On being British

Pessimistic, miserable drizzling cynics. That's us, a nation of jealous, pasty complainers with bad teeth (well done you, good teeth, but fucked-up healthcare, I know what I prefer - having stained incisors over being a self-medicating trauma victim any day - I'm sorry, sir, you're not insured for involuntary decapitation, have a nice day).

We talk about the weather because we have weather (and a history). And whilst we invented concentration camps and genocide, we didn't feel righteous about it - if there was one reason the British Empire had to exist, it was to destroy the Nazis, and then fuck off into sunset obscurity. To vote (by a landslide) for the dissolution of our evil back in 1945.

But we are still envious, unpleasant snobs. We are still sanctimonious prigs.

Joy is anathema to the intellectual Englishman, our forte is complaint and guilt, shame and desperation.

You look up, we look at the pavement (it's not a fucking sidewalk).

I have made some good and distant friends in the hinterland of the Atlantic ports 3,000 miles away. To you I say, take the bitter polemic as a symptom of a national disease, not a deep-down expression of my inner crapness (that has its own motor).

Much love, going away now.