I have an idea.
Why don't you English people channel all that frustration and hate you have at immigrants and tourists and the irish and George Bush and the germans and Steve McLaren and all that crap into making some improvements to your city. I'll even pitch in.
Because I gotta tell you, England's got a lot of history, but I don't see much of a future.
Just calm down a minute, this is some good advice.
You've got a city where noone can afford to buy houses. Your food sucks, and you find reasons to hate everyone, whether it's a Polish immigrant "stealing your job" or the the Chelsea fan who lives next to you, and you support Arsenal. You love to get angry, you love to pissed off, you love to have someone to hate. It makes you feel strong. I know I was a toddler once too. And I'm not the only one who's noticed. A.A Gill has too.
Everyone's always pissed off at something, your trains are packed with angry people all the time. You're high school Your high school students graduate and they can’t read or write worth a damn and you all congratulate yourselves for the achievements of soldiers in some distant war a hundred years ago that you yourselves had absolutely nothing to do with and think that it excuses you for the fact that you’ve let a global empire piss right through your hands and you did nothing to stop it.
You bundle all your national pride into whether of not a soccer coach can train a team to win a game of soccer against Croatia or whether some guy can win a rugby game or not. Why don’t you try taking pride in your cities? Why not cheer on your literacy rates? God knows there's a competition you'd win against America.
Build a rail system that works, or at least one that isn’t so fucked up it’s the punchline in a backpackers joke when they get back home and tell people what a shithole London is. Work out how to get people onto the property ladder so they don’t have to live with their parents until they’re 40. Fix the pollution so you don’t have to wipe soot from your nose everytime you walk the streets of London.
And if you don't mind me suggesting this, it wouldnl;t hurt to do something about your teeth. It’s a small thing, but the whole world is laughing at you, (I mean damn, when you get laughed at by both Homer Simpson AND Peter Griffin, you know something’s wrong). You don;t have to be Donny Osmond, but jesus, if your teeth are brown, try a stronger brand of toothpaste.
Learn about sex, you don’t have to be ashamed, I mean sure you’re fucking ugly but then if you’re with a fellow Brit, chances are so is she, so just go for it). And lay off the online porn. Try talking to a woman. Some of them are quite nice.
And man, I cannot stress this enough. You’ve got to stop ending every argument with, “if you don’t like it go home”. It’s worse than American censorship.
You don’t have to get defensive about the shitty bits of London (and there are fucking tonnes of them), hell America is full of fat people who don’t know how to work the volume control on their fucking mobile phone. I can say that because I know it’s true and it doesn’t faze me. You just look like wankers when you take every criticism and use it as an excuse to dredge up some ancient prejudice your dad told you about whatever country the person who criticised you came from.
I know you all adore Bill Hicks because he gave you some funny new shit to say about Americans that you couldn;t think of yourself,
BUT
I'll end with a quote from him.
“calm down, sit, read, think, shut the fuck up”
This has been a public service announcement from the Duke of New York.
And it comes with love.
See, I didn't use the word Limey or turd once.
Burnlondon.blogspot.com
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Monday, November 5, 2007
Is Ger-land meant to be this low class or wot?
England strikes me as the kind of country a workman might build in the 1940’s. In fact, Engilsh people in general remind me of workmen. They’re the kind of people who put track lighting into their homes and then invite people over to show them. (I know this because I was recently invited to someone’s house for exactly this purpose).
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Oh no.
No no no no no no nono no no no no nono no no no no nono no no no no nono no no no no nono no no no no nono no no no no nono no no no no nono no no no no no
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Children lined up by color of skin.
Children were told to line up for a school photograph by the color of their skin. The segregation left some of the pupils in tears at Sandhurst Junior School in Lewisham, South London. One angry parent said : ‘My school is racist’.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Take the Great from Britain and give it to South Africa.
Did you know the chief Export of South Africa is Minerals and Diamonds?
The chief export of Great Britain is Sporting Loss.
Did you know that South Afirca is believed to be the birthplace of human beings.
It’s known as the cradle of Mankind.
Great Britain is the birthplace of the tuberculosis; a disease that they still battle with today even though the rest of the world has successfully eradicated it.
Did you know a recent article in the South African Major daily newspaper gave tips on the do’s and don’ts of dating.
England’s major dailuy newspaper, gave the dos and don’ts of home dental work. In the guide they made a plea for people to stop using pliers to remove their own teeth.
The chief export of Great Britain is Sporting Loss.
Did you know that South Afirca is believed to be the birthplace of human beings.
It’s known as the cradle of Mankind.
Great Britain is the birthplace of the tuberculosis; a disease that they still battle with today even though the rest of the world has successfully eradicated it.
Did you know a recent article in the South African Major daily newspaper gave tips on the do’s and don’ts of dating.
England’s major dailuy newspaper, gave the dos and don’ts of home dental work. In the guide they made a plea for people to stop using pliers to remove their own teeth.
What the press said. (And then what we said about what they said)
James Lawton
The Independent
“England never forgot what it was like to battle like champions”
They did however forget to win like champions and lost the game. 15-6.
William Langley
The Sunday Telegraph
“… even as the whistle blew, the 60,000 English fans in the French capital knew they had seen something remarkable”
Agreed. The fact that the oldest Rugby team the world has ever seen managed to play an entire game of union without a single player suffering a heart attack was indeed quite remarkable.
What was even more remarkable however, was the repeated ass kicking England received at the hands of the Glorious Springboks. Final score. 15-6
Andrew Alderson & Patrick Sawyer
The Sunday Telegraph
“The Tory leader David Cameron said: “This was an incredibly brave performance by England. Dogged. Determined and fearless”
Aww, that’s nice.
…but thousands of disappointed England fans streamed away after the defeat. Some started leaving with around 10 minutes to go, when it became clear the game was lost”
Well, so much for the indomitable British spirit. “What, they’re not going to win? I’m outta here”. And as for the fearlessness of the team, the only thing dogged about British Rugby is their complete, and utter reliance on John Wilkinson.
David “Whiny Bitch” Walsh
The Sunday Times
“The decision was referred to the television match official with the statutory instruction that he must award a try unless there is any compelling reason not to. From all the replays available to Stuart Dickenson, the Australian TMO, there did not seem to be one which conclusively ruled out a try”
So there you have it. Because of a corrupt Australian referee, England lost by 9 points instead of just 3. And anyway, when is stepping out of touch any reason to disallow a try.
Jenny McCartney
The Sunday Telegraph
“…while hopes of victory were inflated in the first half, later you could hear the expectation gently dying and hear the full throated roars from the crowd – and on sofas across the country – softening to mournful groans of disappointment.”
I think you’ve just described what it’s like to have sex with a British man.
Various other news sources including the above:
“Vickery’s determination not to surrender an easy yard…However, it was also increasingly clear… that England were facing a test of will beyond anything produced by either Ausralia or France”
Read: Hey we still beat Australia and France. Let’s not forget that.
You be assured the English will claim, with lip trembling pride that “We fought them for ever inch” as if this is somehow a display of their true grit and determination.
The truth is, the English style of play is ruining Rugby. The English inch forward in maul after maul after maul, praying for a penalty. It’s the way Italians play soccer. Eventually, out of sheer desperation the referee awards one and John Wilkinson boots a field goal from just over half a field away. Whatever English wingers do, I’m sure I have no idea. They could well do with a ball of wool and some knitting needles to help them pass the time.
It’s a desperate tactic. And it sometimes wins but at the cost of boring the living shit out of every single person there.
So for every Englander who takes pride in their “fought them for every inch” baloney. Consider that as this ugly style of Rugby continues to be used by desperate, uncreative teams, we can all thank the Shitty English for their Shitty English Style of play.
Andrew Alderson & Patrick Sawyer
The Sunday Telegraph
“Tears flowed in the French capital, on and off the pitch, after the Springboks won five penalties to two…”
Actually the Springboks won 15 points to 6. Phrasing it in penalties only makes it seem like The English lost by a little bit, when in fact, they were shat upon and lost the game by a hearty nine points (that’s three field goals for any English reading). Mind the gap Britain, it ran to nine points.
The fact that the British now measure the score by how many penalties are kicked is testament to the ugly style of play they’ve introduced into Rugby, that makes even nail biting World Cup finals about as interesting as a British mistress.
“But for English fans the game turned on the ‘try that never was…English hopes flared but after an agonizing three minute wait it was disallowed by the Australian fourth official Stuart Dickenson, from his vantage point high in the stands…”
Read: Those dirty Australians really screwed us. And how could he see it anyway he was waaay up there in the stands.
Unlike a British man telling about the last time he had sex, the video referee never lies. From the video replay, the lower half of Cueto’s body was out of touch, but even if it wasn’t, (and God bless you Stuart Diskinson if this is the case), the difference would mean the crybaby English would still have lost the match by three points. This kind of Woulda-shoulda-coulda crybaby whining is typically English. I think it’s because they don’t mind looking like complete wankers.
The Independent
“England never forgot what it was like to battle like champions”
They did however forget to win like champions and lost the game. 15-6.
William Langley
The Sunday Telegraph
“… even as the whistle blew, the 60,000 English fans in the French capital knew they had seen something remarkable”
Agreed. The fact that the oldest Rugby team the world has ever seen managed to play an entire game of union without a single player suffering a heart attack was indeed quite remarkable.
What was even more remarkable however, was the repeated ass kicking England received at the hands of the Glorious Springboks. Final score. 15-6
Andrew Alderson & Patrick Sawyer
The Sunday Telegraph
“The Tory leader David Cameron said: “This was an incredibly brave performance by England. Dogged. Determined and fearless”
Aww, that’s nice.
…but thousands of disappointed England fans streamed away after the defeat. Some started leaving with around 10 minutes to go, when it became clear the game was lost”
Well, so much for the indomitable British spirit. “What, they’re not going to win? I’m outta here”. And as for the fearlessness of the team, the only thing dogged about British Rugby is their complete, and utter reliance on John Wilkinson.
David “Whiny Bitch” Walsh
The Sunday Times
“The decision was referred to the television match official with the statutory instruction that he must award a try unless there is any compelling reason not to. From all the replays available to Stuart Dickenson, the Australian TMO, there did not seem to be one which conclusively ruled out a try”
So there you have it. Because of a corrupt Australian referee, England lost by 9 points instead of just 3. And anyway, when is stepping out of touch any reason to disallow a try.
