St George’s Day postponed

St George’s Day, April 23rd, had arrived – or so you thought. There you were, bright and early, ironing the red cross flag with the sort of obsessive dedication usually reserved for royal weddings or surprise Bake Off finales. Maybe you’d already been in the mirror, striking your fiercest dragon-slaying pose with a broomstick and whispering words like “valour” and “noble steed” to your reflection. Your day was mapped out: full English for breakfast, pub lunch with extra gravy, and a towering roast dinner complete with Yorkshire puddings that could double as flotation devices. After all, this is the national day of our adopted patron saint – a bloke who never visited England, allegedly wrestled reptiles, and somehow ended up inspiring everything from pub signs to football chants. St George’s Day: roses in lapels, flag waving, a smattering of Morris dancing, and enough Union Jack-themed baked goods to make Mary Berry weep. All seemed right with the world. Or… had you jumped the gun??

Cue dramatic gasp from the patriotic choir, record scratch, and a dismayed fluttering of bunting from the upstairs window, like a patriotic ghost realising it’s turned up to the wrong haunting. Downstairs, the kettle’s whistling, the bacon’s sizzling, and somewhere in the nation’s collective soul, a little confusion quietly brews alongside the morning cuppa.

Well, not this year, dear reader. Not this year. The calendar – or rather, the Church of England and its ancient, dust-covered, Latin-infused rulebook of liturgical technicalities – has performed a quiet little magic trick and shifted the whole affair to April 28. Yes, that’s right. The dragon’s been told to take a seat and wait his turn. Your patriotic brunch is premature. The cucumber sandwiches will have to survive until Monday. Put down the pork pies. St George’s Day has been postponed.

So, what happened? Why has our most mythical of saints been kicked down the calendar like a tin can on a cobbled street in a village with three pubs, one horse, and a population of 187? Well, you can thank the ecclesiastical fine print. Not the modern kind that’s sneakily tucked into mobile phone contracts and ignored until disaster strikes, but the old-school kind – the kind written in ink on vellum, filled with archaisms, theological flourishes, and the occasional reference to the Council of Nicaea. Turns out that if St George’s Day lands between Palm Sunday and the Second Sunday of Easter – which, let’s face it, is the Holy Week equivalent of Glastonbury – the celebration gets politely escorted off stage by a robed priest and rescheduled for the Monday afterwards. Because Easter takes precedence. Because chocolate eggs, solemnity, and trumpet-heavy hymns reign supreme, and saints – even dragon-slaying ones – must wait their turn in line.

Poor old George. He already has to deal with the awkward truth that he wasn’t actually English at all. Most historians place him somewhere around modern-day Turkey, which, last time we checked, is not in the East Midlands. And now he finds himself overshadowed by Easter’s theatrical return every few years. His greatest feat? Definitely mythical. And now? Delayed like a train on the Southern Rail network. Not only has he had his nationality retrofitted, but his entire celebration has been nudged out of place by a higher ecclesiastical authority. That’s the modern world for you – even the dragon-slayers need to check with central planning.

The Church, to its credit, didn’t make a song and dance about it. No grand proclamation or nationwide press release delivered via ceremonial trumpet. Just a small note, tucked deep within the dusty folds of the Church calendar, calmly stating that any saint who gatecrashes Easter will be asked to return at a more convenient time. A quiet shuffle, not unlike being told your meticulously planned birthday party now clashes with your great aunt’s diamond jubilee and must be moved. Again. Always the great aunt. Always the jubilee. You can almost hear the ecclesiastical whisper: “Just pop St George’s Day over there till Monday, will you? Cheers.”

Of course, the die-hards weren’t having it. Some were up at dawn, flag in one hand, tea in the other, marching heroically across the lawn shouting “For England!” at the daffodils and slightly alarmed postmen. These brave souls now find themselves slightly baffled, clutching sausage rolls and patriotic confusion in equal measure. Their dogs, ever loyal but entirely clueless, wag along enthusiastically, assuming this is just another elaborate walk. Some households may already have gone through half their Pimms supplies, unaware of the ecclesiastical calendar’s cruel twist. Meanwhile, others, more opportunistic in nature, are embracing the chaos with open arms and Union Jack bunting. After all, why not celebrate twice? Once on the wrong day, once on the right day. George did slay a dragon (allegedly) – that surely merits two pints, a pork pie, and a cheeky pudding. Possibly even a Bakewell tart. Throw in a celebratory trifle if you’re feeling ambitious.

And this ecclesiastical reshuffle isn’t new, you know. The rule’s been lurking in the background for years, minding its own business, quietly waiting for the calendar to align just so. Like a stealthy liturgical ninja. Most years, no one notices. But when it does strike, it causes a kind of national identity hiccup. Because let’s be honest: if there’s one thing the English despise more than queue jumpers, lukewarm tea, or non-crispy Yorkshire puddings, it’s uncertainty about dates. Especially dates connected to flags, roast dinners, and semi-imaginary heroes. No one likes planning a party for a dragon-slayer only to be told you’ve arrived early. There’s a very particular British heartbreak to that.

So here we are. If you’re feeling a bit deflated today, if your bunting flaps a little less jauntily in the breeze, if your cucumber sandwiches feel emotionally unanchored – don’t worry. Your moment of patriotic splendour is merely on pause. Come Monday, you can go full-tilt. Paint your face. Host a barbecue. Launch into a slightly off-key rendition of “Jerusalem” in your garden while the neighbours pretend not to look but secretly record it for social media. Wear a paper crown. Shout “hurrah!” at passing clouds. Set up a small trebuchet in the garden for educational purposes.

Bake something unnecessarily intricate. Raise a toast to a saint who never set foot on British soil but somehow managed to become our national symbol. Recite Shakespeare to your houseplants. Read a medieval poem to a mildly disturbed pigeon. Organise a jousting match using office chairs and leftover broomsticks. Re-enact the slaying of the dragon using garden hoses and a mildly enthusiastic cousin in a green sleeping bag. It’s all valid. It’s all very English.

And if anyone dares question your double celebration, your extended homage to chivalry, folklore, and ecclesiastical bureaucracy, just look them square in the eye, raise your mug of builder’s tea, and say, “I slay dragons on Church time.” Then offer them a sausage roll and get back to the bunting. That should do it. Very English of you indeed.