At a local supermarket some distance from my own abode, I met up with Gary, Trev and Kevin. These are not their real names, as what they are about to do is mostly illegal. They are aware of this, but it does not concern them. I asked them if others copied them applying a symbol they disapproved of, would they still not be concerned? At this they struggled to respond, and I assumed they would be.
The sacred turf of the ASDA car park was hallowed ground. Upon it, in a haze of Lynx Africa and fried onion, stood the last line of defence. His name was Gary. Not Gareth. Definitely not Gavin. Gary. Or…
Gary was a patriot. A sentinel. A man whose belly, a magnificent shelf of proud British lard, strained the stitching of his England ’98 replica shirt with every breath he took for his country. Today was a day of great import. Today was the day they would Reclaim the Roundabout.
The target was some mini-roundabouts off the A354, currently defiled by blank concrete or whatever it is they use to make mini roundabouts.
“Right,” Gary wheezed, heaving a five-litre tin of B&Q’s finest red emulsion into the boot of his Vauxhall Astra, next to a similarly colossal tin of white. “Operation Cross of St. George is a go.”
His lieutenant, Kev, nodded solemnly, adjusting the strap of his football shorts where it bit into his substantial thigh. “The lads down the Legion are on standby, Gaz. Signal’s a flare. Or a text.”
The operation was military in its precision, if the military was run by a bloke whose idea of reconnaissance was seeing if the coast was clear from the pub smoking area.
They arrived under the cover of a drizzly Tuesday afternoon. Gary, with the regal bearing of a man who once shook hands with a cousin of Phil ‘The Power’ Taylor, took command.
“Kev, you’re on white quadrant duty. Trev, perimeter. Lookout for… you know.” Trev, a man whose face was the colour and texture of a pork scratching, squinted suspiciously at a passing Ocado van. “Fifth column, Gaz. Mark my words.”
And so, the artistry began. Gary, a pot of red paint in one hand, a value-brand lager in the other, began to daub the tarmac. It was less a paintbrush and more a ceremonial sword, slashing a great red cross of righteousness over the foreign tyranny of organised traffic flow.
“This’ll show ‘em,” Gary panted, a bead of sweat tracing a path through the salt stains on his temple. “This is what it means to be English. Pride. Tradition. Defacin’ public property after four pints of Stella.”
“It’s about sending a message, innit,” Kev opined, carefully painting himself into the centre of the roundabout. “A message that says… this is our land. Our… roundabout.”
“It’s about heritage,” Gary corrected, his voice thick with the wisdom of a man whose entire historical knowledge was gleaned from a two-hour YouTube deep dive titled “THE TRUTH THE BBC WON’T SHOW YOU!!”. “This flag… it’s what Richard the Lionheart fought under. And Henry the Eighth. And that geezer from Eastenders.”
A small crowd had gathered. Mrs. Higginbottom from Number 42 peered through her net curtains, muttering about the decline of civic standards. A teenager on a scooter filmed them for TikTok, adding a crying-laughing emoji overlay.
Gary mistook this for admiration. He stood up, a colossal Colossus of Rhodes if it wore slip-on shoes for swollen feet, and thumped his chest. “THIS IS FOR BRITAIN!” he roared, a declaration slightly undermined by him immediately getting a stitch and having to sit down on the kerb.
The final masterstroke was the flagpole. A telescopic fishing rod duct-taped to a lamp post. As Trev hoisted the standard—a slightly frayed St. George’s Cross bought online and made in China—a hush fell over the knights.
I didn’t have the heart to tell them that St. George was never an Englishman and that the real patron saint was
They stood back, a panting, paint-splattered trinity, and admired their handiwork. The red was a bit streaky, the white had dripped into the road like tears, and the entire thing was visibly off-centre.
It was, they all agreed, perfect. A beacon of defiance. A symbol that they, the silent majority, the forgotten men, the champions of the great cultural war against traffic calming measures had struck a blow.
Their mission accomplished, they retired to ‘The George’ to plan their next campaign. A local pond was apparently looking suspiciously French.
From his bar stool throne, Gary raised a glass, his eyes glistening with patriotic fervour and the early stages of type 2 diabetes.
“They can take our jobs,” he slurred to nobody in particular. “They can take our sovereignty. But they will never, ever take our right to paint a massive wonky flag on a road junction. God save the King.”
And somewhere, in a council depot miles away, a man in a high-vis jacket sighed, put the industrial pressure washer back on the truck, and prepared to undo a day’s work for minimum wage. The eternal struggle continued.
And then we went our separate ways.
