I'm a bitter, resentful, angry kind of guy—an introvert, you might say. Or an arsehole, as you will probably be more inclined to remark. Nevertheless, I can't help but feel that my sordid state of mind is at least partially accountable to the place in which I've lived all my life: the abysmal whirlwind of abhorrent fatuity that is England. While it would be rather remiss of me to attempt to cast all the blame for my sourness onto this historic country, I'm going to do it anyway.
The task of running Britain is usually designated to people who embody the great traits of the British people: ugliness and stupidity. For instance, examine our three previous Prime Ministers:
Pictures courtesy of my wanking folder.
A grinning maniac, an incompetent Scottish accountant, and a deeply nauseating arsehole—at least we've got a decent variety of douchebags.
The leadership of the Labour party is currently up for grabs, and of the five amusingly ill-suited contenders, I'm desperately hoping that the winner is the wonderfully named Ed Balls, purely for the pun headlines that will come out. For instance, at the next leadership debates, we'll have "Cameron wipes the floor with Balls," "Cameron hangs Balls out to dry," or maybe "Cameron leaves Balls feeling small." It will be glorious.
A brief glance around the rest of the human farmyard will show that the majority of British society is a smorgasbord of cretinism.As I write this article, a very familiar sound is flooding my ears: the sound of rain. If God exists (which I seriously doubt), then England is his toilet. The old fellow just loves to drench England with his benevolent piss, laughing the laugh of a cruel celestial dictator, while the denizens of his realm mope about below, their collective mood epitomized by the mass of clouds hanging above them.
We do get the occasional thunderstorm, during which I like to listen to Moving Mountains and pretend I'm Zeus, Lord of the Skies. We had a particularly fierce bout of lightning the other week—I'm glad I'm not epileptic, or my face would have turned inside-out.
England possesses a perennial coldness—a coldness that suffices in making everyone uncomfortable, but is not quite cold enough to perk up the nipples of our street-going females to a remotely entertaining standard.
How does one traverse this freezing, wet landscape of misery, I hear you ask? Well, Britain boasts a wide variety of spectacularly sordid modes of public transportation. Whether you're trapped on the bus with the harbingers of the granny apocalypse, or listening to a cab driver describing his hatred for blacks and the council's inability to empty his bins, you're sure to encounter a veritable palette of painful problems.
The train is perhaps the most widely-used form of public transport, and it is appalling. A British train journey is a bit like being raped: it's very uncomfortable, there's always a guy moaning behind you, you leave with a sore arse, and when it comes late, it's even worse. I bet there was at least one Jew on the train to Auschwitz thinking, "At least it's not Southern Rail."
So, England is a bad place to live if you intend on leaving your house. At least we have a plethora of fantastic TV shows to keep everyone entertained at home, right?
Wrong.
British television is composed of some of the most disgraceful excuses for entertainment one could possibly come across. Let's take, for example, The Jeremy Kyle Show. The Jeremy Kyle Show is much like Jerry Springer or Maury: morons come on the show to duke it out and humiliate themselves on television, while a bunch of banal bastards sit baying for blood in the background (oh, the joys of alliteration). Kyle commonly attempts to resolve pressing and important issues, as shown in two of his previous show titles: "Hounded Out of Three Homes Because I'm Ginger" and "Why Deny Paternity Just Because the Baby is Ginger?"
Left: A typically hideous participant. Right: The dashing visage of Mr Kyle.
Now, we Brits won't settle for mere televised idiocy—no, that's nowhere near retarded enough for us. What we need is a grotesquely angry antagonist to take the moral high ground and, invigorated in his self-righteous fury, scream at the fools who have dared to enter his domain (a role played most admirably by Mr Kyle). While I agree that anyone stupid enough to consent to be attacked by this dangerously unstable maniac does deserve to be humiliated, the fact that the British public is so encouraging toward this lunatic's antics is worrying. At least there's a lot of variety on British TV; once I get bored of watching slags slapping each other in Eastenders, I can simply switch the channel and witness Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall eating the carcass of a dead stoat basted with badger semen.
England has certainly cultivated a morbid, bitter little bastard as far as I go, but a brief glance around the rest of the human farmyard will show that the majority of British society is a smorgasbord of cretinism. That's right, I said smorgasbord. I dislike Britain so much that I'm using a word that sounds as Swedish as you can possibly get.
It's rather difficult to stratify British society effectively; the closest I've come in terms of devising groups is "retards," "morons," and "fucking morons." Actually, we Brits have a special word beginning with "c" that we use instead of "fucking moron," but I can't type it or your eyes might liquefy in their sockets and proceed to dribble down your horrified faces.
It really would take me all day to describe every type of person that I hate in Britain—a day that I should probably undertake in the near future, as a form of psychotherapy. However, there is one type of person so horrifically repulsive that they are deserving of their own bile-filled paragraph.
The vomit-inducing scourge that plagues modern Britain is known as the chav. A pair of typical specimens can be viewed at right, resplendent in the full regalia of their kind. The man on the right sports an impressive cap, as well as high-quality bling, a sign of high status among chavs. From this we can extrapolate that he is perhaps a chieftain amongst his kind. The female is known as a "ho," "slag," "bitch," "slut," or "skank," all of which are titles of honor among chav females. The chav chief has evidently claimed her as his "GF"—usually meaning girlfriend, but alternatively "Grotesque Fuckbuddy."
For those of you who like to venture out into the world to discover new things, there is a simple test to see if you've found a slag. Merely go out on a Friday night and find one of the many skimpily-dressed and alcoholically-incapacitated females who are out that night. (Expert tip: they can often be found in ditches, clutching empty wine bottles. To lure out a groggy slag, a trail of regurgitated vodka should do the trick.) Once you've located your subject, peel back her battered and slimy labia and see what you can find inside her. If her body contains more semen than the average male, you've found yourself a slag!
An anthropological assessment of chavs is another topic for another article, however. It's about time that I concluded this piece, before my negativity drives any of you to suicide. By the way, if anyone who reads this ever does commit suicide, could I just take this opportunity to ask you to do it a slightly light-hearted way? For instance, if you're going to jump in front of a train, stuff your clothes full of candy; it'll be like a piñata at a serial killer's birthday party.
So farewell, dear readers. I hope I have given those of you from across the pond an insight into British culture, and those of you who already dwell in Britain an opportunity to nod and go, "Yeah, that's true."