I detest cant, so I thought I’d test the flag-shaggers’ favourite claim – that the forests of Union Flags sprouting in towns up and down the country are noble symbols of patriotism. So I slipped into one of their Facebook haunts and posted, all wide-eyed innocence: “Oh, I love all these flags everywhere. It looks like people are really making an effort to make immigrants and refugees feel welcome.”
The response was instant and volcanic. They couldn’t help themselves. Out came the bile – not a single reply agreeing with the idea of welcome, but a torrent admitting the flags were there to intimidate. That alone torpedoes their claim of patriotism. They say it’s about pride in the country, but they reveal it’s really about warning strangers off.
And the irony? Their banners of supposed strength are being undone daily by the humble zip-tie. Wander down any high street now and you’ll see them: limp, wind-whipped scraps, edges frayed, colours bleached. The once-proud statements of “we’re in charge here” reduced to tatty reminders of a DIY job done badly. The whole craze was a moment, not a monument – a flash of noise and bluster, already unravelling into plastic rags.
Because it is peculiarly English. You don’t see the Welsh dragon nailed up in every village to scare refugees. The Scots Saltire flies in a different spirit – tied to independence, not intimidation. Even in Northern Ireland, flags have sectarian weight, but not this theatre of patriotism-as-menace. No, this outbreak of zip-tied tat is English through and through – born of Brexit insecurity, a nostalgia for vanished power, and the need to shout identity at full volume because deep down you no longer feel it.
So when they talk about love of country, remember this: their Union Flag isn’t a proud emblem. It’s a passing fad, lashed to a lamppost, already flapping itself into shreds in the wind. Patriotism doesn’t die with a bang – it dies with a fray, a fade, and a broken zip-tie.
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