An Englishman's home is his castle.

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I don’t care what the council says. I will install a drawbridge. Because this is England, and in England, a man’s home is his castle. Even if said castle is a semi-detached in Byker with a wheelie bin that’s been violated by foxes!

The principle is sacred. It’s enshrined in the Magna Carta, the Domesday Book, and probably a sarky stick it note on the fridge. It means I can defend my territory with a garden gnome army, a CCTV system that rivals Heathrow, and a sign that says “Trespassers will be mildly inconvenienced.”

I’ve got battlements made of decking, a panic room disguised as a conservatory, and a cat that’s trained to hiss at anyone wearing Crocs. My neighbour tried to borrow my hose once. I responded with a trebuchet made from leftover IKEA parts and righteous indignation.

Inside, it’s a fortress of solitude and questionable interior design. The living room is guarded by scatter cushions. The hallway smells faintly of wax polish and Febreze. And the guest toilet? Booby-trapped with a motion sensor that plays Rule Britannia.

I don’t want to be antisocial. I just want to live in peace, surrounded by my collection of novelty mugs and the illusion of sovereignty. But if you so much as park outside my house, I will invoke ancient rights and summon the spirit of Clarkson.

Because this is Britain. And in Britain, a man’s home is his castle. Until the broadband goes down. Then it’s a medieval hellscape and I’m burning effigies of the router!


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