IT’S a bit odd why we don’t make anything of St George’s Day.

We really ought to, but is our inherent English reserve so very muted that we cannot celebrate a chap who killed an actual dragon, with his bare hands (and sword)? Raise George’s flag and one fears being branded a neo-fascist. Such a shame.

St Patrick banished some snakes and he gets all the attention. He gets parades in Dublin (fair enough), but New York and London, too.

Erm, everyone listen up, SAINT GEORGE KILLED A FRIGGING DRAGON!

St Andrew, St David, what did they do? Exactly. I don’t know either, but they still get a look-in.

Well, all power to your elbow Georgie-boy. I’ve never slain a dragon and I doubt anyone else reading this column has either.

Saint George has a mushroom named after him. A most tasty and fun guy (fungi, geddit?) that’s elusive round these parts, but exists nonetheless. It looks like a bog-standard field mushroom, tastes better. Can’t tell you where to find one though, sorry. That’s George’s legacy: a poxy mushroom.

This town, Ludlow, is the epitome of England. As English, indeed, as Ambridge but with a little less blood-shed. All tumbledown timber-framed buildings, cobblestones, rolling hills, committees, a crumbly castle, binge drinking and moaning. What’s not to celebrate?

Cry God for Harry, England and Saint George because there’s all sorts of deliciousness imminently to emerge from our fields as spring teases and tickles us with her toasty fingers. The first English asparagus has arrived, early spuds, too, and broad beans here and there. English Goat and ewes’ milk cheeses are at their prime in early spring: all a tantalising taste of the best produce that England has to offer. Certainly in the kitchen, if nowhere else we should have every right to feel patriotic on St George’s day.