Walking down the main street of Tamworth the other morning - gamely dodging yodelling couples in his 'n' hers double denim begging for loose change - I passed a man wearing a rather fetching navy blue singlet.

Written on the front were the following words: "THIS IS AUSTRALIA. WE EAT MEAT, DRINK BEER, AND SPEAK F-CKIN' ENGLISH!" My first thought - outside of "I wonder if he's single/looking?" - was that it must mean January 26th was just around the corner. Of course, I realised with a start: Australia Day is upon us. Time for those racist t-shirts to be dusted off and paraded about by small-dicked rednecks.

There's a lot to be said for being brave enough to stroll around town with an offensive slogan painted across one's chestal parts. While my singlet-wearing chum was clearly an inferior specimen to the morbidly obese man witnessed at the 2009 Big Day Out wearing a t-shirt that read DEAD GIRLS DON'T SAY NO, it was still a Herculean effort. I took a photo of him to show my grandchildren ("And this was right before Nanna was referred to as a 'muff-diving pinko' and chased out of town with burning pitchforks"), I needn't have bothered - the entire range of "This Is Australia" clothing was for sale on the main drag. I bought four shirts, including one for my best friend's 18-month-old, because while it's obviously wrong for babies to wear sexy slogans about tits and copulation, patriotic racism can start at any age.

It's an odd word, that - "patriot" - and these days mostly seems to signal only one thing: that whoever is yelling it into your face and slapping a hand proudly into their breastplate is possibly not very fond of coloured people. When did that happen? When did it become acceptable for these types of citizens to speak on behalf of their fellow countrymen? When did they steal that particular word and hijack it for their own appalling devices? And more importantly, who's dressing them?

Long before a handful of excitable Alan Jones fans took a nice day out at Cronulla beach a little too far, the term "patriot" began being less a term of misty-eyed endearment and more like the sort of thing a footsoldier of White Australia might use as a pseudonym on an internet dating site. Chin-jutty bullish types everywhere justified "F-ck Off We're Full" t-shirts by claiming simple adoration of way of life was to blame. "It's alright mate, I love my country. I'm a patriot" they'd smilingly and patiently explain to anyone who dared challenge them.

Would it be acceptable to the public if these same people got about in a hat that read "I HATE CHINKS" or "STOP THE IMMIGRATION EXPLOSION: STAB AN INDIAN TODAY?" It really does start to seem increasingly possible, particularly if said clothing items were a)"just a joke", b) worn on Australia Day, and/or c) proudly paraded in the name of patriotism. It's become a dirty word, the sort used to disguise a panoply of offences, including race-related violence, scare campaigns, and the kind of jokes even Mahatma Coat might baulk at for being "a little bit too racist". Southern cross tattoos and "We Grew Here/You Flew Here"-type accessories are not merely a fashion statement, they're a way of saying f-ck you to a society where the term "politically correct" is constantly - and incorrectly - equated with being humourless.

It may be frowned upon to burn the Australian flag, but wearing it as a cape whilst off one's face on Bundy and dry is fine, apparently. So is wrapping it around your head as a turban, pinning it around your tits as a boob tube, and writing "If You Don't Love It - Leave" underneath to deter pesky gatecrashers threatening your way of life (said product advertised as follows on a shopping website: "A fantastic way to publically (sic) show your pride in our great country ... with ATTITUDE!"). It's not racism, god forbid we call it that. No, it's patriotism, a thumb in the face of those fussy UnAustralian types, a way for true-blooded men and women to unite against a common enemy: fear.

And overall it's a great pity, as I am very fond of my country. I like the people in it, I like the frank, robust way they speak. I like the inimitable, flat, overcooked air of our childhood summers and the impetuous, heart-on-sleeve way in which neighbours rush to assist others in times of natural disaster. But the last thing I'm going to do on Australia Day is wave a flag or get some sort of idiotic boxing Kangaroo tattooed to my calf. Because the very idea of national pride has been soiled by the t-shirt wearers who disguise hate in the name of allegiance. And I don't know if we'll ever get it back.