Maybe if every aspect of what we call British Culture hadn& #39;t been sliced up for use as a meat-mask by the British establishment; if every cultural artifact that could be sold hadn& #39;t been turned into tea towels, and the rest ground into the dirt;
if every expression of national celebration wasn& #39;t forced through the prism of the monarchy; if regional cultures hadn& #39;t been crushed beneath a prescriptive, state imposed sense of identity; if the Union Flag weren& #39;t such a janky-looking piece of shit;
if the national anthem weren& #39;t such a miserable dirge for servile little worms; if we hadn& #39;t made anti-intellectualism integral to our worldview and chosen to admire instead the innate intelligence of the ruling class;
if our raging sense of exceptionalism didn& #39;t lead us to claim that bad things are actually good, and that good food can be improved by the addition of a couple more ingredients; if we didn& #39;t idealise our history in order to ignore the urgency of the present;
then maybe, just maybe, British Culture wouldn& #39;t be so cringe to begin with