I had a flag once, a little one on a lollypop stick my Dad made for me.
I used to stick it in the top of my sandcastles on Blackpool beach.
I loved that little flag and sticking it on top of a freshly made castle in the sand was always a conquering achievement.
One day a big lad with a number eleven on his top lip and fat ankles came along and nicked my flag just as I’d placed it, triumphantly, on the top of a perfectly formed fortress in the hot Fylde sands.
I cried all afternoon and I continued to cry well into the evening.
I was devestated
but I never once considered taking to the streets to march for it back….
cos, ……after all …..
it was just a flag.