Passing through Heathrow this morning I was pleased and alarmed by the sight of the now standardised Union Flag British Airways liveries. Pleased because they seem to have eradicated all those poncey po-mo all-the-flags-of-the-world-but-our-own tailfins - you know, that awful conglomeration of tartans and daft squiggles that adorned the tailfins of the national airline carrier's craft through the late eighties and early nineties. I mean, what's the point? If you exclude Brazil and South Africa, we have by far the nicest flag in the world and one, moreover, that is eminently adaptable to a veritable cornucopia of graphic demands. The flag has been put to a whole host of highly effective uses: guitars, mini Coopers, fridges, Jeri Halliwell - these are just some of the things that have been effortlessly customised by the old red white and blue.
But in typically self-effacing Brit style, we allowed our own virtue to be eclipsed - through pandering to the meally mouthed platitudes of woolly minded liberals - by the second rate "can't offend anyone" political correctness of flag facism. Anything, it seemed - swastika's, hammers and sickles, Yugoslav death squad skull and cross bones, even, God help us, Chelsea FC badges (there was no limit to the sick lengths these bastards were prepared to go to) - was preferable to using our glorious Union Flag.
And then came the alarm: I realised that I sounded exactly like Margaret Cunting Thatcher.
Say what you like about her, but.........[Bob exits, screaming]
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