Jenny McCartney
The Sunday Telegraph
“…while hopes of victory were inflated in the first half, later you could hear the expectation gently dying and hear the full throated roars from the crowd – and on sofas across the country – softening to mournful groans of disappointment.”
I think you’ve just described what it’s like to have sex with a British man.
Various other news sources including the above:
“Vickery’s determination not to surrender an easy yard…However, it was also increasingly clear… that England were facing a test of will beyond anything produced by either Ausralia or France”
Read: Hey we still beat Australia and France. Let’s not forget that.
You be assured the English will claim, with lip trembling pride that “We fought them for ever inch” as if this is somehow a display of their true grit and determination.
The truth is, the English style of play is ruining Rugby. The English inch forward in maul after maul after maul, praying for a penalty. It’s the way Italians play soccer. Eventually, out of sheer desperation the referee awards one and John Wilkinson boots a field goal from just over half a field away. Whatever English wingers do, I’m sure I have no idea. They could well do with a ball of wool and some knitting needles to help them pass the time.
It’s a desperate tactic. And it sometimes wins but at the cost of boring the living shit out of every single person there.
So for every Englander who takes pride in their “fought them for every inch” baloney. Consider that as this ugly style of Rugby continues to be used by desperate, uncreative teams, we can all thank the Shitty English for their Shitty English Style of play.
Andrew Alderson & Patrick Sawyer
The Sunday Telegraph
“Tears flowed in the French capital, on and off the pitch, after the Springboks won five penalties to two…”
Actually the Springboks won 15 points to 6. Phrasing it in penalties only makes it seem like The English lost by a little bit, when in fact, they were shat upon and lost the game by a hearty nine points (that’s three field goals for any English reading). Mind the gap Britain, it ran to nine points.
The fact that the British now measure the score by how many penalties are kicked is testament to the ugly style of play they’ve introduced into Rugby, that makes even nail biting World Cup finals about as interesting as a British mistress.
“But for English fans the game turned on the ‘try that never was…English hopes flared but after an agonizing three minute wait it was disallowed by the Australian fourth official Stuart Dickenson, from his vantage point high in the stands…”
Read: Those dirty Australians really screwed us. And how could he see it anyway he was waaay up there in the stands.
Unlike a British man telling about the last time he had sex, the video referee never lies. From the video replay, the lower half of Cueto’s body was out of touch, but even if it wasn’t, (and God bless you Stuart Diskinson if this is the case), the difference would mean the crybaby English would still have lost the match by three points. This kind of Woulda-shoulda-coulda crybaby whining is typically English. I think it’s because they don’t mind looking like complete wankers.
For sale, one chariot, (low swinging kind). Wheels came off. Again.
30 million English fans watched the Rugby World Cup decider on Saturday night, and with hands clasped in prayer, a nation prayed that somehow, some way, the Worst World Champions the rugby world has ever seen would defend their crown.
With true grit and determination, the English side bravely fought the Glorious Springboks. And with true grit and determination, they bravely had their asses kicked repeatedly and were belted into a proper thrashing, losing 15 points to 6.
It was not the fairy tale ending this rag tag band of misfits and old aged pensioners had hoped for. In a contest that saw their chances of winning reduced to 80-1, you’ve got to take your hat off to them.
No one thought they could do.
And boy, they were fucking right.
On the field, the Cowardly Lions never looked a chance. The Glorious Springboks hammered them mercilessly, leaving an aging Phil Vickery lying on the ground weeping, after taking a brutal collision on the try line. Commentators remarked he looked dazed from the belting, but more likely it was the disorientation most English players feel when standing anywhere near a try line.
Despite their sheer bloody minded gritty determination, both Jason Robinson and Phil Vickery were forced to limp, painfully from the field after the sheer weight of their enormous British hearts overflowed with grit and determination. The fact that Victor Matfield had just run over both of them in a vehicle best described as “The Pain Train” had nothing to do with their dazed, semi-concussed appearance, as they staggered off the field into the row of wheelchairs beside the English bench, and were wheeled, presumably, into a retirement home.
England’s strategy of boring everyone to death with their style of play failed to produce results as the margin stretched to 15-6. The England side has spent years perfecting a style of rugby so perfectly tedious and unexciting, thousands of their own determined, diehard fans were forced to leave the stadium with true grit and determination, ten minutes before the game ended.
Controversy arose in the second half when the video referee that ruled against England’s one and only try for the entire competition, was accused of being Australian. The camera in question was manufactured in Japan, but is believed to have several parts made from minerals exported from Australia some years before. An investigation by the English Police is currently being conducted under the name, “Operation Crybaby”
The American Rugby team was in France awaiting a call from England Coach. Given the track record Britain has for fighting off the enemy while in France, the Americans remained on hand to step in at the last minute to bail the English out the World Cup in much the same way they bailed them out of World Wars one and two.
But the British were having none of it. This was going to be a rugby game fought by real men who take real drop goals. And if they were going down, it wasn’t going to be without a fight. Albeit, a piss weak fight that they lost, after fighting poorly and then having their asses kicked repeatedly by the Glorious Springboks.
For the fans, it was a bitter defeat. Thousands of England supporters had arrived in Paris dressed in traditional English costumes to support their team. Beefeaters, Churchill look-alikes, even Medieval Knights turned up full attire. Walking from the game in defeat, they simply looked like wankers as they made their sad way to the nearest pub to wallow in their defeat. To lose a final is bad enough, but to do it while dressed like a twat in a Morris Dancer’s costume. Man, that’s gotta hurt
And, as if to add urine to an already pissed on defeat, thousands of England fans were forced to spend the night on the street after the All Blacks successfully destroyed every hotel room within thirty miles of the capital. Some say this was merely a coincidence, but wily observers have commented it was yet another example of brilliant New Zealand Rugby creativity in preparation for World Cup 2011.
French hoteliers and pub landlords welcomed the British losers back to the capital with chants of “Non parlay Englais, Losers” and in a heart warming display of cross chanel relations, gouged them mercilessly, charging 36 Euros a pint and then calling the police when the losers failed to pay up. Losers.
In the end it all came down to a single point. And that was that England lost. No amount of woulda-shoulda-coulda post game analisys will change the fact that they lost, and will be remembered throughout history as the Worst World Champions, Ever.
As the man who is known as “the guy who scores all of England’s points by kicking them” said: “We gave it the best we had”
And as the game pointed out, it just wasn’t good enough.
Losers.
With true grit and determination, the English side bravely fought the Glorious Springboks. And with true grit and determination, they bravely had their asses kicked repeatedly and were belted into a proper thrashing, losing 15 points to 6.
It was not the fairy tale ending this rag tag band of misfits and old aged pensioners had hoped for. In a contest that saw their chances of winning reduced to 80-1, you’ve got to take your hat off to them.
No one thought they could do.
And boy, they were fucking right.
On the field, the Cowardly Lions never looked a chance. The Glorious Springboks hammered them mercilessly, leaving an aging Phil Vickery lying on the ground weeping, after taking a brutal collision on the try line. Commentators remarked he looked dazed from the belting, but more likely it was the disorientation most English players feel when standing anywhere near a try line.
Despite their sheer bloody minded gritty determination, both Jason Robinson and Phil Vickery were forced to limp, painfully from the field after the sheer weight of their enormous British hearts overflowed with grit and determination. The fact that Victor Matfield had just run over both of them in a vehicle best described as “The Pain Train” had nothing to do with their dazed, semi-concussed appearance, as they staggered off the field into the row of wheelchairs beside the English bench, and were wheeled, presumably, into a retirement home.
England’s strategy of boring everyone to death with their style of play failed to produce results as the margin stretched to 15-6. The England side has spent years perfecting a style of rugby so perfectly tedious and unexciting, thousands of their own determined, diehard fans were forced to leave the stadium with true grit and determination, ten minutes before the game ended.
Controversy arose in the second half when the video referee that ruled against England’s one and only try for the entire competition, was accused of being Australian. The camera in question was manufactured in Japan, but is believed to have several parts made from minerals exported from Australia some years before. An investigation by the English Police is currently being conducted under the name, “Operation Crybaby”
The American Rugby team was in France awaiting a call from England Coach. Given the track record Britain has for fighting off the enemy while in France, the Americans remained on hand to step in at the last minute to bail the English out the World Cup in much the same way they bailed them out of World Wars one and two.
But the British were having none of it. This was going to be a rugby game fought by real men who take real drop goals. And if they were going down, it wasn’t going to be without a fight. Albeit, a piss weak fight that they lost, after fighting poorly and then having their asses kicked repeatedly by the Glorious Springboks.
For the fans, it was a bitter defeat. Thousands of England supporters had arrived in Paris dressed in traditional English costumes to support their team. Beefeaters, Churchill look-alikes, even Medieval Knights turned up full attire. Walking from the game in defeat, they simply looked like wankers as they made their sad way to the nearest pub to wallow in their defeat. To lose a final is bad enough, but to do it while dressed like a twat in a Morris Dancer’s costume. Man, that’s gotta hurt
And, as if to add urine to an already pissed on defeat, thousands of England fans were forced to spend the night on the street after the All Blacks successfully destroyed every hotel room within thirty miles of the capital. Some say this was merely a coincidence, but wily observers have commented it was yet another example of brilliant New Zealand Rugby creativity in preparation for World Cup 2011.
French hoteliers and pub landlords welcomed the British losers back to the capital with chants of “Non parlay Englais, Losers” and in a heart warming display of cross chanel relations, gouged them mercilessly, charging 36 Euros a pint and then calling the police when the losers failed to pay up. Losers.
In the end it all came down to a single point. And that was that England lost. No amount of woulda-shoulda-coulda post game analisys will change the fact that they lost, and will be remembered throughout history as the Worst World Champions, Ever.
As the man who is known as “the guy who scores all of England’s points by kicking them” said: “We gave it the best we had”
And as the game pointed out, it just wasn’t good enough.
Losers.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
South Africa Appreciation Week
Loyal Readers, this week we will be paying tribute to South Africa, currently the favourite country in the world of our little team here at the Duke.
