Wandering around the South Hams countryside, my eyes were assaulted by the Union Jack someone had thoughtfully suspended on a 20-foot flag-pole in their front garden, polluting the otherwise beautiful environment of old cottages, ocean views, green meadows and towering cliffs.
I get it. You’re British, this is Britain, it’s your castle and you want everyone to know it. But you’re proud of something you had absolutely nothing to do with. Father ejaculated his British semen into Mother’s British uterus, and nine months later you squeezed your way out of her British vagina in a British hospital. Well done, you!
The trouble is, my patriotic neighbour, there is no such thing as British ethnicity – this is one of the most mongrel of nations. There is also no such thing as a British identity.
Everyone’s different! For instance, many of my countrymen will take time out of their days to line the streets and wave flags at a passing royal convoy, whereas I am about as likely to pay homage to the Queen as I am to run towards an armed policeman on the London Underground whilst wearing a false beard and a heavy coat, yelling ‘Allah Akbar’.
What is it you’re so chuffed about anyway? The national fondness for drunken violence? Our unelected legislative instutions? The imbred, horse-faced parasites that comprise the royal family? The teen pregnancy rate? Adult illiteracy and the prisons it helps to fill? So many wonderful idiosyncrasies to choose from.
Nations are artificial constructs built by force. I think you confuse nationality with culture, but fail to recognise there is no country on earth which is not home to more than one culture. Your culture may well embrace symbols of false identity, and you’re welcome to it, but don’t impose it on me and everyone else in a two mile radius.
Instead, let’s see your view-ruining, simple-minded jingoism for what it is – a facile symbol bellowing “No darkies here, thank you very much.”