A big and important lord has suggested that British schoolchildren should swear an oath of citizenship, perhaps in the hope that they’d put down their machineguns, stop stamping on old ladies and all become beefeaters.

Unfortunately, if such an oath is to be introduced, someone’s going to have to decide on the wording. This means the government will have to set up an “inclusive” committee that represents all of Britain’s “communities”. And can you even begin to imagine what that’d come up with?

“I apologise for my country’s shameful involvement in the slave trade. I vow to be homosexual whenever possible and to burn anyone driving a Range Rover. Long live Al Gore and death to the infidel.”

In these difficult times, it’s tricky to do better. In America, schoolchildren stand to attention every morning and say: “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and burgers for all.”

Sadly, that sort of thing wouldn’t work here because the flag’s seen by Channel 4 News as racist and God’s a hot potato. What’s more, we’d have to substitute “the Queen” for “the republic” and I’m afraid that’s a big nono because, we’re told, she has little resonance if you’re a Lithuanian living in a tent in East Anglia.

This might make you seethe. Perhaps you go all prickly-haired and teary-eyed when they start singing Land of Hope and Glory at the Proms, in which case you might say: “Look. It’s jolly easy to say what defines us as a nation. The Daily Telegraph letters page. Frank Whittle. And all those bronze men with feathery hats in Trafalgar Square.”

Hmm. Fine. But before you force every single child in the land to swear allegiance every morning to Major-General Sir Henry Havelock, you need to be aware that, if your skin is brown, Sir Henry probably killed your great-grandad.

This brings us on to the biggest problem of them all. In America, it doesn’t matter whether you are a topiarist or a hedge-fund manager, a petrol-pump attendant in Arizona or a retired Jewish lady in Miami; everyone is united by the American Way. The country is seen as a place where you can get on, where you will be rewarded for hard work, ambition and drive.

There is no sense of that here. In his first budget, Alistair Darling announced that if you’re too stupid and lazy to get off your fat arse and do any work, you will be given free loft insulation; and that if you are honest, and industrious, you will be financially raped.

There’s more. I listened last week to a debate on the Jeremy Vine show in which callers suggested that the McCanns – whose daughter, remember, is missing – got so much press coverage only because they were middle class. This was such awful, heartless twaddle, I was nearly sick with rage.

It’s not just a class divide either. What common bond can be found between a Pakistani shopkeeper in Bradford and the people you see building Huf houses on Grand Designs? What unites a Filipino chambermaid in Abergavenny with Prince Andrew? Unless something can be found, the oath will remain an unrealised dream.

Perhaps it’s a good idea to view Britain from the outside. How do foreigners see us? Well, as drunken football hooligans mostly, and I don’t think that’d work. Having children swear an allegiance to Millwall every morning is a nonstarter.

A bestselling American book called The Geography of Bliss suggests that British people are unified by a general grumpiness. Eric Weiner, the author, says we don’t just enjoy misery; we get off on it. “For the British, happiness is a transatlantic import. And by transatlantic, they mean American. And by American, they mean silly, infantile drivel. Britain is a great place for grumps and most Brits, I suspect, derive a perverse pleasure from their grumpiness.”

I don’t disagree. But I can’t see us promising every morning in school assembly to remember that while the weather might be nice now, it’ll almost certainly be drizzling and cold tomorrow. Unless of course we all catch cancer and die in the night.

So what one thing cuts through the political correctness and leaves nobody feeling alienated in their own country? Something that unifies us all, something that’s recognisably British and universally seen as harmless, but also wholesome and good? You might imagine the answer is David Attenborough. But, sadly, people die. We need something that will be with us for ever.

The only thing I can think of is HP Sauce. The label features the Palace of Westminster. It contains no meat, which will keep Paul McCartney happy. It can be used to enliven a Melton Mowbray pork pie, and bring a sheen to coins of the realm. And best of all, it absolutely defines the British.

The French have their frogs’ legs. The Japanese have their whales. We have our brown sauce. We are the only people on earth who eat it.

Yes, I know it’s made in Holland these days by an American company, but so what. Finally, I have the oath. “I pledge allegiance to the sauce of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, and to the nation for which it stands, one sauce, in two distinct flavours, with nourishment and joy for all.”

Or we could drop the whole scheme and try to remember we’ve gone for a thousand years without an oath so why the bloody hell do we need one now.

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