We will be making an argument to take the "Great" title away from the mudsmear known as Britain, and adding it to South Africa, beneath the new title, "Great South Africa"
We hope you enjoy these seven days of enlightening facts, figures and opinions about South Africa, the current Rugby World champions.
Your sincerely,
The Duke Team.
We will be making an argument to take the "Great" title away from the mudsmear known as Britain, and adding it to South Africa, beneath the new title, "Great South Africa"
We hope you enjoy these seven days of enlightening facts, figures and opinions about South Africa, the current Rugby World champions.
Your sincerely,
The Duke Team.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
America & England
This video shows the two manners in which British subjects and American citizens deal with frustration. One is assertive, well mannered and forthright in his speech. The other looks like an ape with sunburn. Watch and laugh heartily at the English. (disclosure: I am not a scientologist, but boy, if they can upset Englanders like this, I say sign me up L.Ron).
Monday, October 1, 2007
An Essay on England. Featuring several American ironical devices.
The English are a funny bunch. Well, in truth, they’re an infuriatingly tedious bunch of fungal encrusted yeast infections, but to get the piece started, let’s call them funny.
To begin with, they’re very ugly. Some would say “Circus ugly” others just plain “butt ugly”. Whichever way you look at it, The English are a reliably unbeautiful people. This point is certainly not new. The English have been accused of being plain since before the Middle ages, but now at last Science is investigating why.
Canadian geneticists studying British school children in 2004 concluded, (hesitatingly of course) that there is evidence to suggest “measurable chromosomal damage” to the English gene, which may go some way to an explanation.
The study suggests a possible link between chromosomal damage and alcohol, which the English have a long history of abusing. Other suggestions include the English tradition of inbreeding between family members but whatever the cause, the damage helps explain why so many, many English people have weak chins, round faces, thinning hair, a tendency toward mongoloid features and a general look that seems ever so slightly Downes Syndrome in appearance.
Except the people with Downes Syndrome of course.
They look like English runway models.
And the cruelties of Mother Nature do not stop at the Englander’s gaspingly hideous good looks. The English are notoriously badly made. Pale skin that freckles in the sun, teeth that appear to grow virtually sideways out of their gums, a predisposition toward halitosis, chronic dandruff the size and shape of corn flakes, EEES (or Enormous-English-Ear Syndrome), pipe cleaner arms, chest hair that looks like it grew in an arse, notoriously sensitive tummies and long, hairy ET fingers that seem to have seventy five knuckles on each hand.
The cultural stereotype of English beauty is best exemplified in the following amusing interchange between American tourists.
MAN: Boy the men over here are very unattractive.
MAN2: And the girls too. Why I’ve seen pigs I’d rather sleep with than some of
the women over here.
MAN: Ha ha, now I know you’re joking
The train wreck of genetic misfires that is, the modern Brit seems biologically programmed to cause offense at all times. Some have claimed the offensive experience of British people proof that Nature has pegged Englanders for extinction by making them unsatisfactory mates, but this does seem an extreme view.
More likely is the fact that while a collision with a group of English people is likely to assault many of your senses, the reasons are far more likely to be social and cultural rather than biological in origin.
For example, the unpleasant, often indefinable odor of the common English person is largely due to their attitude toward personal hygiene, which is unenlightened to say the least. Queen Victoria is still highly regarded by the British people as a woman of consummate cleanliness and was famed for indulging in regular baths, “up to two a week”.
The reluctance of the typical British person to engage in regular washing is best encapsulated in the long-standing American joke, overheard in a London tavern.
MAN: Hey, that guy was the best salesman I ever met. Why I dare say he could even sell a bar of soap to an Englishman.
MAN2: Ha ha. Now I know you’re joking.
Not content to look and smell bad, much like a toad with BO, the English seem to insist on sounding bad as well.
If poor had an accent, it would be English.
Nothing says “I am an uneducated taxi driver” better than the Cockney accent. The East London accent sounds like it is on welfare, the north London sounds like a petty thief, the South London accent sounds long term unemployed and the famous Etonion accent employed by history teachers at public schools all but screams, “I am a boy hungry pedophile”
Contrast London with New York, and you’ll find people from Harlem sound like they’re recording a hip hop album, The Bronx as though they’re “Serving and protecting” the good citizens of NooYork, Brooklyn, (ahh Brooklyn, good people) sound like B-ball playing Firemen, Manhattan has a Black Amex Card and the East village sound like an episode of Sesame Street. .
The form of English most people mistakenly believe has been exported to the rest of the world is called The Queens English and is referred to as such largely on account of the fact that the only person in the whole of Britain who speaks that way, is the Queen. And she’s German.
Occasionally, you may find yourself in the midst of an upwardly mobile middle class Englander, (they sound the way Hugh Grant does when he’s trying to solicit American prostitutes) in which case you will doubtless encounter that most tedious of British conventions. Passive aggression.
Passive aggression is essentially a slimy insult. Also known as a sideways insult, (the Spanish refer to passive aggression as “sans cojones” - literally, “without testicle”), it is a curiously British institution, (popular in the ridiculous middle and upper ridiculous middle classes) that allows an English person to insult someone without having to admit it.
The cultural tendency the Englander has to be simultaneously “offensive” and yet “cringingly servile” is largely the impetus for why the barb “quisling” is so often aimed at The British. As laughably and transparently proud as they act, the British simple cannot muster the self confidence to be as out rightly rude as the French , nor do they possess the strength of character to be polite in the face of adversity like the Japanese. Instead, they perform a verbal masturbation. They ejaculate an insult and hope they don’t get caught while wiping it up.
On a personal note, I’m not fond of the term passive aggressive. It’s one of those words that lacks oomph. It’s like eating an English cheese or looking at Manchester’s most beautiful pin up girl. It’s too limp.
There must be a better way t put it. I suggest “limp dick rudeness” or “a wanker’s insult”. That seems to convey something. It paints an accurate picture. In any event, you’d be hard pressed to find a group of people who so perfectly exemplify “limp dick rudeness” as the British.
Apart from the offensiveness of their appearance, the British are notorious for creating offensive works of archtitecture and town planning, exemplified perfectly in England’s crowning triumph of a capital, the malingering turd of conrete and soot, London.
The nicest thing one might say about London is that it doesn’t work and to leave it at that. More vocal pundits may declare that at its best London is little more than an ambitious toilet and at it’s worst it induces vomit, but to be fair, criticizing London for being ugly in a country that as inadequate as England is a little like complaining about finding a urine stain on a used condom full of chromosomally damaged British semen.
So for the purposes of brevity, let us oversimplify the matter and say that London is not good. In its heyday, (now several centuries ago) London may’ve reigned supreme as a capital of open sewers, plague infected rodents and child prostitution, but those days have long passed and now in decline and London has aged badly.
Much like Sir Paul Macartney’s sagging foreskin of a neck or Sir Mick Jaggers muched-up-testicle-sack of a face, it is in dire need of a facelift.
We will see in part two of this essay, why this won’t happen, and why the British male is famed worldwide for his sad performance in the bedroom.
To begin with, they’re very ugly. Some would say “Circus ugly” others just plain “butt ugly”. Whichever way you look at it, The English are a reliably unbeautiful people. This point is certainly not new. The English have been accused of being plain since before the Middle ages, but now at last Science is investigating why.
Canadian geneticists studying British school children in 2004 concluded, (hesitatingly of course) that there is evidence to suggest “measurable chromosomal damage” to the English gene, which may go some way to an explanation.
The study suggests a possible link between chromosomal damage and alcohol, which the English have a long history of abusing. Other suggestions include the English tradition of inbreeding between family members but whatever the cause, the damage helps explain why so many, many English people have weak chins, round faces, thinning hair, a tendency toward mongoloid features and a general look that seems ever so slightly Downes Syndrome in appearance.
Except the people with Downes Syndrome of course.
They look like English runway models.
And the cruelties of Mother Nature do not stop at the Englander’s gaspingly hideous good looks. The English are notoriously badly made. Pale skin that freckles in the sun, teeth that appear to grow virtually sideways out of their gums, a predisposition toward halitosis, chronic dandruff the size and shape of corn flakes, EEES (or Enormous-English-Ear Syndrome), pipe cleaner arms, chest hair that looks like it grew in an arse, notoriously sensitive tummies and long, hairy ET fingers that seem to have seventy five knuckles on each hand.
The cultural stereotype of English beauty is best exemplified in the following amusing interchange between American tourists.
MAN: Boy the men over here are very unattractive.
MAN2: And the girls too. Why I’ve seen pigs I’d rather sleep with than some of
the women over here.
MAN: Ha ha, now I know you’re joking
The train wreck of genetic misfires that is, the modern Brit seems biologically programmed to cause offense at all times. Some have claimed the offensive experience of British people proof that Nature has pegged Englanders for extinction by making them unsatisfactory mates, but this does seem an extreme view.
More likely is the fact that while a collision with a group of English people is likely to assault many of your senses, the reasons are far more likely to be social and cultural rather than biological in origin.
For example, the unpleasant, often indefinable odor of the common English person is largely due to their attitude toward personal hygiene, which is unenlightened to say the least. Queen Victoria is still highly regarded by the British people as a woman of consummate cleanliness and was famed for indulging in regular baths, “up to two a week”.
The reluctance of the typical British person to engage in regular washing is best encapsulated in the long-standing American joke, overheard in a London tavern.
MAN: Hey, that guy was the best salesman I ever met. Why I dare say he could even sell a bar of soap to an Englishman.
MAN2: Ha ha. Now I know you’re joking.
Not content to look and smell bad, much like a toad with BO, the English seem to insist on sounding bad as well.
If poor had an accent, it would be English.
Nothing says “I am an uneducated taxi driver” better than the Cockney accent. The East London accent sounds like it is on welfare, the north London sounds like a petty thief, the South London accent sounds long term unemployed and the famous Etonion accent employed by history teachers at public schools all but screams, “I am a boy hungry pedophile”
Contrast London with New York, and you’ll find people from Harlem sound like they’re recording a hip hop album, The Bronx as though they’re “Serving and protecting” the good citizens of NooYork, Brooklyn, (ahh Brooklyn, good people) sound like B-ball playing Firemen, Manhattan has a Black Amex Card and the East village sound like an episode of Sesame Street. .
