Sir George the Dragon Slayer

A picturesque bank of cloud hung over the Cleveland Hills this St. George’s Day morning. A reminder that even the sky can be more subtle than patriotic flag-wavers.

St. George’s Day stirs about as much feeling in me as Carlin Sunday, Plough Monday or Hocktide – curious relics of a myth-soaked past, clung to by those desperate to feel part of something, however fictitious.

It was not always this way. I once marched in several St. George’s Day parades as a Boy Scout Cub. I even remember a book – “St. George and the Dragon”. Possibly a Ladybird one. Back when dragons and knights seemed more real than the grown men dressing up in polyester chainmail today.

Of course, any affection I once held was extinguished the moment the far right claimed St. George as one of their own. The England flag, now draped over everything from beer guts to hate rallies, is no longer a symbol of country but of delusion. One cannot even say “English” aloud without the lingering stench of nationalism following behind.

Naturally, St. George never set foot in England. He was born somewhere in what is now Turkey, died somewhere that is now Israel, and his story was stitched into English folklore centuries later, presumably for lack of anyone more relevant. By the 14th century, he had become the nation’s chosen symbol, possibly because nothing says English identity like a foreign mercenary with a mythological beast problem.

His image, and that flag, are now shorthand for the kind of Englishness that believes it still has an empire, or should. An empire that lives on mainly through tax havens in sun-drenched remnants of colonial theft, ensuring the rich never quite have to pay their way.

Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland are still chained to this delusion, denied any serious path to independence by a state that insists its right to rule is self-evident. The flag even covers that most cherished national institution, the royal family – living proof that eugenics is not just a chapter in a history book but a taxpayer-funded spectacle.

And when “English” is shouted loudest, it is usually by those who want to define it so narrowly that most of the population would not qualify. It is less identity than exclusion, less pride than paranoia.

But let me conclude with an attempt—however half-hearted—to cast Sir George “The Dragon Slayer” in a positive light. One might describe him as an intensely driven, results-obsessed freelance crusader with a respectable history of eliminating oversized flying lizards. He showed a certain flair for swinging sharp objects, bursting onto scenes with theatrical bravado, and building a recognisable image through bloodshed and public relations. He excelled at rallying panic-stricken peasants and attracting well-funded benefactors. His relentless commitment to smiting evil and rescuing damsels in distress should not go entirely unnoticed.