23 April 2010

My Patron Saint


From a young age, the thing that we were taught to remember St. George for is slaying a dragon, saving a chick and generally being a good role model. As you grow older, you realise that in the apparent absence of dragons from reality that actually the entire story must be a crock of shit and really no way to live. Chivalry dies in those moments. So you send off for your fake ID, buy some condoms (maybe) and start planning ways to get in and out of the house undetected. We decide as a child, that honour has no place in this world built on lies and instead realise that devious, bitter, vengeful and jealous selfishness is the only way to get the girl, the adoration of the town and the golden horde the big scaly fucker is camped on.

St. George became a metaphor for Englishness - and back then - Christianity, despite the fact he probably never came here and he never so much as slayed a dragon as was slayed by a dragon. He was a Roman soldier who apparently stood up for Christians and ended up murdered for it. In reality, dragons are big and scary, they're made of departments, ministries, constituencies, precedents, judiciaries, laws, statutes, rights, restrictions, taxes, paperwork and guns. So religions responded by taking the same form, they sprouted leathery wings and jagged claws, took to the skies and ruled from up high.

Neither the Dragon nor St. George are heroes. St. George is the Dragon and vice versa. The horrific, fat, greedy, gravity-defying beasties circle the sky above you breathing fire down your neck day in, day out. So what about the girl? We're all out of honour, freedom and chivalry but she needs saving. Well, it's amazing what fake ID and condoms can get you.

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