The form of English most people mistakenly believe has been exported to the rest of the world is called The Queens English and is referred to as such largely on account of the fact that the only person in the whole of Britain who speaks that way, is the Queen. And she’s German.
Occasionally, you may find yourself in the midst of an upwardly mobile middle class Englander, (they sound the way Hugh Grant does when he’s trying to solicit American prostitutes) in which case you will doubtless encounter that most tedious of British conventions. Passive aggression.
Passive aggression is essentially a slimy insult. Also known as a sideways insult, (the Spanish refer to passive aggression as “sans cojones” - literally, “without testicle”), it is a curiously British institution, (popular in the ridiculous middle and upper ridiculous middle classes) that allows an English person to insult someone without having to admit it.
The cultural tendency the Englander has to be simultaneously “offensive” and yet “cringingly servile” is largely the impetus for why the barb “quisling” is so often aimed at The British. As laughably and transparently proud as they act, the British simple cannot muster the self confidence to be as out rightly rude as the French , nor do they possess the strength of character to be polite in the face of adversity like the Japanese. Instead, they perform a verbal masturbation. They ejaculate an insult and hope they don’t get caught while wiping it up.
On a personal note, I’m not fond of the term passive aggressive. It’s one of those words that lacks oomph. It’s like eating an English cheese or looking at Manchester’s most beautiful pin up girl. It’s too limp.
There must be a better way t put it. I suggest “limp dick rudeness” or “a wanker’s insult”. That seems to convey something. It paints an accurate picture. In any event, you’d be hard pressed to find a group of people who so perfectly exemplify “limp dick rudeness” as the British.
Apart from the offensiveness of their appearance, the British are notorious for creating offensive works of archtitecture and town planning, exemplified perfectly in England’s crowning triumph of a capital, the malingering turd of conrete and soot, London.
The nicest thing one might say about London is that it doesn’t work and to leave it at that. More vocal pundits may declare that at its best London is little more than an ambitious toilet and at it’s worst it induces vomit, but to be fair, criticizing London for being ugly in a country that as inadequate as England is a little like complaining about finding a urine stain on a used condom full of chromosomally damaged British semen.
So for the purposes of brevity, let us oversimplify the matter and say that London is not good. In its heyday, (now several centuries ago) London may’ve reigned supreme as a capital of open sewers, plague infected rodents and child prostitution, but those days have long passed and now in decline and London has aged badly.
Much like Sir Paul Macartney’s sagging foreskin of a neck or Sir Mick Jaggers muched-up-testicle-sack of a face, it is in dire need of a facelift.
We will see in part two of this essay, why this won’t happen, and why the British male is famed worldwide for his sad performance in the bedroom.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Brain damaged Brits
Here’s a statistic for you. 9 out of 10 people with learning difficulties report being bullied by members of the public in England.
9 out of 10. They’re not great odds. About on par with not being stabbed to death by a London teenager.
For a few months now, I’ve suspected there may be something quite wrong with English people. I sometimes wonder if the eons of inbreeding this island has supported hasn’t somehow rewired their genetics. It’s as though someone has opened the top of their heads and run a soldering iron through the brain tissue more or less at random.
National Brain damage may explain a few things. The penchant Englanders have for standing in busy doorways and tube gates, oblivious. Talking loudly on a mobile phone in any public space. The spectacle of two twentysomething troglodytes walking shirtless through the city in the middle of the day, emotionally singing soccer anthems (oblivious to the homosexual undertones). And of course the many constipated noises English women make when they tell you an unpleasant story in which they were mildly inconvienenced.
“I was like unghhhh, how could you be so stuuuupid. Oooh. Uuuudiott. I ordered still water. Unghhhh. Onghhh. Arnghhh
Elvis Presley made less noise having a heart attack on the toilet than most English woman do telling you their Spanish waiter story.
And of course, while the English pride their sense of humor, in my experience, noone laughs more at they’re own jokes than the English. They laugh before they tell you a joke. During. Just before the punchline and then afterwards as well. Often times, you’ll find the only person laughing at a joke is the person who’s just told it.
It’s no surprise the English will tell you they’re funny.
They’re the ones laughing.
But we return to the statistic. 9 out of 10 people with learning difficulties are bullied by members of the public. I read this statistic in an advertisement in a movie theatre. And it seemed to make sense. There is something deeply brain damaged about the way English people act toward one another. The awful way older married couples eat dinner while reading paperbacks in restaurants. The racist slurs that are thrown about at ticket inspectors. The disregard for underprivileged families. The open hostility toward Eastern Europeans working in cafes in London. They’re like wasps, the English. Or pigs with sharp teeth, you can choose.
This point was highlighted in it’s extreme during the movie I watched. In the scene where the main character comes home to traumatically find his cat has died, a group of English women in the back of the theatre suddenly burst into laughter.
The Australian girls sitting next to me summed it up best.
“What the fuck is wrong with these people?” she whispered.
9 out of 10. They’re not great odds. About on par with not being stabbed to death by a London teenager.
For a few months now, I’ve suspected there may be something quite wrong with English people. I sometimes wonder if the eons of inbreeding this island has supported hasn’t somehow rewired their genetics. It’s as though someone has opened the top of their heads and run a soldering iron through the brain tissue more or less at random.
National Brain damage may explain a few things. The penchant Englanders have for standing in busy doorways and tube gates, oblivious. Talking loudly on a mobile phone in any public space. The spectacle of two twentysomething troglodytes walking shirtless through the city in the middle of the day, emotionally singing soccer anthems (oblivious to the homosexual undertones). And of course the many constipated noises English women make when they tell you an unpleasant story in which they were mildly inconvienenced.
“I was like unghhhh, how could you be so stuuuupid. Oooh. Uuuudiott. I ordered still water. Unghhhh. Onghhh. Arnghhh
Elvis Presley made less noise having a heart attack on the toilet than most English woman do telling you their Spanish waiter story.
And of course, while the English pride their sense of humor, in my experience, noone laughs more at they’re own jokes than the English. They laugh before they tell you a joke. During. Just before the punchline and then afterwards as well. Often times, you’ll find the only person laughing at a joke is the person who’s just told it.
It’s no surprise the English will tell you they’re funny.
They’re the ones laughing.
But we return to the statistic. 9 out of 10 people with learning difficulties are bullied by members of the public. I read this statistic in an advertisement in a movie theatre. And it seemed to make sense. There is something deeply brain damaged about the way English people act toward one another. The awful way older married couples eat dinner while reading paperbacks in restaurants. The racist slurs that are thrown about at ticket inspectors. The disregard for underprivileged families. The open hostility toward Eastern Europeans working in cafes in London. They’re like wasps, the English. Or pigs with sharp teeth, you can choose.
This point was highlighted in it’s extreme during the movie I watched. In the scene where the main character comes home to traumatically find his cat has died, a group of English women in the back of the theatre suddenly burst into laughter.
The Australian girls sitting next to me summed it up best.
“What the fuck is wrong with these people?” she whispered.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
I want the English out of my gene pool.
London has a knife problem.
They have a gun problem too, but the knife problem is far worse. Last year, 64,000 Londoners were held up at knife-point, violently assaulted, mugged or worse. That figure breaks down to 175 assaults every single day, more than any other country in Europe. That’s a lot of knives.
This came as quite a shock to me. Like most Americans, I generally think of London as a kind of morally, culturally superior place to my own lovably simple home. A place of good breeding and excellent manners. Polite to the point of being disadvantaged, witty, urbane. Cultured folk who know about art and world affairs and tea and crumpets. And all that crap.
But this was not the London I discovered. Far from its worldly image of sophistication and culture, I found a very different, much darker place.
A city in the grip of violent knife and gun crime. Of third world poverty housing estates. A city of aggressive, snarling commuters. Trains filled with soccer fans in various stages of fury. Leering, middle aged men, grunting and stroking their pockets as groups of young schoolgirls walk disgustedly by. A country excited by mindless stories of pedophilia. Of pickpockets and ATM crime. Children publicly drinking beer or smoking marijuana while an invisible police force droves past on the way to another unsolved shooting, another unsolved stabbing, another unsafe Friday night on the streets of London.
Now, I have been around the world. I’ve lived in Northern India, Cambodia. I’ve even visited Glasgow. The world can be a dangerous place. But what made the sudden knife pandemic in London all the more frightening, was the impression that no one was doing anything about it. That people were just going to “Carry on”. The people blamed the gangs, the gangs blamed the community, the community blamed the police, the police blamed the politicians and the politicians, well, they blamed Hip Hop artist Fifty Cent, who apparently takes time out of his touring schedule to stab 175 people, every day.
Worse yet, few if any Londoners were willing to accept the fact that there was a problem, perhaps in a few of the poorer areas, yes, but not a problem, not London, just a phase darling, the blacks probably and immigrants. And that’s all there was to say on the matter.
As a rule, the British do not take criticism of their country well. Any conversation on the shortcomings of London is reserved exclusively for the British themselves. Foreigners should consider themselves lucky to be in the country. Any mention that England was in someway not-up-to-scratch, as observed by an American, call immediately for an incendiary retort fuelled by some furious yet unspoken transatlantic rivalry. The interesting, (and at times, quite frustrating) thing is that there’s an awful lot London could do better. We’re just not allowed to talk about it.
Now, I won’t labor this point with another litany of England’s manifold inadequacies. At times it feels a little like emptying the Atlantic ocean with a small, leaking teaspoon. Instead, I’m going to take a look at what it is about the British that makes them so unable to accept criticism. Their inability to acknowledge that something could possibly be wrong in their glorious nation and to take the steps needed to repair it.
And I’m going to look at three contradictory attributes of the English character starting with that most tedious of English traditions; class-consciousness.
You may say that in a country where men routinely push women out of the way to get onto a train, matters of class are somewhat a moot point, but in day-to-day Britain, class-consciousness informs almost every act an Englishman makes.
