefinitely - the population equivalent of a medium-sized town every 12 months.

True, there have been tensions. Yet the British are famed for their hospitality and fairness. Just look at our history - these islands have accepted Angles, Jutes, Norsemen, Celts, Phoenicians, Romans, Normans, Huguenots, Jews, Irish, West Indians, Pakistanis -- to name just a few of the racial groupings that now live quite happily under the Union Flag.

It should not be forgotten that the make-up of these islands has always been a moveable feast. For in addition to these invasions, elements of the newcomers' culture has inevitably rubbed off into the mainstream.

French love poetry metamorphosed into the pop song, blues and jazz from the GIs produced a delinquent son called rock 'n' roll and curry has become the national dish... these are just three examples of absorption by consensus.

However, all this came about by a natural selection. Choice. When I bought rhythm and blues records by the bucketload in the late 1960s and early 70s, it was not because some lofty individual ordered me to. As it happens, the discovery of a sound rooted in slavery would ultimately lead me to form a deep affection for English, Irish, and Scottish folk musics.

When I wrote a Phillpott File last year centred around such reflections, I provoked a surprising response from some quarters who regarded my thoughts as heinous.

Had I committed an offence, the instruments of the State would have certainly intervened. They didn't.

I mention this again as I wonder if the waves of paranoia are flooding Britain today.

Has it reached epidemic levels, where the Thought Police are waiting and listening at every street corner to collect evidence to be used against the intellectually impure? I fear it might.

Burn the witch? Like the Spanish Inquisition, I worry that they seize on any evidence that can be used against anyone deemed to be a heretic. Free speech is only acceptable if it expounds the approved or fashionable view.

All this points to a worrying future. Our doctrinaire New Establishment stubbornly refuses to accept that, while the inhabitants of the British Isles have assimilated much over the last 3,000 years, it has always been by evolutionary processes.

Now, we are force-fed dogma in daily doses by rulers who appear more east-European by the minute. Yet harmony can only ever be achieved by choice, never coercion. There is a vital distinction.

Let no one deny that we are basically a tolerant, noble nation, whose history is steeped with glory and sacrifice. Yes, we may have conquered with the sword, but our legacy to the world balances the excess of Empire.

But there's a problem here. And that is the inhabitants of the New Animal Farm, where all pigs are equal but some are more equal than others.

And tragically, there is the very real danger that their squeaks and grunts might travel from sty to Whitehall, and will, one day, meet with the approval of Farmers Straw and Blair.

I sense we live on borrowed time. Which is perhaps why genealogists across this land now delve into the past for enjoyment, curiosity, and, perhaps a little reassurance, too. Their past is not a foreign country.

SEARCHING for one's ancestors has become something of a national obsession these days. It seems that everybody knows somebody who has discovered, courtesy of a county records office, that they are related to a foot soldier or earl who came over with William the Conqueror.

I would imagine there is quite a number of people of British descent who can lay claim to having stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the opportunist Norman king.

Names such as Giffard, Goddard, Gower and my own moniker - from Philippe Petit - can all claim direct links with those boatloads of illegal immigrants who waded ashore in late September, 1066.

It's strange, but there isn't a correspondingly high number of people who wish to be associated with the late Harold Godwineson's huscarls. Maybe it's because the defeated rapidly became personae non grata and, in any event, it's probably far better to side with the winning team. It's difficult to tell.

Nevertheless, to have travelled so far back in time as have Margaret and Eric Crossley, is a testament to perseverance and diligence. Mrs Crossley, of Harvington, near Evesham, traced her Gower clan back to the 11th Century and one can only marvel at such devotion to the task.

I have a passing fascination in genealogy but must admit that my attention can only be held if an interesting character or story emerges. My Irish navvy great-grandfather's dalliance with a Stratford-Upon-Avon housemaid that produced my grandmother faded in significance as soon as I discovered that the morals of the Victorian working class were invariably at odds with the myth.

