Ah, England, that green and pleasant land where the national pastime seems to be apologizing for existing. One might think, in this enlightened age of self-flagellation—pardon the pun—that the simple act of hoisting a flag would be as innocuous as brewing a cup of tea. But no, dear reader, we find ourselves in 2025, amid a "surge in public frustration," as the euphemism goes, and suddenly the St. George's Cross is waving like a red rag to a council bureaucrat. Enter the "raising the colours" campaign, a grassroots movement that's less a revolution and more a polite reminder that some people still remember what country they're in. It's as if the English have finally decided to stop being embarrassed about their own backyard and start decorating it with the national bunting. How terribly uncouth.
Picture the scene: in the heart of Birmingham and Tower Hamlets, ordinary folk—builders, workers, the sort who actually get their hands dirty rather than pontificating on Twitter—have taken to draping Union Jacks and St. George's flags over lampposts and buildings. A GoFundMe springs up, because nothing says "spontaneous patriotism" like crowdfunding your dissent. This, we're told, is a response to the great British tradition of uncontrolled immigration, which has, according to Migration Watch UK, swollen the population by a casual seven million over the past two decades. Seven million! That's like inviting the entire population of Switzerland for an indefinite stay and then wondering why the housing queue resembles a Soviet bread line. Exacerbating tensions in housing and social services? Perish the thought; it's merely the price of progress, or so the elites assure us from their gated enclaves.
But oh, the horror when the local councils swing into action. The Labour-run outfit in Birmingham and the pro-Gaza Aspire Party in Tower Hamlets—bless their inclusive souls—deem these flags a "safety hazard," distracting motorists as if the average driver isn't already dodging potholes the size of craters. Meanwhile, Palestinian flags flutter undisturbed, and Pakistani independence gets a taxpayer-funded fanfare. It's a two-tier system, you see: one for the natives, who mustn't get uppity, and another for everyone else, who are encouraged to celebrate their heritage with all the gusto of a World Cup final. In Tower Hamlets, the 2025 decision to yank down those offending St. George's banners was executed with the efficiency of a health-and-safety inspector at a funfair. One imagines the council workers, hi-vis vests gleaming, muttering about "distractions" while ignoring the irony that the real distraction is a government that can't control its borders.
Into this farce steps the ghost of Sir Roger Scruton, that lamented philosopher who, back in his 2010 essay "The Need for Nations," dared to suggest that national symbols might actually be good for something beyond propping up a garden fence. Scruton, with his characteristic understatement, observed that the English are "reluctant to display their identity—reluctant to sing their national anthem, to wave their flag, or to affirm their nationhood." Reluctant? That's putting it mildly; we're talking about a people who treat their flag like an embarrassing relative at a wedding, best kept in the attic lest it offend the in-laws. Post-imperial guilt, mass immigration, and a multiculturalism that bends over backwards for minorities while giving the majority a stiff upper lip— these, Scruton argued, have conspired to make flag-waving taboo. And yet, he posited, such symbols aren't mere xenophobic relics; they're the glue that binds a shared identity, a collective memory, a way of life. Without them, we're left with "the steady erosion of something precious—a shared first-person plural," or in plainer terms, a nation that forgets what "we" means.
Scruton, ever the optimist in a world gone mad, warned that this reluctance invites cultural fragmentation and rootlessness. People wandering about, unsure of who they are or where they belong, like tourists in their own country. And lo, a 2019 study in the Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies obligingly confirmed his fears: multiculturalism's laser focus on minority rights has, quelle surprise, weakened cohesion among the majority. Who could have predicted that prioritizing everyone else's culture might leave the host feeling a tad overlooked? It's as if we've engineered a society where the English are the awkward guests at their own party, mumbling apologies while others raid the buffet. Recent events only amplify this delicious absurdity. Beyond the flag-pulling in Tower Hamlets, there's the charming tale of a school in Rugby turning away a girl for daring to wear a Union Jack dress—presumably because nothing screams "threat" like a child in patriotic attire. Echoing Scruton's warnings of "oikophobia," that peculiar fear of one's own home, these incidents paint a picture of a Britain where displaying national pride is treated like a faux pas at a diplomatic dinner. And let's not forget the 2023 YouGov poll, which revealed that a solid 60% of Britons feel their concerns about immigration are being blithely ignored. Sixty percent! That's not a fringe moan; that's a national chorus, drowned out by the cacophony of progressive platitudes.
One can't help but chuckle at the irony. Here we are, in a land that once ruled the waves, now reduced to guerrilla flag-hoisting as a form of protest. The "raising the colours" campaign isn't just about borders or billions squandered on housing migrants while locals queue for crumbs; it's a deeper cri de coeur against the erosion of that elusive "we." Scruton saw it coming: without symbols to rally around, nations splinter into tribes, each clutching their own banner while the common ground crumbles. The elites, of course, decry it as exclusionary, but as Scruton noted, a flag can be a unifying emblem, connecting the individual to a greater inheritance. It's where the solitary soul finds its place in the collective tapestry—or, if you prefer, where the bloke down the pub remembers he's part of something bigger than his pint.
Yet, in our satirical age, this movement feels almost quaint, like a Monty Python sketch where the Ministry of Silly Flags decrees what can and cannot fly. The participants—those viral videos of builders scaling lampposts—aren't firebrands; they're just fed up, articulating a frustration that's been simmering since the days when "multiculturalism" meant everyone gets along, not everyone but you. And as the councils scurry to remove the offending cloths, one wonders if they're not inadvertently fuelling the fire. After all, nothing unites like a common enemy, especially when that enemy is a clipboard-wielding official tut-tutting about "safety" while the real hazards—broken borders, social strain—go unaddressed.
In the end, perhaps Scruton was right: nations need their symbols, lest they dissolve into a rootless soup. The "raising the colours" campaign, with its makeshift defiance, is a sardonic nod to that truth. It's England stirring from its slumber, not with a roar but with a wry shrug and a flagpole. Will it spread? Will the elites finally notice that ignoring the majority is a recipe for backlash? Or will we continue this charade, where patriotism is pathologized and the flag treated like a guilty secret? One thing's certain: in this topsy-turvy isle, the act of waving a banner has become the ultimate act of rebellion. How very British.