From his opinion on world affairs to his taste in music and leisure, the cut of his suit, the scuff of his shoes, the pace and timbre of his accent, his political persuasion, his careful friends, his choice of supermarket, his view of minorities, his ideas about ideas, his blah blah blah blah blah, everything he does is to maintain an image. The most neurotic offenders of course, being the tiresome English middle class, noticeably paranoid about all matters of class distinction on account of the Upper class having all the cookies and the Lower class having all the guns.
Now alongside class-consciousness is another dreary hyphenated English national attribute; self-loathing. The English, as informed from folklore, think of themselves as moderately okay. You can test this if you like, by asking the average Englander how they are and to listen to the reply, the top three as measured by a 2004 university sociological study being:
“Not bad”,
“Okay”
and “I’ll live”.
The phrases that the average American would use after surviving a tornado are the exact same phrases an Englishman would use to describe his temperate elation at having won the national lottery.
These two traits are related. Class-consciousness, as archaic as it is, still grips the tepid heart of an English. The idea that the person standing opposite you right now is silently judging your rank against his own by virtue of your shoes, your hairstyle, the lilt of your accent and the topics of your allowable conversation must surely, at length, cause one to become resolutely f**ked in the head.
And by way of proof allow me to suggest that the Accent Schools found in London that teach young people from the country how to enunciate their vow-ells so as to avoid sounding working class are unlikely to find a parallel in any other modern city on the planet.
No matter what you do, how much you earn, the impact you have on society or how much you change the world, the English will always remind you that unless your mother is the queen of England, you will always, always remain a lower order to someone who’s mother is. Even if they have ginger hair.
And once you know your place in the world is ultimately limited to the lineage of your parents – What else would you expect from the jumped up son of an immigrant grocer? – you can’t help but see yourself as reflected in the myriad of glass ceilings above you, beneath men of lesser capacity, but older, wealthier genes.
So, we come to the single soft spot I reserve for the British, and that is the awful injustice of their low self esteem at the hands of an all pervasive, outdated social hierarchy based on breeding, (as in the case of dogs and prize pigs). Though I find them an irritating tribal-minded pack of xenophobic pig-weaklings, a tiny, tiny part of my heart goes out to them. It must be a terrible thing to live under the oppression of a bullying social culture that they simply cannot fight against.
And so, the British loathe themselves and one another. From an early age they learn there’s something crudlike about being a British nobody. Pasty, unloved by mother nature in their assorted pugly physical atrocities , a genetic grab-bag. Something second rate, the smell of decay, like a second hand book, there’s something faintly mouldy about it. Indefinable yet ever present.
Unable to derive a self worth of their own for reasons of class, the British cling to their groups. Their soccer teams, their political parties, their choice of beer and, in it’s most desperate case, their crumbling, pustule of a country. That Fanatical English Patriotism that believes, in view of demonstrable evidence to the contrary, that the UK is perfect. Not because it’s true, but because The English really, really want it to be true.
It’s the same manner in which children believe in Santa Claus.
National pride is an altogether stupid convention. The idea that a country, however steeped in tradition is without reproach is as grossly fascinating as a two-headed boy. And in England, it’s made all the more unbearable because of it’s shaky underpinnings. A quick look at English National Pride will find it is supported on three spindly legs.
Historical battle victories that helped build an Empire.
Economic strength.
The notion that, bad as it is, the rest of the world is still vaguely inferior to glorious England.
Equally quickly, we can dispatch these legs as follows.
I used to be a contender; The last important battle England won on it’s own merits was against the Faulkland Islands, which, as has been pointed out more times than I can recall, was a little like picking a fight against a midget. Ditto for Cyprus. In the modern day, they have followed the US to every major conflict from Vietnam to Iraq and so share in our uncanny ability to mess things up and run away when it gets too hard, (although in Britain’s case, it’s all the more cretinous, because while we start the fight, they seem to join it like a comedy sidekick). Their military training is so sub-par that the modern British army is virtually rendered cannon fodder in the current Iraq war and their weapons industry has become, as pointed out in the latest issue of Prospect Magazine, the punchline in a Haliburtan in-joke. They used-to-could but now they just plain can’t.
Show me the money; The incredible irony of England is that it has a first rate economy and a third world standard of living. How on earth can a country whose exchange rate towers over the rest of the world reduce its own people to virtual poverty? On top of this, a luxury tax at almost 20% means that, as I’ve said since the beginning of this blog, the only time it’s good to be British, is when you are outside Britain, spending British pounds. (And invariably, this is when you Englanders whine the most).
It’s a shithole, but it’s home; London, unsurprisingly, did not rank in the Top 5 most livable cities on earth. Nor did it place in the Top 10 , the Top 15 or even the Top 20. In fact, London makes no appearance in the world’s most livable cities list until we descend to the unfashionable depths of the +30 mark. That’s at least thirty other cities, (such as Tokyo, Munich, Paris, Sydney, Edinburgh, Aukland, and good ole NYC herself) that are far more livable than London. In fact, if you look at London’s closest neighbors on this list, you’re staring at places like Mexico City #29. On top of this, you can’t rely on your weather because it sometimes floods the country. You can’t rely on your relaxed pace of life because your people are among the most time pressured in Europe. You can’t rely on your scenery, (The rock dominoes of Stonehenge?) You can’t rely on your clean air as the droves of soot fingered tube commuting nose pickers demonstrate each morning. In fact, not even the English themselves can bare to live here, with London experiencing the highest rate of emigration in its history as reported in various tube trash over the last two weeks.
So we see your bloated sense of National Pride, as proudly hung from the kitchen windows of housing estates everywhere is little more than an emaciated lie. You cling to an idea of an England that no longer exists.
Why?
For a multitude of complicated reasons, one of which being, it feels good to think that while you as a individual British idiot aren’t very powerful or rich or intelligent, that the English AS A WHOLE are pretty powerful and rich and intelligent. AS A WHOLE you are an important nation, AS A WHOLE you matter. You align yourselves with the WHOLE so you don’t have to look at yourselves. You defend the nation because you cannot defend yourselves.
Take a look at the average English soccer enthusiast. It’s not enough to simply want your team to win, after the game finishes the defeated English soccer fan looks to find someone they can assault. How many times has a game been, “lost on the field but won in the carpark” in a violent, puffing, beer bloated and sweaty confrontation. This is not only abnormal, it’s a telling sign of national neuroses.
To criticize England is to wobble the thin, spindly sticks that hold the average Englander’s self esteem above water. To suggest that England is imperfect is to look behind the curtain. To see the English for what they are, to point and cruelly laugh.
The English don’t support, they cling.
They don’t just like a team, they become a team.
By themselves they are nothing, useless, weak, chubby, pale.
But supporting a team, a party, a nation - well, then they have significance.
I’m someone, they seem to say. I have a team. I have a flag. I’m part of something important.
It’s kind of sad.
But mostly, it’s disgusting and primitive. Like England.
And I’m not sure you can change this. When I envisage the English genetic code, I see something covered in wet beer-urine. I see something that cannot be reasoned with, nor fixed nor educated nor changed, not because it is strong, but because it is mentally deficient.
In plain terms, this is a nation of meat-heads.
Asking England to give up it’s ridiculous class system and resulting sense of self loathing is like asking France to give up cheese or America to give up being really cool and friendly and tough and handsome.
So, I am going to put forward the following idea. I hope you all link to this piece and tell all your Anglophobic, anti-british friends about it. I want this idea to permeate every part of the world and even if it doesn’t, at least it’ll give your English hating friends something to laugh about.
So, here goes…
I, The Duke OF New York, put forward that the European Union, together with the United Nations and the United States, sanction the United Kingdom to one child per family.
That these three same governmental bodies grant cash bonuses to mixed marriages to encourage interbreeding between cultures.
That English women should have to apply for a permit to begin a relationship with another English man, (and vice versa) and that the number of permits be strictly limited.
By my calculations, within 20 generations, we will have effectively bred the English out of England. Noone gets hurt, (or knifed), the ugliest people on earth are encouraged, (and in some cases finiancially rewarded) for breeding with better stock, and once the class system is gone, (and with it, the English mindset), we can start building a utopia.
England is a beautiful country. Green, green grass, beautiful sunsets, calm, temperate weather. The only thing that ruins it, are the donkey-faced, pig-thinking sensibilities of the fugly assed English.
With them gone, we can fill this glorious island with Italian and French chefs, Brazilian, Swedish and Spanish girls, Australian bartenders, Irish comedians, German engineers, and every New York born person from Mike D to Rudolph Guilliani, (Ixnay on the Umptray). We’ll get some Turkish guys for the late night kebabs, and some Scottish people to run the banks and I think we’ve got ourselves a blueprint people.
As The Kinks once famously observed, “There’s no England anymore”.
The UK is over.
This new utopia is a brand new kingdom with a bright new future.
I call it,
The New K.
Who’s with me?
This has been a broadcast from The Duke of New York.
This came as quite a shock to me. Like most Americans, I generally think of London as a kind of morally, culturally superior place to my own lovably simple home. A place of good breeding and excellent manners. Polite to the point of being disadvantaged, witty, urbane. Cultured folk who know about art and world affairs and tea and crumpets. And all that crap.
But this was not the London I discovered. Far from its worldly image of sophistication and culture, I found a very different, much darker place.
A city in the grip of violent knife and gun crime. Of third world poverty housing estates. A city of aggressive, snarling commuters. Trains filled with soccer fans in various stages of fury. Leering, middle aged men, grunting and stroking their pockets as groups of young schoolgirls walk disgustedly by. A country excited by mindless stories of pedophilia. Of pickpockets and ATM crime. Children publicly drinking beer or smoking marijuana while an invisible police force droves past on the way to another unsolved shooting, another unsolved stabbing, another unsafe Friday night on the streets of London.
Now, I have been around the world. I’ve lived in Northern India, Cambodia. I’ve even visited Glasgow. The world can be a dangerous place. But what made the sudden knife pandemic in London all the more frightening, was the impression that no one was doing anything about it. That people were just going to “Carry on”. The people blamed the gangs, the gangs blamed the community, the community blamed the police, the police blamed the politicians and the politicians, well, they blamed Hip Hop artist Fifty Cent, who apparently takes time out of his touring schedule to stab 175 people, every day.
Worse yet, few if any Londoners were willing to accept the fact that there was a problem, perhaps in a few of the poorer areas, yes, but not a problem, not London, just a phase darling, the blacks probably and immigrants. And that’s all there was to say on the matter.
