THE FLAG, THE FLARE, AND THE FURY: ONE NIGHT IN HARLOW WITH THE ENGLISH UNAPOLOGETIC

Images By Martin Foskett / Alalmy

By Martin Foskett / Dispatches / Knelstrom Media

You've been told the flag's dangerous. That if you wave the St George's Cross outside a football match, you're a patriot, but hang it up on a Tuesday in March and you're half a sentence away from a hate crime. But one night in Harlow, surrounded by white vans, red smoke, and a dozen ladders, I saw something else: the ordinary reclaiming the extraordinary, not with rage, but with zip ties, McDonald's, and the stubborn joy of belonging.

​It began with a Facebook message. Harmless. Friendly. "Come along," it said. "See what we're really about."
I've just published a fever dream of an article titled "Harlow, Sawbridgeworth, and the Cross of St. George Painted by Ghosts," a dive into the curious reappearance of England's oldest red-and-white iconography. Bunting fluttering like apparitions in the breeze. Flags wrapped around lampposts like sacred bandages. It got tongues wagging, and a few digital shadows reached out from the mist.

Usually, I'd charge in solo, notebook in one hand and doubt in the other. But this time, the missus insisted on joining. "You're not going to Harlow without me," she said, and just like that, we were a convoy. Kids in the back. The car filled with mild bickering and a smell of squashed crisps. Our destination: the Latton Bush Centre car park.

The revolution begins in a Car Park.

Salt of the Earth with Zip Ties in Pocket

Now, depending on what media you consume, you might expect that turning up to a flag-raising in Essex would look like a far-right reunion: shaved heads, Doc Martens, nationalist chants echoing off Aldi walls. That's the stereotype. That's the fear.

But what greeted us in that car park was far more unsettling; it was normal.

Dozens of people, young and old, stood chatting between white vans and ladders. There were dads in hoodies, mums passing juice boxes, kids running in circles, shouting about Roblox. Boxes of flags were being unloaded like sacred relics. Cable ties were handed out with military precision.

This wasn't a rally. It was a picnic with purpose.

And these weren't zealots. They were plumbers. Bricklayers. Electricians. Mums with bad backs. People with mortgages and MOTs and a deep, gnawing frustration that somewhere along the line, flying your country's flag became an act of political rebellion.

I lit a rollie and watched as one bloke, let's call him Big Dave, because of course, scaled a lamppost with the grace of a roofer and tied up St George like he was tucking in a child.

Southern Way to KFC

We moved as a loose formation. No chanting. No speeches. Just a calm, steady rhythm. Like a team of well-fed urban Sherpas, we walked both sides of Southern Way, raising flags every few posts. The kids took turns pointing out which lamppost was next. One little girl yelled, "THIS ONE!" every ten feet, like a tiny town crier.

Then came the flares.

Outside McDonald's, that most sacred of modern English temples, the group paused for a photo. But this was no family snapshot. Smoke poured from red canisters like the breath of a dragon risen from its slumber beneath the car park. St George's Crosses unfurled through the haze. Laughter rang out. Kids danced in circles. Even the staff inside pressed their noses to the glass, part bemused, part enthralled.

Cars honked in support. One fella leaned out his window and shouted something wildly unprintable, but he was the exception, not the rule. Most people just smiled. Some nodded. The rest drove on, quietly grateful that someone else was saying what they couldn't.

Not through words. But through action.

And bunting.

Police, Beeps and Blessings

Of course, the police came. This is Britain.

A marked car pulled up beside us, blue lights twinkling like Christmas decorations no one asked for. The group paused, waiting. Not in fear, just expectation. But after a brief, polite chat, the officers moved on. Nothing to see here. Just a bit of zip-tie patriotism.

Later, an unmarked car swung by and beeped twice before vanishing into the dusk. That beep said more than any official statement ever could.

Because this wasn't lawlessness.

It was a love letter.

And the final stanza was written at Staple Tye roundabout.

Bunting as Rebellion

There, at the spinning heart of suburbia, they went all out. Flags. Banners. Streamers looping from lamppost to signpost like medieval maypoles. It was ridiculous. It was over-the-top. It was magnificent.

My daughter asked the time.

"Ten o’clock and long past your bedtime," I said.

"Yesss!" she squealed, tiny fist raised in triumph. A few in the group roared with laughter. That was the moment I realised this wasn't about politics. Not really. It was about ownership. Of time. Of place. Of a story.

We stopped for KFC on the way back to the car. The chicken was greasy. The kids were giddy. I was exhausted.

And something had shifted.

WHY CAN'T I FLY MY BLOODY FLAG?

Back in my garden the next day, I stared at the washing line. Pegs hanging like forgotten punctuation marks. My neighbour Dennis, 78, Royal Navy, bladder like a leaky faucet, leant over the fence and asked me again:

"Martin, d’you reckon they’d nick me for flying the St George’s next week?"

That's the question.?

You can wave it at the Euros, shirtless and drunk, no problem. But do it in April and suddenly you're a right-wing relic. The Saltire flies high in Scotland. The Red Dragon in Wales dances proudly on bins, buses and bake sales. Northern Ireland is practically a flag museum.

But England? England gets the squint. The tut. The carefully-worded email from HR.

Why? Because decades ago, a group of hate-filled simpletons wrapped themselves in St George's Cross and stomped through communities with rage and bile. And rather than challenge them, we retreated. We folded the flag up, stuck it in the loft, and apologised for it at dinner parties.

But that flag predates them by centuries. It doesn't belong to them. It belongs to us.

To the chip shop queue. To the stubborn optimism of people who keep turning up, day after day, rain or shine. To the scaffolders, the teachers, the dads tying bunting to bollards.

Final Thought From The Roundabout

We've been told patriotism is suspicious. That love of country must be ironic or laced with disclaimers.

But what if it's not?

What if flying a flag is just… normal? Not a protest. Not a manifesto. Just an admission that we belong. Here. In all this chaos and beauty.

So yes – raise it.

Hang it on the fence. Paint it on your garage door. Tie it to the lamppost.

Do it without fear. Do it with humour. Do it with chicken in one hand and a zip tie in the other.

Because if England is anything – it's strange, stubborn, glorious, and ours.

And after what I saw in Harlow that night, I'm convinced of one thing:

The flag is coming home. Not in a stadium. Not in a chant. But quietly, proudly, fluttering on a lamppost near you.

Martin Foskett
Still winded from too much fried chicken and national pride. Still watching the smoke fade. Still believing in England, biscuits, and bunting.

ALAMY

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