Standing in a car park in Kirkcaldy I pull on my Union Jack T-shirt — or Union flag to be correct — and brace myself.

I wait to be flooded with a sense of overwhelming pride, the kind of resolute spirit that carried the day at Balaclava, the siege of Mafeking and Dunkirk.

Instead I am immediately overcome by an urge to explain to those trying not to stare that I am not racist, an Ulster Loyalist, or a Little Englander.

Last weekend Gordon Brown, the local MP and prime minister-in-waiting, called for the Union flag to be reclaimed from the British National party as a symbol of national unity, patriotism and tolerance. The flag, he thundered in a speech to the Fabian Society, should be honoured throughout the United Kingdom.

To test reaction to this proposal I am in Kirkcaldy, where Brown grew up, clad conspicuously in a red, white and blue top. Surely here, in a town famous for producing linoleum for the sculleries and back lobbies of the British empire, my defiant act of patriotism will be applauded.

Or perhaps not. I catch the odd furtive glance, while others march past with pursed lips and an Asian gentleman looks dismayed.

Soon there is a more vocal expression of disapproval. “Look at that tit in the Union Jack,” shouts one young man.

I catch up with him, eager to make the point that it is only referred to as Union Jack when flown at the bow of a ship and ask what he finds so objectionable.

In his defence Jack Buckingham, a joinery student, mutters, “You don’t see many folk in Kirkcaldy wearing a Union Jack — if you do they’re English. I thought you were English and were trying to start something.

“I don’t care what Brown says, it is an English flag and I would refuse point blank to put one in my garden — it wouldn’t be long before someone put my windows in.” In his village of Cardenden, he warns, they would put me out of my misery.

Next stop Cardenden. But, my lonely walk along the rain-soaked streets of the former mining village doesn’t provoke so much as a bark of disapproval from a passing alsatian. I decide to gauge reaction in the Railway Tavern. It is a brave man who interrupts the viewers of the afternoon movie but fortunately their curiosity is aroused. They are well aware of Brown’s comments and have some advice for a man they consider a defender of the working class.

“I’ll feel British when I feel equal,” says Hugh MacDonald. “I felt British when we had our shipyards and steelworks and coalmines — they treat us like second-class citizens down in London.”

For a more patriotic view they suggest I try nearby Cowdenbeath. There the reaction is immediate. Another man in a passing van suggests I take myself elsewhere. I seek refuge in the Clansman bar on the High Street and I am welcomed like a long-lost brother. More specifically, I am welcomed as a fellow Rangers fan.

The man at the bar introduces himself as Rab Bowland, TB. He says that just like me he is also a “True Blue”. However when I clarify the situation and describe myself as a British patriot there is a flicker of anger in his eyes. “That’s a weegie accent you’ve got there so why the hell are you proud to be British — you’re Scottish, man,” says Bowland. Cowdenbeath folk, Bowland adds, are as Scottish as cholesterol and have the fake tans to prove it.

It appears reclaiming the flag from the BNP will be a pushover compared with disentangling it from the morass of contradictory loyalties that exist in the minds of many of Brown’s constituents.

As a last stop I choose Dalgety Bay, a charmless dormitory town where large houses command views of the Firth of Forth.

My public display of patriotism, however, does not go down well in the aisles of Tesco Metro. “I thought you were from UKIP or the BNP,” says John Lloyd, who adds that he doesn’t object to the flag as much as my exhibitionism.

Removing my T-shirt I slip it back into a bag where it will stay until the day when we take a holiday, hang out the Union flag and light fireworks in celebration of our Britishness. More likely it’ll end up as a duster.

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