As a rule, the British do not take criticism of their country well. Any conversation on the shortcomings of London is reserved exclusively for the British themselves. Foreigners should consider themselves lucky to be in the country. Any mention that England was in someway not-up-to-scratch, as observed by an American, call immediately for an incendiary retort fuelled by some furious yet unspoken transatlantic rivalry. The interesting, (and at times, quite frustrating) thing is that there’s an awful lot London could do better. We’re just not allowed to talk about it.
Now, I won’t labor this point with another litany of England’s manifold inadequacies. At times it feels a little like emptying the Atlantic ocean with a small, leaking teaspoon. Instead, I’m going to take a look at what it is about the British that makes them so unable to accept criticism. Their inability to acknowledge that something could possibly be wrong in their glorious nation and to take the steps needed to repair it.
And I’m going to look at three contradictory attributes of the English character starting with that most tedious of English traditions; class-consciousness.
You may say that in a country where men routinely push women out of the way to get onto a train, matters of class are somewhat a moot point, but in day-to-day Britain, class-consciousness informs almost every act an Englishman makes.
From his opinion on world affairs to his taste in music and leisure, the cut of his suit, the scuff of his shoes, the pace and timbre of his accent, his political persuasion, his careful friends, his choice of supermarket, his view of minorities, his ideas about ideas, his blah blah blah blah blah, everything he does is to maintain an image. The most neurotic offenders of course, being the tiresome English middle class, noticeably paranoid about all matters of class distinction on account of the Upper class having all the cookies and the Lower class having all the guns.
Now alongside class-consciousness is another dreary hyphenated English national attribute; self-loathing. The English, as informed from folklore, think of themselves as moderately okay. You can test this if you like, by asking the average Englander how they are and to listen to the reply, the top three as measured by a 2004 university sociological study being:
“Not bad”,
“Okay”
and “I’ll live”.
The phrases that the average American would use after surviving a tornado are the exact same phrases an Englishman would use to describe his temperate elation at having won the national lottery.
These two traits are related. Class-consciousness, as archaic as it is, still grips the tepid heart of an English. The idea that the person standing opposite you right now is silently judging your rank against his own by virtue of your shoes, your hairstyle, the lilt of your accent and the topics of your allowable conversation must surely, at length, cause one to become resolutely f**ked in the head.
And by way of proof allow me to suggest that the Accent Schools found in London that teach young people from the country how to enunciate their vow-ells so as to avoid sounding working class are unlikely to find a parallel in any other modern city on the planet.
No matter what you do, how much you earn, the impact you have on society or how much you change the world, the English will always remind you that unless your mother is the queen of England, you will always, always remain a lower order to someone who’s mother is. Even if they have ginger hair.
And once you know your place in the world is ultimately limited to the lineage of your parents – What else would you expect from the jumped up son of an immigrant grocer? – you can’t help but see yourself as reflected in the myriad of glass ceilings above you, beneath men of lesser capacity, but older, wealthier genes.
So, we come to the single soft spot I reserve for the British, and that is the awful injustice of their low self esteem at the hands of an all pervasive, outdated social hierarchy based on breeding, (as in the case of dogs and prize pigs). Though I find them an irritating tribal-minded pack of xenophobic pig-weaklings, a tiny, tiny part of my heart goes out to them. It must be a terrible thing to live under the oppression of a bullying social culture that they simply cannot fight against.
And so, the British loathe themselves and one another. From an early age they learn there’s something crudlike about being a British nobody. Pasty, unloved by mother nature in their assorted pugly physical atrocities , a genetic grab-bag. Something second rate, the smell of decay, like a second hand book, there’s something faintly mouldy about it. Indefinable yet ever present.
Unable to derive a self worth of their own for reasons of class, the British cling to their groups. Their soccer teams, their political parties, their choice of beer and, in it’s most desperate case, their crumbling, pustule of a country. That Fanatical English Patriotism that believes, in view of demonstrable evidence to the contrary, that the UK is perfect. Not because it’s true, but because The English really, really want it to be true.
It’s the same manner in which children believe in Santa Claus.
National pride is an altogether stupid convention. The idea that a country, however steeped in tradition is without reproach is as grossly fascinating as a two-headed boy. And in England, it’s made all the more unbearable because of it’s shaky underpinnings. A quick look at English National Pride will find it is supported on three spindly legs.
Historical battle victories that helped build an Empire.
Economic strength.
The notion that, bad as it is, the rest of the world is still vaguely inferior to glorious England.
Equally quickly, we can dispatch these legs as follows.
I used to be a contender; The last important battle England won on it’s own merits was against the Faulkland Islands, which, as has been pointed out more times than I can recall, was a little like picking a fight against a midget. Ditto for Cyprus. In the modern day, they have followed the US to every major conflict from Vietnam to Iraq and so share in our uncanny ability to mess things up and run away when it gets too hard, (although in Britain’s case, it’s all the more cretinous, because while we start the fight, they seem to join it like a comedy sidekick). Their military training is so sub-par that the modern British army is virtually rendered cannon fodder in the current Iraq war and their weapons industry has become, as pointed out in the latest issue of Prospect Magazine, the punchline in a Haliburtan in-joke. They used-to-could but now they just plain can’t.
Show me the money; The incredible irony of England is that it has a first rate economy and a third world standard of living. How on earth can a country whose exchange rate towers over the rest of the world reduce its own people to virtual poverty? On top of this, a luxury tax at almost 20% means that, as I’ve said since the beginning of this blog, the only time it’s good to be British, is when you are outside Britain, spending British pounds. (And invariably, this is when you Englanders whine the most).
It’s a shithole, but it’s home; London, unsurprisingly, did not rank in the Top 5 most livable cities on earth. Nor did it place in the Top 10 , the Top 15 or even the Top 20. In fact, London makes no appearance in the world’s most livable cities list until we descend to the unfashionable depths of the +30 mark. That’s at least thirty other cities, (such as Tokyo, Munich, Paris, Sydney, Edinburgh, Aukland, and good ole NYC herself) that are far more livable than London. In fact, if you look at London’s closest neighbors on this list, you’re staring at places like Mexico City #29. On top of this, you can’t rely on your weather because it sometimes floods the country. You can’t rely on your relaxed pace of life because your people are among the most time pressured in Europe. You can’t rely on your scenery, (The rock dominoes of Stonehenge?) You can’t rely on your clean air as the droves of soot fingered tube commuting nose pickers demonstrate each morning. In fact, not even the English themselves can bare to live here, with London experiencing the highest rate of emigration in its history as reported in various tube trash over the last two weeks.
So we see your bloated sense of National Pride, as proudly hung from the kitchen windows of housing estates everywhere is little more than an emaciated lie. You cling to an idea of an England that no longer exists.
Why?
For a multitude of complicated reasons, one of which being, it feels good to think that while you as a individual British idiot aren’t very powerful or rich or intelligent, that the English AS A WHOLE are pretty powerful and rich and intelligent. AS A WHOLE you are an important nation, AS A WHOLE you matter. You align yourselves with the WHOLE so you don’t have to look at yourselves. You defend the nation because you cannot defend yourselves.
Take a look at the average English soccer enthusiast. It’s not enough to simply want your team to win, after the game finishes the defeated English soccer fan looks to find someone they can assault. How many times has a game been, “lost on the field but won in the carpark” in a violent, puffing, beer bloated and sweaty confrontation. This is not only abnormal, it’s a telling sign of national neuroses.
To criticize England is to wobble the thin, spindly sticks that hold the average Englander’s self esteem above water. To suggest that England is imperfect is to look behind the curtain. To see the English for what they are, to point and cruelly laugh.
The English don’t support, they cling.
They don’t just like a team, they become a team.
By themselves they are nothing, useless, weak, chubby, pale.
But supporting a team, a party, a nation - well, then they have significance.
I’m someone, they seem to say. I have a team. I have a flag. I’m part of something important.
It’s kind of sad.
But mostly, it’s disgusting and primitive. Like England.
And I’m not sure you can change this. When I envisage the English genetic code, I see something covered in wet beer-urine. I see something that cannot be reasoned with, nor fixed nor educated nor changed, not because it is strong, but because it is mentally deficient.
In plain terms, this is a nation of meat-heads.
Asking England to give up it’s ridiculous class system and resulting sense of self loathing is like asking France to give up cheese or America to give up being really cool and friendly and tough and handsome.
So, I am going to put forward the following idea. I hope you all link to this piece and tell all your Anglophobic, anti-british friends about it. I want this idea to permeate every part of the world and even if it doesn’t, at least it’ll give your English hating friends something to laugh about.
So, here goes…
I, The Duke OF New York, put forward that the European Union, together with the United Nations and the United States, sanction the United Kingdom to one child per family.
That these three same governmental bodies grant cash bonuses to mixed marriages to encourage interbreeding between cultures.
That English women should have to apply for a permit to begin a relationship with another English man, (and vice versa) and that the number of permits be strictly limited.
By my calculations, within 20 generations, we will have effectively bred the English out of England. Noone gets hurt, (or knifed), the ugliest people on earth are encouraged, (and in some cases finiancially rewarded) for breeding with better stock, and once the class system is gone, (and with it, the English mindset), we can start building a utopia.
England is a beautiful country. Green, green grass, beautiful sunsets, calm, temperate weather. The only thing that ruins it, are the donkey-faced, pig-thinking sensibilities of the fugly assed English.
With them gone, we can fill this glorious island with Italian and French chefs, Brazilian, Swedish and Spanish girls, Australian bartenders, Irish comedians, German engineers, and every New York born person from Mike D to Rudolph Guilliani, (Ixnay on the Umptray). We’ll get some Turkish guys for the late night kebabs, and some Scottish people to run the banks and I think we’ve got ourselves a blueprint people.
As The Kinks once famously observed, “There’s no England anymore”.
The UK is over.
This new utopia is a brand new kingdom with a bright new future.
I call it,
The New K.
Who’s with me?
This has been a broadcast from The Duke of New York.
Soon to be available on Podcast via iTunes. Stay tuned.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
God Save The Queen., (from being mugged at knifepoint)
I suppose it was only a matter of time before a nation of anger managment trainees ended up topping the violent crimes stats, And gosh darn it, you done did it afterall.
