Happy “St. George Wasn’t Even English” Day!

It’s that most wonderful time of the year. April 23rd: St. George’s Day. A time to commemorate England’s patron saint and celebrate what England and the English have given the world (apart from constant apologies). Extraordinary and lasting contributions across science, technology, culture, sport, language and governance, with the nation itself often acting as a catalyst for modernisation and global connectivity. 

Except, of course, nobody will be discussing any of that. 

There is a double standard at the heart of modern Britain and much of the world. One so familiar that it often passes without comment. Expressions of Scottish, Welsh, or Irish identities are routinely celebrated as rich, authentic, and even heroic. Yet expressions of English identity are treated with suspicion, discomfort, or outright disdain. The same political and cultural elites who champion diversity and the preservation of national traditions everywhere else recoil when the English attempt to do the same.

This imbalance becomes even more striking when set against Britain’s own historical understanding of itself. For centuries, ‘British’ and ‘English’ were largely interchangeable terms. England formed the demographic, political, and cultural heart of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Its institutions, language and traditions formed the backbone of what came to be understood as ‘British’ identity. To be British, in everyday usage, often meant to participate in a largely English cultural framework; one that, crucially, was not experienced as exclusionary by most of its citizens but as a shared national story.

This arrangement held until the late twentieth century. It was only with the political project of devolution in the United Kingdom that a more sharply defined sense of non-English national identity was institutionally reinforced. Scotland and Wales were given their own political forums, their own platforms for cultural expression, and their own distinct voices within the Union. These changes did not create Scottish or Welsh identity, of course, but they amplified and legitimised them in new ways.

England did not get any of this and was left in constitutional limbo. It had no equivalent assembly and no dedicated political space in which its identity could be articulated on its own terms. Instead, English identity was expected to remain subsumed within the broader, increasingly strained category of ‘Britishness.’ The result was a gradual uncoupling of the two concepts. As Scottish, Welsh, and Northern Irish identities became more explicitly defined and politically expressed (Northern Ireland as part of the 1998 Good Friday Agreement), English identity began, almost by default, to emerge as something separate.

But this has never been greeted with anything like the same encouragement. The more England has tentatively sought to define itself as distinct from Britain, the more its identity has been subjected to scrutiny and suspicion. What was once the unremarked norm has become, in the eyes of many elites, a potential problem.

Consider how comfortably Scottish identity is expressed in public life. The Saltire flies proudly. Political leaders speak openly of Scotland’s distinct character, history, and separate destiny. Cultural markers—dress, language, music—are celebrated without hesitation, usually defined relative to England. The same is true, in different ways, for Wales and Ireland. Irish identity in particular enjoys a kind of romantic aura, even among the British middle classes, who would never dream of applying similar sentimentality to England. This is despite the long and often murderous history of Irish republicanism, a movement that included decades of terrorism on the British mainland. Yet today, Irish nationalism is framed as a story of struggle, resilience and cultural pride.

Now compare this with England. The raising of the St. George’s Cross is still, in some circles, enough to provoke unease. Public expressions of English pride are scrutinised for hidden motives. Is it inclusive? Is it coded? Is it, heaven forfend, ‘problematic’? The assumption is that English identity, unlike that of its Celtic counterparts, carries with it a risk. It must be handled carefully or diluted, lest it provoke the unwashed peasantry to take to the streets. 

This instinctive suspicion reveals more about the elites than it does the English people. It reflects a deeply ingrained narrative in which England is cast primarily as the dominant partner in the United Kingdom, a historic oppressor whose identity must be softened, even suppressed, in the interests of harmony. There is, of course, some historical truth in England’s leading role within Britain and its empire. But the leap from historical complexity to present-day cultural self-denial is neither logical nor fair.

This asymmetry becomes especially visible each year on St. George’s Day. Rather than being treated as a straightforward celebration of national identity, it is usually accompanied by contemptuous commentary from the chattering classes. We are reminded, with weary inevitability, that St. George wasn’t English himself and that he is also the patron saint of a number of other territories. The implication is clear. English identity itself is somehow artificial, constructed or undeserving of the same emotional investment afforded to others.

It is an incoherent argument. National symbols are rarely literal in their origins. Despite St. Patrick not being Irish, the vibrancy of Irish celebration remains undimmed. National identity is built on a shared narrative and enduring traditions, not merely bloodlines. To single out England for this kind of nitpicking deconstruction is not intellectual rigour; it is cultural snobbery.

That snobbery is the defining feature of elite attitudes toward Englishness. It is not merely disagreement; it is reflexive sneering. English traditions are seen as quaint at best, crude at worst. The imagery of England—flags, football, pubs—is coded as lower-class, unsophisticated, even xenophobic. Meanwhile, the cultural expressions of other nations within the United Kingdom (and the immigrant diasporas) are elevated as authentic and enriching.

The class dimension cannot be ignored. Much of what is dismissed as ‘English nationalism’ is, in reality, the everyday cultural expression of ordinary people. It is precisely this association that makes it so uncomfortable for the elites, who are far more at ease celebrating identities which feel foreign or politically convenient. Supporting Scottish or Irish identity carries almost no personal risk. Embracing English identity, however, involves associating oneself with unfashionable sentiments or, even, unfashionable blue-collar folk.

The irony is that this does nothing whatsoever to nurture unity within Britain. On the contrary, it breeds resentment and confusion. Devolution was intended, in part, to stabilise the Union by recognising its internal diversity. Instead, it has contributed to a situation in which one part of that Union—England—finds its identity both newly distinct and persistently delegitimised.

The old fusion of British and English identity is being untied. In this new landscape, it is not illegitimate that Englishness should seek clearer expression. What is bleak is the hostility that greets it when it does. At some point, the question must be asked—why is English identity the exception? Why is it the one form of national expression that must constantly justify itself? 

Until those questions are answered honestly, the imbalance will persist. A confident nation should never be afraid of its own identity. Nor should it require permission to express it. The English, like everyone else, are entitled to a sense of belonging that is neither mocked nor mistrusted—and recognising that is not an act of extremism.