I recently returned from holiday. The segue from hot dry days oiled with rosé and factor 30 to a best-of-British grey rainy day was harsh. But as I took myself out for provisions, slapping my sandals through puddles under a leaden sky, my mood lifted. The high street was lined with our beautiful Union flags. Bright red, white and blue cut through the drizzle like fireworks. A reminder that this is home.
Not everyone feels the same. X, that great sewer of national neurosis, is on fire with polarised responses to a few flags on lampposts. Some of us see hope, pride and courage. Others see racism, fascism and the end of civilisation. And so I would like to coin a new word for our times: Vexillophobia.
She has driven from London to Margate and have seen the Racist Flags on every bridge.
“As a white person I feel quite scared by it”
“We all need to talk to that racist uncle or that family member you stopped talking to over Brexit” pic.twitter.com/EcQTC8sKqj
— WeGotitBack (@NotFarLeftAtAll) August 31, 2025
