Why is patriotism only acceptable during an England game?

After England boringly beat Serbia in the first game of the Euros with one measly goal on Sunday, the moaning about the weather has stopped. The shills of our state-approved preaching and propaganda corporation, the BBCofE, have a new obsession: those little rays of sunshine in the Three Lions shirts, who with one flick of a ball into a goal can instantly change the way a poor downtrodden Englishman thinks about himself. (It’s usually a he.)

As you can probably tell, football’s not for me. I’ve long considered it the male equivalent of fashion, in that never has so much attention been paid to the actions of so few self-adoring half-wits. But I’ve become even more repelled by it in recent years, as we’ve increasingly been scolded by the Blob that patriotism is A Bad Thing, while only being allowed to indulge in it during England matches. So wave your flag of St George during the ‘footie’ and you’re an open-minded champion of a multicultural team and society, but hoist it at any other time and you’re a knuckle-dragging, flag-shagging Neanderthal gammon, worthy only of being mocked by Emily ‘Lady Muck’ Thornberry.

It’s ironic that so soon after the recent D-Day commemorations, we as a nation are being encouraged to switch back to such a thoroughly cretinous idea of what a ‘hero’ is. Recall the modest and matter-of-fact heroism of the late Stanley Hollis who won the Victoria Cross for his unbelievable bravery in the first hours of D-Day: ‘The things that I did, if I hadn’t done them, somebody else would have done them.’ Contrast this with the self-adoring antics of footballers and their followers whenever one of them puts his foot in the right spot on a polyurethane ball.

Patriotism is not the only ‘bad’ thing we’re suddenly ‘allowed’ to do in the weeks when the national team plays on the world stage. The BBC in particular reminds men that they can disregard the finger-wagging for a few brief weeks. In EastEnders, male characters cringingly ask their mates to ‘get the beers in for the game’. Alcohol would generally be condemned as a public-health menace by Auntie, but during ‘The Game’, one more ‘cheeky’ tipple apparently won’t hurt you.

We can learn a lot about our betters from looking at each exception to their rules. Don’t be racist – except against Jews. Believe all women about sexual assault – unless they’re Israeli. Oh, and be careful not to ‘culturally appropriate’ the slightest thing from any other nationality, even to the point of never wearing a sombrero in a Mexican restaurant – but it’s fine to be a cross-dressing man culturally appropriating my sex. Meanwhile, if you’re a woman, be a good little Transmaid and stand by smiling, even if you call yourself a feminist.

Like most other places in the West in these dog days of civilisation, England feels like a nation devoid of hope and pride. Even so, being allowed to take pride in some overpaid ball-kickers, but not in the fact that this country contributed massively to ending slavery – lest we be called out as White Saviours – is a somewhat surreal situation to find ourselves in, after all those centuries of blood, sweat and struggle.

Flying the flag for the duration of the Euros is like being a eunuch who’s permitted to have his nuts back for a couple of weeks – for old times’ sake – and wear them as earrings. But those who indulge must be sure to tear their St George’s down sharpish once the festivities are over, lest they be fingered as a fascist for liking their own flag more than others. Remember, the only flag that can be flown constantly now is the Pride flag. This must be saluted respectfully wherever it pops up – failure to do so may identify you as an unworthy citizen of Soft Play Pit Nation.

Ever the anti-social butterfly, I’ll continue to believe that football is as weird a thing as the weather on which to base one’s satisfaction with life. Roll on the rain and the defeat, so we who are more grounded in reality can laugh at the lamentations of the daft, forever wasting their lives waiting for that perfect summer or shiny trophy that never comes.

Julie Burchill is a spiked columnist. Her book, Welcome to the Woke Trials: How #Identity Killed Progressive Politics, is published by Academica Press.