Opinion

By Che Ran There’s a smell to fear when it stalks a neighbourhood. It isn’t always gunpowder or petrol bombs. Sometimes it’s vinegar-soaked chips from the corner chippy, gone cold in a greasy paper bag carried by men who march with the St George’s Cross. A flag that, to some, means football and cheap lager; to others, a symbol that says: you don’t belong here. The red cross on white cloth has always carried more than patriotic cheer. Its origins lie in the Crusades of the twelfth century, when