I’ve been out of blogging range for a while because I spend the May day bank holiday in deepest darkest St Albans. A fairly sizeable chunk of said bank holiday was spent in the sunny beer garden of an old mans pub watching Morris Dancers clonk each other with wood and do crazy Wickerman-esque rituals with two handed swords (however they stopped short of burning anyone). Sometimes you come across something like this in your nations collective unconciousness and you realize how weird a place England actually is.
It always puzzles me that the right wing never really celebrate this kind of thing. When was the last time you saw the average BNP candidate strapping bells to his legs and twirling handkerchiefs around his head like a whirling dervish in order to celebrate his national identity? Or try convincing your average Daily Mail reader to give Wotan worship a go (It’s a proper British religion – None of that imported Judeo-Christian nonsense for us!). I have a funny feeling it’s not going to work. It’s a shame really, but for some people being English is a matter of scowling rather a lot and complaining. Hmm