However, the fact remains that more and more people are becoming obsessed with the past. It is not hard to see why. For it is possibly to do with widespread concern over the British identity. Perhaps the following is one reason why this is so.

Thousands of words have been committed to newsprint since the now-notorious Runnymede Trust report was published two weeks ago. As you will recall, this report was the work of a group of academics and journalists in which the word "British" was condemned as being inherently racist.

Just in case this is all news to you, just onder for a second two on this remarkable pronouncement by the great and the good of New Labour Britain. Somehow - so this tortuous logic goes - the generic term for the inhabitants of these islands is wrong because it emanates purely from a white perspective, thus there is an implied exclusion of non-white people.

Dear-oh-dear. We should really laugh at these buffoons. But there is, unfortunately, a real danger lurking in all reports that are submitted for Government perusal. For they all-too-often have a habit of creeping into official policy and before you can say "quango" have become enshrined by law.

There have been two major issues underlying this recent diktat, allied yet separate. The first was the McPherson Report into the disgusting racist killing of Stephen Lawrence which, tragically, went far beyond its remit, thus providing valuable assistance for those with political/career ambitions.

The other great debate has centred around asylum seekers. This whole area has been the subject of frenzied manipulation by Left and Right.

Caught in the middle are ordinary, decent people who only question the ability of a tiny country to absorb -- indefinitely - the population equivalent of a medium-sized town every 12 months.

True, there have been tensions. Yet the British are famed for their hospitality and fairness. Just look at our history - these islands have accepted Angles, Jutes, Norsemen, Celts, Phoenicians, Romans, Normans, Huguenots, Jews, Irish, West Indians, Pakistanis -- to name just a few of the racial groupings that now live quite happily under the Union Flag.

It should not be forgotten that the make-up of these islands has always been a moveable feast. For in addition to these invasions, elements of the newcomers' culture has inevitably rubbed off into the mainstream.

French love poetry metamorphosed into the pop song, blues and jazz from the GIs produced a delinquent son called rock 'n' roll and curry has become the national dish... these are just three examples of absorption by consensus.

However, all this came about by a natural selection. Choice. When I bought rhythm and blues records by the bucketload in the late 1960s and early 70s, it was not because some lofty individual ordered me to. As it happens, the discovery of a sound rooted in slavery would ultimately lead me to form a deep affection for English, Irish, and Scottish folk musics.

When I wrote a Phillpott File last year centred around such reflections, I provoked a surprising response from some quarters who regarded my thoughts as heinous.

Had I committed an offence, the instruments of the State would have certainly intervened. They didn't.

I mention this again as I wonder if the waves of paranoia are flooding Britain today.

Has it reached epidemic levels, where the Thought Police are waiting and listening at every street corner to collect evidence to be used against the intellectually impure? I fear it might.

Burn the witch? Like the Spanish Inquisition, I worry that they seize on any evidence that can be used against anyone deemed to be a heretic. Free speech is only acceptable if it expounds the approved or fashionable view.

All this points to a worrying future. Our doctrinaire New Establishment stubbornly refuses to accept that, while the inhabitants of the British Isles have assimilated much over the last 3,000 years, it has always been by evolutionary processes.

Now, we are force-fed dogma in daily doses by rulers who appear more east-European by the minute. Yet harmony can only ever be achieved by choice, never coercion. There is a vital distinction.

Let no one deny that we are basically a tolerant, noble nation, whose history is steeped with glory and sacrifice. Yes, we may have conquered with the sword, but our legacy to the world balances the excess of Empire.

But there's a problem here. And that is the inhabitants of the New Animal Farm, where all pigs are equal but some are more equal than others.

And tragically, there is the very real danger that their squeaks and grunts might travel from sty to Whitehall, and will, one day, meet with the approval of Farmers Straw and Blair.

I sense we live on borrowed time. Which is perhaps why genealogists across this land now delve into the past for enjoyment, curiosity, and, perhaps a little reassurance, too. Their past is not a foreign country.