In anxious times, it’s essential to have a national culture to unite around. Almost everyone agrees with that, but – and this is the perilous part – we cannot always agree on what that national culture should be. It’s almost 13 years since the opening ceremony of the London Olympics, when it was summarised as the NHS, the Spice Girls, London taxis and, thanks to the inclusion of Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Victorian infrastructure. Without a consensus we will sink into culture wars, in which the world mirrors social media, and people shout over each other like children and call each other Nazis for quite minor social infractions, leaving us with no words for actual Nazis, should they arrive unexpectedly and catch us on the hop. It’s a relief, then, to see the annual cheese-rolling race, in which people chase a 7lb wheel of Double Gloucester down Cooper’s Hill in Brockworth, Gloucestershire, nominated for inclusion in the UK’s new Inventory of Living Heritage. Given that the project is part of the Unesco ‘Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage’, my first suggestion for the preservation of British culture is: don’t use gobbledegook like this. I like to think the Unesco initiative exists not to keep bureaucrats in wine, but to add to the merriment of nations. Look at those mad Brits chasing a cheese! But there’s pride in gunning after an 80mph cheese down a hill. It’s wacky, and we have been doing it for two centuries. Life was dull before electricity. Nominations are invited for several categories: oral traditions and performing arts; social practices and practices relating to nature and the universe; craftsmanship; sports and games; food. What shall we have? I have browsed the Unesco website for inspiration. France cherishes the skills of Parisian zinc roofers. Belarus clings to its traditional art of paper-cutting. Belgium is attached to funfair culture. Italy is for truffle-hunting and opera. Germany wants organ music and something about ‘organising shared interests in co-operatives’ – no, me neither. My own ideas, however, are downbeat and passive-aggressive, because I’m British, and we don’t like to be seen to try too hard. This is also why we dress so badly. Many of my suggestions are just grumbling, but we are secretly a thinking nation, so we must have organised grumbling – which is exemplified in the Great British Queue. Queuing has declined in recent years. Yet it is essential for British communication, because when someone pushes in, you can roll your eyes at people who are queuing correctly and thus form a consensus to defend. This is useful for preserving other niceties, such as democracy and fairness – both vital attributes for those lining up at a supermarket checkout or bus stop. Another inductee to our national hall of heritage fame is the pub and complaining that pubs aren’t as good as they were when you were young, attractive and had hope. Also: allowing no other adjective than ‘marvellous’ to describe the late and thoroughly marvellous Elizabeth II. Then there’s the tradition of preferring dogs to people; obsessing about dogs, projecting on to dogs and – if you are a certain sort of person – dressing your dog in fancy dress, for which your dog will silently despise you. My husband thinks that when dogs bark they are swearing at you. Almost as cherished as swearing is tutting. Sorry, but when Shakespeare is the national poet, we’ve proved ourselves as a literary nation, so can afford doses of brevity. Another national corker is remaining completely silent when people have apocalyptic end-of-marriage fights in front of your eyes; or perhaps saying, ‘Looks like rain, eh?’ and staring up at a cloudless sky. Also: getting very angry about relatively unimportant things – the felling of the tree in the Sycamore Gap or the destruction of the Crooked House pub – but ignoring more important things such as wage stagnation, crumbling infrastructure and the disappearance of affordable housing. You must, when visiting one sorry-looking Winter ‘Blunderland’ or another, become apoplectic when they transpire to be nothing like the frozen wastes of Lapland. The use of dried pasta for crafts. My husband is from a remote Wiltshire village and he didn’t realise you could actually eat pasta until he went to university. Our embrace of cosy crime is something to behold, too, particularly those books or shows featuring an alcoholic, almost Oxford-educated detective (he didn’t graduate due to the class system) with attachment issues. Because our heroes must never be happy. This is where British hate goes: imagining the bloody murder of our neighbours. Also pretending that we want the national football team to win the World Cup when actually we have more pleasantly complex feelings when we lose. And: feeling slightly angry that all the houses on Grand Designs now look exactly the same. You must, of course, be polite to people you hate and abuse your friends (this is called banter and should be recognised as a twee British pastime). The only traditions I regard as national embarrassments are Morris dancing and bagpipe playing, but we should submit them to Unesco anyway, because if we prize nothing else, it should be our ability to have a hearty laugh at ourselves.