It all fell off, nothing to do with me. I wasn’t even pissed either. The trim turned into an hour long series of ‘you sure?’ dashing twixt lounge and bathroom, on each visit a little more of my beard was shorn, every time I returned to my armchair I wasn’t convinced it was right so in a moment of sheer wilfulness I shaved the fucking lot off leaving only a magnificent pair of furious Georgian sideboards that run under my jaw –all I need now is a winged collar and syphilis.

The worst aspect of this temporary hirsute-holocaust, in addition to looking like a huge Murray Mint, is that I can feel air. It’s like having a piss outdoors when the wind suddenly licks around ones member and it feels inordinately cold because it’s an unfamiliar state of affairs purely because one doesn’t walk about in the great outdoors with ones cock exposed to the elements, not on St. Georges Day anyway (we’ll come back to him). My face has become sensitive like a vast helmet (as in ‘cock end’, not ‘crash’) if someone calls across the road I can feel their breath on my shorn skin, every pore of my face is aroused by the mildest whiff of a waft, perhaps from under a door, or the tiny beating wing of a yellowhammer, yonder, under the gathering storm clouds of complacency, yeah.

The weather yesterday was the first warm day we’ve had in this country since that odd day at the end of the British Superbike season last October. Of course as soon as there is so much as a hint of heat every fat white underclass wanker in Christendom strips down to their fucking pants and takes it on themselves to wander, slowly, through public places. Tooting yesterday looked like a chessboard, burkha vs. blubber.

Doubtless these flabby tosspots are the same types that bedeck their grotty houses with the cross of St. George, or ‘I am a racist’ flags. (Some) people moan on and fucking on about how we should celebrate St George’s day like the Irish do St. Patrick’s and what have you, but it would be impossible to do this without the whole fucking thing being completely overtaken by bullet headed men getting completely inebriated before singing ‘send the buggers back’ and beating the fucking shit out of each other and whomsoever happened to pass by.

Because it’s very hard to separate the St.Georges Cross with right-wing thuggery, for the time being at least, we’ll just have to accept that we’re not mature enough to have national St Georges Day celebrations, yet…

But there is a solution, a way to claim back the St. George flag for all the decent tolerant English citizens, of which I’m one.

Marketing.

St. George was a Greek speaking Turk, he’s also the patron saint Aragon, Canada, Catalonia, China, Ethiopia, Georgia, Greece, Montenegro, Palestine, Portugal, Russia, and Serbia. Lets tell all those flag waving cunts who crawl out their tax-paid for houses to moan in Ladbrokes, MacDonalds, Weatherspoons etc., about immigration, how it’s their English right to indulge in all-day St. George inspired piss-ups, that their patron saint was a wog… Then the rest of us can enjoy a nice day off with moral impunity.

My ex girlfriend who was Japanese thought this was our national anthem, if only.