Before I kick off, can I please assure anyone reading this that it is not my intention to target any one particular political or identitarian perspective in this month’s uppity broadside; they’re all fair game as far as I’m concerned. In that respect, these pensees are the equivalent of Jesse Ventura in ‘Predator’ using that ludicrous GE M134 Minigun to destroy large parts of greenery in the South American jungle. It shall be an indiscriminate, obliterating sweep, without fear or favour. The ballistic ‘Id’.

Incidentally, US spooks trying make up for their Trump potshot shame can stand down. I own no camouflage clothing – although how would I know if I didn’t? the only bullet I’ve ever had was the one I got from a job years ago. And yes, I looked up the make of the gun referenced above; to have known it would have singled me out very quickly as A. a threat. B. an inadequate. And C. someone with anger management issues. Sometimes I tick boxes B and C admittedly. But never A. Unless it’s my internal cholesterol count talking.

Apart from being a massive weapon, there are other less shooty ways to identify folks quickly these days; indeed many of them embrace a means that positively encourages it. Ladies and gents I give you… the badge! And in this wide-ranging rant – remember the GE M134 Minigun – I am going extra rogue, by exploring the metaphorical as well as the literal. Because by God, can people wear badges these days.

To define terms, when I say ‘badge’, I’m initially talking yes… a badge. The wee metal things that used to adorn a green cushion in my bedroom when I was a nipper. We collected them you see, made sense, they were everywhere back then. It was Badge City, Badgeville and Badge-Upon-Sea all at once.

Any gift shop slapped its name and image on a badge. Not even attractions – just any place. Carpet Factory? Badge. Victorian folly? Badge. Electrical sub-station? Badge. Okay, maybe not the last one, but…

Then you had badges from brands, usually in synch with their latest ad campaign. That’s nothing new tbf; they’ve digitised it now so you can change your profile pic or your avatar or whatever shizz they do. Back then it was as though the ad guys went out of their way to create campaigns that would be badge-able. I had a stack of ‘Wimpy’ badges with the wee beefeater guy in different scenarios; in space, playing badminton or whatever. And one with ‘I’m Nuts about KP’ on it. And ones for the ‘Tufty Club’ and the ‘Green Cross Code Man’.

Of course, you got a badge for practically any sporting event – big or small, global or local. My badge cushion had an outsized tartan one with ‘I’m on the march with Ally’s Army’ on it, next to one for ‘The East Kilbride Corporation Table Tennis Championship 1979’. Oh and bands got in on the act too – the Rollers, Sham 69, Wings even. Then we had the oddities: underwhelming wise-cracks like ‘I’m With Stupid’ and an arrow pointing to the side. Or ‘Wot No Badge?’ and a wee silly chad character on it.

Politics reared its ugly head of course – and hey, badge-wearing started that way… a hangover from military insignia and whatnot. Things like ‘Maggie Thatcher Milk Snatcher’ and ‘Up the Workers’ were a hit round my way – even though it was suburbia and comfortably middle-class. But I guess that’s the point of a badge really: to ruthlessly summarise, advertise and confirm one’s tribe/viewpoint/experiences/humour or favourite type of fast food. Well, it used to be. For these days, badges are weapons.

I don’t mean bending the wee spiky bit at the back to jab in someone’s eye. I mean they’ve been weaponised by people who can only see the world through causes, ideals, political choices and their own carefully curated sense of self. All blended into an overbearing shake. The issues de jour, political activism, sexual preferences, social justice, your fragile sense of nationhood, wider geo-politics, they are all now to be a matter of public record – earnestly signalling intent, belonging, and beliefs.

It’s the sort of person you can read in a pub before you even talk to them. Judgemental, simplistic or one-dimensional? Maybe. No more so than reducing yourself to a series of badges, symbols and red lines in such an outwardly physical way. With the Nazis it was a time-saver; you knew who to avoid. Sadly, it’s often the same with those of a supposedly progressive bent now. You know that within ten minutes of any chit chat turning into anything deemed remotely contentious… a pious ear-pelting awaits.

For me, the older I get, badges are best when divested of such spiky earnestness. Like the David Shrigley one I sometimes wear: ‘Look at my badge’ it says. I’ve narrowly avoided a slap for wearing it, I’d rather it was for cheek than getting an emotional debate about how to fix the Middle East.

I stand by the famous line uttered by Alfonso Bedoya in Treasure of the Sierra Madre: “Badges? Badges?! We don’t need no stinking badges!” ■