It is somehow very English to have a national day, marked by a saint's day which celebrates a man who may or may not have existed – and probably did not (and if he did was certainly not English) – which we then largely ignore.
If I could be bother to look, no doubt there are some worthy and tortured articles in the blats on English identity, the meaning of life and everything (Philip Johnston has a good go). But, in my typically superior English way, I take the view that we are so confident in our own identity that we need neither celebrate it nor parade it. We know who we are, and that is good enough.
As to our "identity", searching for a definition is rather like hunting for that fabled crock of gold at the end of a rainbow. As you get close to it, it disappears (the rainbow, that is). Bit like the legend of St. George really. Perhaps he is the right patron saint for us, after all.
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