OCCUPIED COUNTRY

I Vow to Thee my Country...........

So: here we go, here we go, here we go - an' all that. Flags everywhere you look. On cars, on newly acquired flagpoles from B and Q or wherever and hanging from upstairs windows the length and breadth of this verdant home of ours. Although not on the "more exclusive" estates.

Why? Seriously. Why? I mean I know all about the World Cup blah, blah, blah - in fact I'm off to Germany next week to try and get a ticket to see a game - any game that Macdonalds, Budweiser and whoever haven't already snapped up all the tickets for. I guess I'll eventually end up staring at a big screen somewhere near the Dutch border. But, at least I can say I tried.

However, apart from my inabilty to acquire a ticket, I'm still intrigued by this new found (well, yeah, it happened four years ago - but not quite the same) prediliction for "flying the flag".

There's a book - or, at the very least, a thesis here. Honest.

For many years I would pontificate on the state of the indigenous musics and folklore of states, countries, counties, archipeligos and islands.

"Wherever you look" I said, "countries that have suffered under the heel of the oppressor - from Ireland to South Africa - have embraced their own "folk" music, their own "literature", their own "art" as a protest, as a declaration of their right to exist in the face of occupation by a foreign power. As a right to protest and, hopefully, undermine."

In fact, on many occasions indigenous folk music (or even dance - just ask Michael Flatley) - was banned outright.

And that, I feel, is why the World Cup is, once again, stirring, not only the Chav, but also the Fairport Convention afficianado, the Kate Rusby lover and the Steeleye Span/Jethro tull completist.

The "English" culture is a culture under attack and, these days, anything that can be utilised in the fight for the reclamation of the Flag, will win massive favour - among those, like me, who feel that "my flag" has been usurped.

Good? Bad? Hmmmmm! I don't yet know. As a hairy guy in the late 60s, constantly finding myself alone but surrounded by many "shaven-headed" opponents of my "beliefs" - ie "skinheads" draped, tattoed and be-booted with "my flag", I still have difficulties 30 years later. They even ran me over once. With a fuckin' Ford Anglia.

Thanks. You wankers.