The Sunday Times reported today, that the British are more likely to be the victims of serious crime than the citizens of any other industrialized nation.
Outstanding!
64,000 robberies via knifepoint.
The highest level of assaults in Europe.
More risk of being robbed than anywhere in the US.
As if the food, the teeth, the tube and the British public couldn’t get any worse…
You know, you’ll have to forgive me. It’s just, we Americans labor under the misperception that you Englanders are a peaceful lot.
I mean, you outlawed guns for everyone, (except for your police force, who seem much more interested in shooting civilians and driving in their cars than actually walking the streets like they do in NYC).
You sit like bloated pigs atop a moral highhorse and pontificate that the US are warmongers, (and then you follow the troops straight into battle, like toads).
And as it turns out, while you were doing the endless Limey finger point at anyone else but yourselves, your ASBO eating population grew up and took the nearest kitchen knife and started stabbing people left right and center.
Bravo England, still could be worse, they could be French, right?
Or American.
Or Australian.
Or…
The article goes on to state that Britain has become a walk-on-by nation, which I think is a little untrue. If you see someone with a knife, my advice is to drop your wallet and run, don’t be a hero. Especially not with the withered, spindly arms the men over here have.
You couldn’t arm wrestle a pipe cleaner.
That being said, I think you’ve always been cowards, it’s just that you’re now being put to the test. You walk about with a beer induced ego and some school yard jibes, “Oh, Americans are too friendly and fat, and the Australians all laugh too loudly and the French always run away in battle and the Irish are all drunks…and so on.
But here we are, in 2007, your battle victories have become the dusty chapters of ancient history, your culture reduced to a sense of knowing the difference between a Jackson Pollock and a decaying shark in formaldehyde, your stiff upper lip now a trembles when walking past anyone in a hooded sweatshirt and whatever else props up your ridiculously disproportionate sense of sagging national pride, withers away and you’re left with the undeniable truth.
Still, mustn’t grumble.
The Sunday Times reported today, that the British are more likely to be the victims of serious crime than the citizens of any other industrialized nation.
Outstanding!
64,000 robberies via knifepoint.
The highest level of assaults in Europe.
More risk of being robbed than anywhere in the US.
As if the food, the teeth, the tube and the British public couldn’t get any worse…
You know, you’ll have to forgive me. It’s just, we Americans labor under the misperception that you Englanders are a peaceful lot.
I mean, you outlawed guns for everyone, (except for your police force, who seem much more interested in shooting civilians and driving in their cars than actually walking the streets like they do in NYC).
You sit like bloated pigs atop a moral highhorse and pontificate that the US are warmongers, (and then you follow the troops straight into battle, like toads).
And as it turns out, while you were doing the endless Limey finger point at anyone else but yourselves, your ASBO eating population grew up and took the nearest kitchen knife and started stabbing people left right and center.
Bravo England, still could be worse, they could be French, right?
Or American.
Or Australian.
Or…
The article goes on to state that Britain has become a walk-on-by nation, which I think is a little untrue. If you see someone with a knife, my advice is to drop your wallet and run, don’t be a hero. Especially not with the withered, spindly arms the men over here have.
You couldn’t arm wrestle a pipe cleaner.
That being said, I think you’ve always been cowards, it’s just that you’re now being put to the test. You walk about with a beer induced ego and some school yard jibes, “Oh, Americans are too friendly and fat, and the Australians all laugh too loudly and the French always run away in battle and the Irish are all drunks…and so on.
But here we are, in 2007, your battle victories have become the dusty chapters of ancient history, your culture reduced to a sense of knowing the difference between a Jackson Pollock and a decaying shark in formaldehyde, your stiff upper lip now a trembles when walking past anyone in a hooded sweatshirt and whatever else props up your ridiculously disproportionate sense of sagging national pride, withers away and you’re left with the undeniable truth.
Still, mustn’t grumble.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Innocent Fete - Guilty of boring the hell out of me
I've only been to one state fair in my life. It was in Texas and I went because the Texas State Fair is famous for deep frying things in hot oil. They deep fried a mars bar, ice cream, fruit, cookies. I even saw a deep friend salad. I didn't eat it, but they definately deep fried it. It was about the most disgusting thing I'd seen in my life.
This weekend, I went to the Innocent Smoothies Fete in London, (Fete is British for fair), and can say that while I didn't see anything deep fried in hot oil, I certainly saw a lot of sweaty fat. Acres of it in fact. The sun was out, and so the vast gastropods that inhabit this isle buffed down and exposed the world to their mounds of glistening, sloppy gut flesh, their dimpled greasy thighs and their sparse "pube on a soap bar" chests and bellies.
It was like a giant, lard coloured lava lamp with BO. Were it not for my iron strong constitution, I'd have vomited more or less continuously.
It was a strange site really. The fete was kind of like a little window into the suicidally depressing world of the British public. At American state fairs, we usually have a few attractions such as a bearded woman, there's sometimes a stuntman jumping a bus, there's plenty of hot dogs and beer, and at the very least, there's always a ferris wheel, which is kind of silly, but is always good fun.
The British take on the state fair is a little different. They have ferret racing. This involves taking some lengths of PVC piping, cellotaping it together and pushing the ferrets into the tube and then waiting for them to come out the other end. I know you won’t believe this, but I’ll report it anyway…the PVC piping is NOT transparent, so the result of the entertainment, is that a small, wet rat is placed in one end of a tube and then we all wait for it to emerge from the other end, cheer and, (in the case of the couple standing in front of me) perform a synchronized fart and leave.
Good grief.
But the depths of this day were not limited to mere rodent abuse. There was all kinds mindkilling entertainment. There was a dog agility course, which involved middle aged British women, (or men, who can tell at that age) choke dragging their poor dogs around an obstacle course. There was the usual beige of English people queing in line for something gadawful, (the Pimms line was about 4 light years long). There was maypole dancing, which had British people clapping and smiling at what amounted to little more than a group of children wrapping ribbons around a pole. Sweet, maybe. Interesting. Possibly not. Worth the five pound admission charge. No.
But the real part of this day that I wanted to share with you, was the VIP area. British people are nothing if not class conscious paedophiles, so even their state fairs, godawfully boring as they are, still have a little section where everyone can scurry away to and say, “Well, yes, it was rubbish, but I got into the VIP area. I think I saw Harry”.
Idiots.
This weekend, I went to the Innocent Smoothies Fete in London, (Fete is British for fair), and can say that while I didn't see anything deep fried in hot oil, I certainly saw a lot of sweaty fat. Acres of it in fact. The sun was out, and so the vast gastropods that inhabit this isle buffed down and exposed the world to their mounds of glistening, sloppy gut flesh, their dimpled greasy thighs and their sparse "pube on a soap bar" chests and bellies.
It was like a giant, lard coloured lava lamp with BO. Were it not for my iron strong constitution, I'd have vomited more or less continuously.
It was a strange site really. The fete was kind of like a little window into the suicidally depressing world of the British public. At American state fairs, we usually have a few attractions such as a bearded woman, there's sometimes a stuntman jumping a bus, there's plenty of hot dogs and beer, and at the very least, there's always a ferris wheel, which is kind of silly, but is always good fun.
The British take on the state fair is a little different. They have ferret racing. This involves taking some lengths of PVC piping, cellotaping it together and pushing the ferrets into the tube and then waiting for them to come out the other end. I know you won’t believe this, but I’ll report it anyway…the PVC piping is NOT transparent, so the result of the entertainment, is that a small, wet rat is placed in one end of a tube and then we all wait for it to emerge from the other end, cheer and, (in the case of the couple standing in front of me) perform a synchronized fart and leave.
Good grief.
But the depths of this day were not limited to mere rodent abuse. There was all kinds mindkilling entertainment. There was a dog agility course, which involved middle aged British women, (or men, who can tell at that age) choke dragging their poor dogs around an obstacle course. There was the usual beige of English people queing in line for something gadawful, (the Pimms line was about 4 light years long). There was maypole dancing, which had British people clapping and smiling at what amounted to little more than a group of children wrapping ribbons around a pole. Sweet, maybe. Interesting. Possibly not. Worth the five pound admission charge. No.
But the real part of this day that I wanted to share with you, was the VIP area. British people are nothing if not class conscious paedophiles, so even their state fairs, godawfully boring as they are, still have a little section where everyone can scurry away to and say, “Well, yes, it was rubbish, but I got into the VIP area. I think I saw Harry”.
Idiots.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Top Ten World's Smallest Books
10. The Big Book of British Smiles (that don't make you want to puke).
9. English women who don't induce impotence.
8. The Good Food Guide (UK edition)
7. Great British Lovers.
6. The census figures of British males who have had sex in the past 12 months.
5. Great Tube travel stories 4. Current statistics outlining national UK soap usage.
3. UK men not currently under investigation for child porn.
2. Number of brits who weren’t anally violated in grade school
AND the all time number one SMALLEST book in the world…
1. A pop up book featuring a full length photo of the British penis.
9. English women who don't induce impotence.
8. The Good Food Guide (UK edition)
7. Great British Lovers.
6. The census figures of British males who have had sex in the past 12 months.
5. Great Tube travel stories 4. Current statistics outlining national UK soap usage.
3. UK men not currently under investigation for child porn.
2. Number of brits who weren’t anally violated in grade school
AND the all time number one SMALLEST book in the world…
1. A pop up book featuring a full length photo of the British penis.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Sights from the Underground
A man protected by a bio hazard suit sprays train poles that are touched by British people. It is believed that more than ninty percent of the world's warts come from touching surfaces that have been touched by British people.
London 2012: The shittiest games ever.
Join me on a happy thought…
If you’ve seen the logo for the London 2012 Olympic games, you will have to agree; it looks like a cartoon of someone getting a blow job from Lisa Simpson. Given the paedo vibe you get from middle aged English men, it seems quite apt. I’ve said it for months, but it appears England just outed itself as the creepy uncle of Europe.
But a kiddie fiddler games logo is the least of London’s woes as they get nearer to 2012. The lurking nightmare visitors to this toilet state are yet to encounter is the cargo freight Londoners laughingly refer to as their public transport system, otherwise known as, The Tube.
