WE'RE sorry. How many more times do we have to say it, chaps? We're very, very sorry. About our rampant imperialism. About the suppression of your people. About draconian taxes, and about putting up a fight when you had every right to ask for your independence.

But that was more than 300 years ago, fellas. You've more than had your revenge since winning the American Revolutionary War.

We don't ask for much. We'll continue the so-called "special relationship" between our two nations.

And whatever the cynics say, it is an equal partnership: you take responsibility for making the decisions, and we take responsibility for accepting them without question.

Dear, funny old President Bush, we'll provide a home for your lovely Star Wars technology at Fylingdales.

What else is a National Park for, if not for siting US military hardware? And, hey, if a rogue nation chooses to take a nuclear pop at North Yorkshire as a result, no matter. What are friends for?

Meanwhile, you go on listening to our phone calls and intercepting our emails at Menwith Hill. But be prepared to blush: all we'll be saying is God bless America for being the world's self-appointed peacekeeper.

Take all that as read. We know you do. One favour, just one favour, is what we ask in return. Leave our High Streets alone.

Not so long ago, York used to offer the resident and visitor a unique retailing experience. Isaac Walton's tailors, the Leak & Thorpe department store, Terry's caf, Stubbs' hardware and so on. That was before Messrs Woolworth, Disney, Starbuck, Levi and their mate Wal Mart came along.

We're glad to see you, of course, and spend billions in your stores largely out of politeness. But enough's enough.

Our 18th century imperialism has given way to your 21st century version. The food we eat, the music we listen to, the films we watch, the TV we slump in front of, the jargon we speak and the politics we endure have largely been imported from your side of the pond.

In reply, we have shipped out Bridget Jones (played by a Texan), Anne Robinson and Salman Rushdie. A pretty terrifying triumvirate to be sure, but hardly a proportionate response.

Those of us seeking a few moments blessed relief from Uncle Sam tend to withdraw to a good old British boozer and sup our pints of bitter. (Not Budweiser. It is not 'True'. It is pasteurised gnat's water). If we are in a particularly enjoyable slump, we might crack open a pack of pork scratchings.

But even this small oasis of England is to be denied regulars of the Frog Hall. This sound-as-a-pound local is to be torn down to make way for a drive-through McDonald's.

This is too grotesque to contemplate. One day "pint please, luv"; the next "McWhirl with McNuggets and McFilet O'Fish". It all tastes like Mc, too.

The motto of, say, Milton Keynes, may be "You can never have too many McDonald's". But this is York. A branch in Blake Street (on the site of another former pub) and one each at Clifton Moor and McArthurGlen is plenty, thank you.

And we don't do drive-through in the city. President Bush can try to poison the planet with his gas-guzzling free-for-all from his own backyard if he likes. But this is York, the walking and cycling city (that's right, isn't it, city council?)

We don't want to get confrontational. It's not in our nature. But if you don't withdraw your McDonald's plans immediately, we shall have no option but to retaliate.

Michael Barrymore and Alan Titchmarsh are on stand by at Leeds-Bradford airport armed with Cornish pasties and deep-fried Mars Bars.

Don't say we didn't warn you.

Oh, and have a nice day.