On this, St George's Day, when large men with no necks roam around our towns getting very drunk, and abusing waiters in Indian restaurants in honour of some bloke who was almost certainly a foreign himself, I thought I'd take a good, hard look at where I come from.
I am, amongst other things in my mongrel-like genetic make-up, part English, part Irish and (if you've seen my nose, you'll understand) part Jewish.
This means I could turn up at your house at any time, tarmac your driveway, sell you a loan to pay for it, and then be too embarrassed to complain.
But then, with a Scottish name and distant relations from up the Welsh valleys, I could equally be wearing nothing under the kilt, making my sheep-worrying hobby that much easier. And my English side will, of course, fight anybody that disagrees with me.
It's handy coming from such a racial melting pot, as I can disown any part of me as circumstances permit, particularly when it comes to national sporting prowess.
Right now, for example, the England football team are a bunch of over-paid under-achieving arses as compared to the table-topping glory of Northern Ireland under Lawrie Sanchez, himself no stranger to racial confusion, I should think. That is, of course, until the next English sporting triumph, when I'm London-born and proud, guv'nor.
Everybody knows, deep down, that St George's Day is a bit rubbish, revolving in its entirety on the assertion of national pride through vast quantities of drink.
Some well meaning, superbly patriotic blokes with no necks organised a parade through the streets of Weymouth for this year's celebration, but, alas, forgot to tell anybody, and the whole thing bit the dust. With a bit of imagination they could just turn it into a massive Monday lunchtime pub crawl, and nobody would be any the wiser.
So, dear non-paying readers, what racial stereotype are you?