Home of the Unemployed, Hung-over and Unkempt Plenty.

I don’t like idiots. Much less, do I like people spouting off theoretical what if scenarios and over-the-top doomsday predictions once they’ve had a drink in them. Unfortunately, the two (and often three) go hand-in-hand (-in-hand).

Of late, it being summer, I have taken to the traditional all-British garden party. For those of you not of our splendid isolationist disposition, think of a beer garden, minus the attractive waitress. And your mother is there. It is all very scary, keeping an eye on your friends to make sure they don’t spill sordid secrets of what it is you get up to when you’ve broken free from the shackles of years of a stern, no-nonsense upbringing, and then turning the most brilliant shade of beetroot when your immediate family bring out the horror stories of your childhood.

There’s always plenty of alcohol and cheap food to be had at these most mundane of events, and because it’s a seasonal holiday, you can even have a cocktail. Lager and lime, mind you. You don’t want people to assume that you’re into anything fruitier, which I find appalling: your very own friends reminding everyone of how you insist on ending every night out with exotic linty navels and dogging on the beaches.

I can’t say much, other than I like cocktails. If I were a betting man, I would say that almost every eligible bachelor does. They provide one with an only instance of when it’s okay to say cock in a crowded bar, in front of the ladies. Cock. Cock, cock, cock. See, completely incorrect and offensive.

That is the very mentality of the British drinking culture, though. We laugh at people falling down. A man wearing a dress is most hilarious, and re-telling a sensationalistic story you heard from a guy who knew a guy is just plain cricket. So, the drinking culture is moronic, to say the least, or it’s an average moron wearing a tracksuit and squinty baseball cap. The gender specific of this moron, if female, would be the same, albeit with large, faux-gold earrings. And an orange rub-in tan. Naturally.

Tell this British moron that they have a problem, and they’ll whine and complain that you are the signification of the ‘Nanny State.’ Though, depending in which city you tell them, you could also end up with a bottle ’round the head. The education system, although improving, stills see’s many of its graduates walking away with the inability to string a sentence together. Sad.

Regardless, when said morons keel over with a case of deadness, due to their tarred lungs and out-of-commission livers, they’ll complain that the State didn’t give them that spoonful of sugar. That no one knew that Global Warming was a threat, that Mrs. Moneybags’ 4×4 was an unnecessary addition to an already crowded, smog-tainted, gridlocked city, and that if alcohol and cigarettes are all that bad, there should be a tax on it.

At the least, you’ll never have to hear them tell another story of how they once beat up ten men whilst penning their latest letter of disapproval on how their British jobs are being stolen, even though they’re quite content to sit and home and claim unemployment benefits from the State. The unforgivingly ironic Gordian Knot of scenarios.

I don’t like idiots. I don’t like theoretical what ifs, and I cannot abide by doomsday predictions, but as I said: they very often go hand-in-hand.

NB
This week, I discovered news that a Wiltshire crop circle, boasting the image of a Phoenix, may predict the end of the world.
A mythical creature with the symbolism of being reborn after death, a symbolic message that most people here — on planet Earth — don’t know about.
Thinking that a superior race from another world would even care to learn the message behind a MYTHICAL creature, much less believe in it, is far more depressing to me than it is idiotic.

~ by Jamie on July 6, 2009.