For those of you contemplating a visit to England in the near future, here are a few hints on the English to help you assimilate more easily into English society. Part two of this post will give helpful advice on how to deal with everyday tasks like ordering a pint, asking for directions and protecting your face while being kicked by a gang of hooligans.
Drinking like there is no tomorrow.
People often mistakenly think that the English don’t have a limit. Well that’s not true. They stop when they are physically incapable of drinking any more. Be it through unconsciousness, blindness, immobility or lack of funds.
We have transcended the immature realm of vomiting, our bodies having evolved a strategy of conservation. Our stomachs screaming “we paid for this so its fucking staying in here”. This has a nasty secondary effect of getting so drunk you wake up in a pool of your own urine (or god forbid, someone else’s) or, excruciatingly more painful, a pile of shit.
Not complaining.
We never complain. We whinge, but never publicly. The English could order a filet mignon with artichoke hearts covered in a herb and truffle sauce, be served with a vomit sandwich with rabbit droppings on the side and eat it begrudgingly. They wouldn’t complain “I'll just not go there again”.
Queues
We English love to queue. Sometimes people just queue for the sake of it. I once joined a queue in Leeds. Didn’t know what it was for but I joined anyway.
The only exception is around the bar in a pub. However, even though it seems that people are haphazardly congregated around the bar, there is an “invisible” queue. The bar staff know the position of everyone in this queue and each person knows his own relative position.
Sense of humour
Yup… no one can match our sense of humour. It’s probably the only thing we take seriously. What’s so special about it is that we can laugh at ourselves and nothing is sacred. It’s not unusual to take the piss out of someone while his coffin is being carried to the grave, mock terminally ill patients and find mirth in microwaving small babies. If we can do anything well, its laugh.
Football.
This is not sport. This is religion. More blood has been shed in terraces on a Saturday afternoon than any holy war. It distinguishes the men from the women. Men who don’t follow the sport and cannot keep up a conversation about their team’s last performance are liable to be labelled “queers”. Admitting to “not following” football is tantamount to walking around in a pink dress, handbag and high heels, walking down the road singing “I am such a queer, I like it long and hard, please throw me to the ground and kick me until I piss blood”
Pork
We love our pigs. No other creature shares the elevated status of the humble porker. Roasts, chops, ham, pies, sausages, rashers, scratchings, trotters, you name it, we’ll eat it. Nothing is ever wasted.
In fact, any invading army would only have to cut off the supply of pork (and beer) and the country would surrender in about a month
The Queen.
We love the queen, bless her cotton socks. Forget the fact that she’s as useful as tits on a bull, she’s the queen goddammit, and we love her. However, the bloodline has been tainted a little of late by a few boilers. Fat Fergie started it off and now Camilla the Gorilla holds the title for questionable genetics. This woman is so ugly that if she ever gets pregnant, Charles should give her a good whack in the belly with a cricket bat. To allow the birth of a child from the unholy union of Charles and Camilla is not only cruel but criminal. For godsake, the thing would be like 4th in line to the throne. It’s quite possible its hideous features would grace every coin, banknote and postage stamp in the land. It doesn’t bear thinking about.
The sun
Everyone knows the words to the old Noel Coward song “Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun”. This was not written without basis. It is an accurate reflection of the English’s complete disregard for the destructive effect of UV radiation. I have seen it here in the Gulf. Mid afternoon, the heat is torturous, sweat oozes out of every pore, you squint so hard your head aches, your testicles have decided to fuse into a single mass and your scrotum drags on the floor behind you. Not even mad dogs would brave this inferno. But you can bet your bottom dollar that some hapless Englishman is out walking, pinker than a trannies underwear, gently patting his brow and wafting his shirt “ it’s a bit hot innit?”.
DIY
Do-it-yourself (DIY) is exactly what it says. It’s the opposite to letting someone else do it for you. Those of you sniggering because you think this is a sexual reference are mistaken (and stop touching yourselves…NOW!). This pastime involves hordes of men being dragged by their wives to their local DIY stores across the country. This usually takes place on Sunday and these helpless men can be seen wheeling around tins of paint, rolls of wallpaper and fence posts as their wives hold up pieces of material from their curtains against dado rails to match colours.
There is no nation on earth that has a higher proportion of home owners who religiously maintain their properties with more care and expense than they would invest in their parents.
No sooner does work get completed than some TV wanker on a DIY programme called “lets fuck up your living room” tells you that what you’ve got is naff and this seasons colour is turd brown. “come on!! Lets go!!” you hear the wife shout from the front door.
Driving Etiquette
The English are the most conscientious, well mannered and regimented drivers on earth. It’s a pure joy to drive there. The English traits of “playing by the rules” and “queuing” make the experience a well oiled machine. Unless you’re driving around London where drivers have a shorter lifespan than fruit flies.
One thing to remember is that when another driver lets you pull out in front of him, or allows you right of way (by flashing his headlights), you are obliged to accept his kindness and YOU MUST acknowledge this as you pass him by waving. Be warned that to take up his offer and not give the customary waving acknowledgement is the equivalent of jumping up on his bonnet and crapping on his windscreen. He may follow you home, crack your head open with a tyre iron and repeatedly drive over your twisted and broken body. You have been warned.
Language
English was invented by the English, hence the same name for both language and people. We know how to spell and speak English. There is only English and fucked up English. What’s with the American English bollocks? Its aluminium not aluminum, kerb not curb, doughnut not donut, tyre not tire, programme not program. The list is endless.
If people must create their own language, they should give it a name and not copy ours. Call it Amerish or something you lazy stealing bastards.
Playing by the rules.
No one follows rules better than the English. If the sign says “don’t walk on the grass” an Englishman would rather face an oncoming lorry than save himself by walking on the grass verge.
Playing by the rules probably came from the way the English waged war in the past. Standing bolt upright wearing bright red uniforms because camouflage and the element of surprise was simply “not in the rules”. So you just stood there and got shot. That’s the only way the bleedin Americans won independence. We were too bloody “play by the rules” to duck or run and hide.
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