The Irony of English Nationalists Celebrating St George
Each year on 23 April, a curious spectacle unfolds across England: flags bearing the red cross of St George flutter from pubs, homes, and even council buildings, while nationalist rhetoric bubbles up in a flurry of pride. Yet, amidst all the chest-thumping patriotism, one fact is often conveniently overlooked: St George, England’s so-called patron saint, was not English at all. In fact, he likely never set foot on English soil.
The irony runs deep. St George was a Roman soldier of Greek origin, born in what is now modern-day Turkey or Palestine, depending on which account you trust. He died in the Middle East, likely in what is now Israel, and his famed dragon-slaying exploit is, of course, pure myth, woven centuries after his death as part of mediaeval Christian storytelling. His legend has more in common with pan-European chivalric romance than with any distinctly English tradition.
St George’s adoption as England’s patron saint was largely symbolic and quite late in historical terms. It was during the reign of Edward III in the 14th century, amid the Hundred Years’ War with France, that George was elevated to this lofty status, a move intended to give England a martial figurehead to rally behind. Before that, England’s spiritual protector had been St Edmund, a native-born king and martyr.
Yet here we are, centuries later, with English nationalists clinging fervently to a symbol who embodies almost everything they claim to despise: a foreigner, a migrant, a Roman imperial soldier, venerated by the Catholic Church. One wonders how many of the fervent flag-wavers on St George’s Day would stomach a Syrian-born Roman soldier entering Dover today.
Worse still is the wilful ignorance of the flag’s appropriation. The cross of St George was once a pan-European symbol used by the Crusaders and, later, adopted by several countries, including Italy and Georgia. It only became a distinctly “English” emblem through a process of historical revision and national myth-making. Today it is more often associated with football hooliganism and far-right rallies than chivalric virtue or saintly courage.
This embrace of St George by English patriots thus becomes a kind of cultural cosplay, one that reveals more about the mythologies we choose to believe than about any coherent national identity. It is a celebration built on selective memory, on conflating ancient symbolism with modern nationalism.
If anything, the story of St George should remind us of England’s long entanglement with the wider world: with empire, with migration, and with myth-making. And perhaps the greatest irony of all is this: that Englishness, so often presented as insular and fixed, has always been a patchwork of borrowed saints, foreign heroes, and imagined histories.
Happy St George’s Day, indeed.