I won’t go into the manifold short fallings of this antiquated shit heap of a train system. Suffice to say the air in the tunnels is so badly circulated, that the platforms are clogged with fat English people sweating and that the trains themselves are inevitably packed with the swarms of halitosis visitors to London call, The British.
Now, the repairs to this tube are pathetically behind schedule. I mean, it’s one thing to say things are running a bit late, but a paper recently added up all the days that all the different tube projects were running behind schedule, and it turns out that the tube repairs are, (and I swear to God this is true), 104 years behind schedule.
One.
Hundred.
And four.
YEARS!
Consider for a moment, that the London Tube has one of the most expensive ticket prices in the world.
If you’ve seen the logo for the London 2012 Olympic games, you will have to agree; it looks like a cartoon of someone getting a blow job from Lisa Simpson. Given the paedo vibe you get from middle aged English men, it seems quite apt. I’ve said it for months, but it appears England just outed itself as the creepy uncle of Europe.
But a kiddie fiddler games logo is the least of London’s woes as they get nearer to 2012. The lurking nightmare visitors to this toilet state are yet to encounter is the cargo freight Londoners laughingly refer to as their public transport system, otherwise known as, The Tube.
I won’t go into the manifold short fallings of this antiquated shit heap of a train system. Suffice to say the air in the tunnels is so badly circulated, that the platforms are clogged with fat English people sweating and that the trains themselves are inevitably packed with the swarms of halitosis visitors to London call, The British.
Now, the repairs to this tube are pathetically behind schedule. I mean, it’s one thing to say things are running a bit late, but a paper recently added up all the days that all the different tube projects were running behind schedule, and it turns out that the tube repairs are, (and I swear to God this is true), 104 years behind schedule.
One.
Hundred.
And four.
YEARS!
Consider for a moment, that the London Tube has one of the most expensive ticket prices in the world.
Now, even if these Limey Bumsniffers work as fast as their fat, lazy ugly butts can manage and finish every repair on schedule for the next four and a half years, they will still have a train system that would fail to impress people living in the early part of LAST CENTURY.
And here we come to my happy thought. It’s my moment of sunshine when I think the world is finally going to see this place as the steaming pile of vomit coated turd that it is.
And here we come to my happy thought. It’s my moment of sunshine when I think the world is finally going to see this place as the steaming pile of vomit coated turd that it is.
London can;t cope with the population it already has.
What are they going to do with the million or so visitors that come with the games?
Do you remember the Atlanta games? (God bless America,). They were a success, but they were marred by the public transport system that couldn’t cope with the million plus visitors who came to see the games.
It was a shame. Atlanta is an otherwise traffic free city, they just weren’t prepared for the huge number of visitors.
London on the other hand is nyyyot a traffic free city. It's a city so choked with congestion it has a special congestion charge to drivers who come into the city in the hope that it'll keep them out. It has a train system worse than bulgaria. It's running at peak speed and it's still a hundred years too slow.
London...it just ain't goin happen. You're going to crumble. You're struggling with what you've got. How are yeh goin to deal with a million more?
The influx of visitors is goin choke yeh.
AND THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING.
Teams will miss events.
Visitors will be stranded.
Train stations will collapse.
The infrastructure will fall.
It will go down in history.
The Olympic Games where we all realized what London really was.
Just straight up, awful.
And I know two things about 2012 that are absolutely certain.
One is, that no matter what, I will be watching these games on an HDTV somewhere in the greater United States of America, sipping a bud and laughing my damn ass off
and two,
that the 2012 games are going to suck as much as their creepy assed logo does. (And I mean that with all disrespect).
God Bless America.
The Olympic Games where we all realized what London really was.
Just straight up, awful.
And I know two things about 2012 that are absolutely certain.
One is, that no matter what, I will be watching these games on an HDTV somewhere in the greater United States of America, sipping a bud and laughing my damn ass off
and two,
that the 2012 games are going to suck as much as their creepy assed logo does. (And I mean that with all disrespect).
God Bless America.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Beautiful England
I once read a book by a British author who suggested that there is an ancient convention of the human race that states that a person’s face should allow public access to the private self.
Whatever the hell that means I’m sure I have no idea, but it does allow me to show you some more pictures of typically un-beautiful English people who, if convention stands correctly, have the soul of a pedophilic skeleton.
Enjoy.
Whatever the hell that means I’m sure I have no idea, but it does allow me to show you some more pictures of typically un-beautiful English people who, if convention stands correctly, have the soul of a pedophilic skeleton.
Enjoy.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Theory of Uglicity - Face pulling / Wind changing
The English pull a lot of faces. Ask an English person what the time is and if they don't know they'll often say,
"Oooh, I haven't got a watch. Sor-rey" and pull this face. This ghastly, I-don't-have-a-watch-but-would-you-like-to-see-my-gingavitis-covered-gums face.
Along with a default mood seeting, The English have a default face. You'll know they one I'm talking about. It's that look they all get that says, "I've just licked balls". It's what their faces do when most other people have a half smile, or just a plain stare. In England they pull a face.
Tell them bad news. "Oh ree-lee" They'll pull a face.
Watch them complain. "It was ssso unfair" They pull a face.
Soccer team scores a goal. "Arse-nal" They pull a face.
Tea is served with biscuits. "Oooh Lovely" They pull a face. Oh god, and they rub their hands.
For an bunch of ugly folk, they don't do themselves any favours.
"Oooh, I haven't got a watch. Sor-rey" and pull this face. This ghastly, I-don't-have-a-watch-but-would-you-like-to-see-my-gingavitis-covered-gums face.
Along with a default mood seeting, The English have a default face. You'll know they one I'm talking about. It's that look they all get that says, "I've just licked balls". It's what their faces do when most other people have a half smile, or just a plain stare. In England they pull a face.
Tell them bad news. "Oh ree-lee" They'll pull a face.
Watch them complain. "It was ssso unfair" They pull a face.
Soccer team scores a goal. "Arse-nal" They pull a face.
Tea is served with biscuits. "Oooh Lovely" They pull a face. Oh god, and they rub their hands.
For an bunch of ugly folk, they don't do themselves any favours.
British Nosferatu
Britain's Vital Statistics
Let’s paint by numbers.
#1 Fattest women in Europe1.
# 2 Ugliest women on earth2.
# 1 Users of internet pornography3.
#2 Fattest men in Europe1.
# 1 most unsatisfying lovers4.
1 in 3 men have not had sex in the past twelve months or more4
1 in 5 men still living at home with parents at age 285.
So we can deduce from these figures, that England is a nation of people struggling with obesity, harnessed by genetics to a yoke of unsightly physical features, denied intimacy by fear of social embarrassment and unable to escape the suffocating immaturity of living in the family nest.
Or that they’re all fat, ugly wankers.
It’s your call.
References
1 EU Office of Statistics. Obesity rates in Europe. 2006
2 Global survey. FHM magazine. 2005
3 Nielsen’s Net Ratings. 2006
4 Journal of Sex and Marital Therapy 2006
5 Government Statistics reported in The Independent on Sunday 2006
P.S Oh and yeah, we do have the fattest women.
But at least the thin ones ain’t so ugly we're too scared to leave the house.
#1 Fattest women in Europe1.
# 2 Ugliest women on earth2.
# 1 Users of internet pornography3.
#2 Fattest men in Europe1.
# 1 most unsatisfying lovers4.
1 in 3 men have not had sex in the past twelve months or more4
1 in 5 men still living at home with parents at age 285.
So we can deduce from these figures, that England is a nation of people struggling with obesity, harnessed by genetics to a yoke of unsightly physical features, denied intimacy by fear of social embarrassment and unable to escape the suffocating immaturity of living in the family nest.
Or that they’re all fat, ugly wankers.
It’s your call.
References
1 EU Office of Statistics. Obesity rates in Europe. 2006
2 Global survey. FHM magazine. 2005
3 Nielsen’s Net Ratings. 2006
4 Journal of Sex and Marital Therapy 2006
5 Government Statistics reported in The Independent on Sunday 2006
P.S Oh and yeah, we do have the fattest women.
But at least the thin ones ain’t so ugly we're too scared to leave the house.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Faces of Britain
The vast majority of people in Britain look the way a fart smells. Which is to say, recoilingly ugly.This wouldn't be so bad, after all, the same can be said of some parts of India and they're still a very lovely people.
However, what the British lack is the kind of easy going, affable personality that helps offset the facial aesthetics. Brain damaged soccer fans at the poor end. Inflexible tedious monarchists at the rich. And mn between a twittering pustule of bitter middle classers.
So what you end up with is a series of truly enormous group who are unbarably belligerant and yet gaspingly unattractive. The ugly chick without the nice personality.
And yes there are ugly people everywhere. I'm sure if you looked hard enough you could find a few uglies from NYC. But guys, seriously...there's ugly and then there's circus ugly. And this place would Barnum & Bailey to shame. Take a gander below. Guaranteed 100% British.
However, what the British lack is the kind of easy going, affable personality that helps offset the facial aesthetics. Brain damaged soccer fans at the poor end. Inflexible tedious monarchists at the rich. And mn between a twittering pustule of bitter middle classers.
So what you end up with is a series of truly enormous group who are unbarably belligerant and yet gaspingly unattractive. The ugly chick without the nice personality.
And yes there are ugly people everywhere. I'm sure if you looked hard enough you could find a few uglies from NYC. But guys, seriously...there's ugly and then there's circus ugly. And this place would Barnum & Bailey to shame. Take a gander below. Guaranteed 100% British.
Friday, May 25, 2007
The British Woman Effect
[ Click to enlarge ] Nature Magazine printed this visual device which simulates the effect of looking directly at a British woman. **warning. you will vomit if you look for longer than two minutes.
Dr Elliott.
We are proud to announce Dr Elliott Rochas of the St Albans School of Medicine will be joining our team. Dr Elliott lives and works in London and will be making time in his very busy schedule to post articles on all things medical as pertaining to the British people. Thank you Dr Elliott and welcome to this growing team.
Print your own Camilla Parker Bowels toilet paper
Enjoy the quilted softness of Camilla Parker Bowells' face when you next use the loo.
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