Feck the Union Jack

Feck the Union Jack


Fuck the Union Jack

I’m not British in the same way that you are not identified by the country that borders you. Ah, but I’m actually in an enclave of the world called the British Isles. To the latter I do agree but that’s because it, the Isles nomenclature, has existed longer than British, the definition as being of the Empire and all things essentially English, has.

I get it that people need to prove their worth and where dick measuring or the female equivalent is concerned, I don’t give a fuck!

However, if it gets to being stroppy mid pint in a dark dingy place, let’s at least get some facts straight.

I’m Irish, never to be confused with English (obviously!), British (same again), anglo-saxon (same again plus fuck you you pretentious ignorant cunt for assuming that if you grandiose-ise it I’ll be humbled by you pseudo-academic prowess).

In fact, if you can stick the Queen next to it, I’m not there!

Oh, but I can hear you say. Over-reacting, cute, somehow misonformed… about that which I probably know better than you ( being that if I ever contradicted your knowledge of your world you’d lynch me), and yet I’m supposed to tolerate your opinion. And I do. Cos I’m misguided, I believe that by ignoring centuries of shame, I’m becoming stronger. I really think that I can improve, progress, evolve. And that’s okay…until I have to listen to the same ole bullshit. The BS that devolves me, degrades me, somehow supplants me. The BS that diminishes me. The BS that makes being a victim a dehumanising  aspect of being. The BS that leads me here. And yet, I am stronger than the flippant expulsions of an inebriated soul. Until I’m not.



© The Hairy Teacher, March, 2018

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