St George’s Day

I’m not sure if it’s still acceptable to wish you a happy St. Georges Day, but as acceptability is a social currency in which I seldom trade I’ll stick my neck out and wish you one all the same.

The erosion of a collective national identity has been well documented of late, so I’ll not ramble on about it here. After all, politics is very much like sex: though the world would be a much better place if everyone did more of it, you really shouldn’t talk about it at the dinner table. If it is of any further interest, two of the books I find best deal with the subject are Jeremy Paxman’s ‘The English’ and Billy Bragg’s ‘The Progressive Patriot’. Both are good, but The Red Wedge’s will make you look slightly less xenophobic when reading it on the tube.

In an attempt to lift the stigma from this day of St George, I thought it might be worth pointing out that as well as being the first to address the very serious problem of Dragon infestation, Georgie Boy is also the recognised Patron Saint of Barcelona, Beirut, Germany, Canada, Greece, Portugal, Malta, and Serbia. Ceasing not in his veneration, he is also the sanctified caretaker of Farmers, Butchers, Archers, Equestrians, Boy Scouts and sufferers of syphilis, strangely enough. All of which leads us to the following conclusions:

Firstly: as well being violently inclusive, The Lad George was a very busy bastard.

Subsequently: People got a lot more done in the days before central heating and Wikipedia.

Loosely tying this rather irrelevant ramble back to music, there’s a song by Flashguns called St George, which is available for your aural delights here

That is all.

Flashguns

Let’s not smack ourselves with the Silly Stick and pretend that it’s otherwise: I am a fairly opinionated man. I have many views, ranging from ill informed to vaguely inflammatory, occasionally bordering on the inspired. When I say occasionally, I really mean seldom, but we’re getting away from the point I haven’t even made yet, which is this: of the myriad opinions I harbor, I firmly believe thrashy guitars and catchy choruses are only convincing when played by the young, whilst anything involving more notes than are necessary is usually the reserve of the wrinkled. Every so often I’m proved wrong, and I’m glad of the change believe me, but generally I find it’s a fairly successful theorem.

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