DIETING (or, "Does my bum look big in this?")

If there’s one cohesive trait of women the world over, it’s dieting.  Or more correctly, unsuccessful dieting.  Come on. When will you all give up like us men and embrace the rotundness that god intended?

A woman I was with once was spending ages in the bathroom getting ready.  I knocked on the door and after what seemed like hours she reluctantly opened the door and as the steam billowed out I popped my head around the door and as her sillouette came into focus i could see her looking at herself in the mirror in her new dress.  She turned to me and asked "Do i look fat in this?".  My response of "A bit, but it is a smallish kinda bathroom" didnt go down to well.

Like women, we men are also guilty of declaring “I really need to lose some weight”.  However, that’s where the similarity ends.  Women usually say it while looking at a reflection of their arse in a mirror with a dejected look, whilst men are usually holding their overhanging belly and gently jigging it up and down with a smirk on their face.

One other subtle but equally important difference is that women will then embark on a concerted effort to stick to the latest get fit quick scam whilst men will simply do absolutely fuck all about it.

Which brings me quite neatly onto the main subject of this post.  Get fit quick scams, which is my endearing name for diets.  Whenever I have attempted to discuss these so called “diets” or “regimens” or “lifestyles” depending on who’s selling them, I get a barrage of abuse for talking from an uneducated perspective.  I am accused of all manner of things like being stupid, unsympathetic, uninformed, biased, misogynistic and a complete bastard.

So my fair maidens, I made the decision to try out each and every one of the diets I discuss here.  So I can confidently talk from experience and all your accusations can go suck eggs.  Apart from the one where I am a bastard.

Please remember that any of you considering a weight loss program should consult their doctor first.  Unless your doctor is a fat bastard because then it’s just a waste of time.

ATKINS (The “shitting toxic bricks” diet)

What’s it all about then?

This is the one where you can eat whatever you like as long as it’s meat.  The diet does allow other things like eggs, oils, butter and nuts; but you invariably end up overdosing on kebabs, fried chicken and steaks.

Do you lose weight?

Funnily enough, yes you do.  First few days the weight drops off but that’s usually just water loss.  The fact that you are depleting the carbohydrate stores in your body and not replenishing them, you also lose water.  That’s because carbs usually need water to be stored with them.  I’m not an expert and that’s the layman’s explanation so live with it.

After that, the weight loss is at a more modest pace but it’s still there.

What’s wrong with it.

You are encouraged to drink lots and lots of water.  This is to flush out all the excess protein in your system that can make your kidneys give up the ghost.  Invariably, you end up drinking less than is needed and your piss ends up turning a lovely hue of dark orange.  It doesn’t stop there.  Your bowel movements become less frequent and when you actually do go for a shit, be prepared for a turd that feels like it’s been baked in the midday sun for a few hours and is coming out sideways.  The assault on your ringpiece is criminal at least.  Normally, my dumps don’t smell that bad, but on this diet, the rancid stench will leave you gagging.  I would suggest taking a shit in a forest or something.  You can find out if you take a dump in a forest and there’s no one there, does it still smell?”, however, that excludes you.

You crave carbs like hell and if you have a sweet tooth, god help you.  I eventually gave this diet up when I dreamt I was masturbating with a glazed doughnut.

Similar diets

Dukan Diet:  Same sort of thing but with a French twist.  You are encouraged to eat oat bran though which makes your turds a little less concrete-like. Breaks the diet up into phases gradually introducing more complex carbs with the ultimate phase being “eat whatever you like” with the condition that one day a week you eat only protein.

South Beach Diet: Again essentially the same thing but tries to sound sexy and also tries to confuse you with ‘glycemic index’.  Still a low carb diet.

CALORIE LIMITED READY MEALS (The “I’m too fucking lazy” diet)

What’s it all about then?

You pay some company the equivalent of US$700 per month to deliver your prepared meals on a daily basis.  You get three meals plus two or three snacks.  These are prepackaged and delivered to your door.  You just eat what you’re given.

It does save you having to buy and prepare food and no dishes if you eat out of the containers.

The meals are ok for the first week, then they start getting quite boring.  There’s only so much you can do with chicken breast, lettuce and zucchini; I mean related to eating them that is.

Does it work?

I think I lost about 1kg the month I was on it.  But I don’t think I was doing it right. I think you’re supposed to eat each meal at normal meal times not save everything up and have a feast at midnight.

What’s wrong with it?

Its bloody expensive for a start.  It’s about US$25 a day.  You can get a hell of a lot of vegetables and fruits for that if only you would get up off your fat lazy arse and made your own meals.

You have to be so damned lazy to do this diet.  Possibly the main reason that you’re a tub of lard in the first place.

Similar Diets: Weight Watchers, Slim Fast ready meals.

BULIMIA NERVOSA (Twice the taste, zero calories)

What’s it all about then?

You eat whatever you like and then stick your fingers down your throat and vomit everything back out.  Remember that you cannot re-eat anything.  That’s just being cheap.  Plus, there's diced carrots in there whether you’ve eaten them or not.

Does it work?

I did it for a couple of days and I lost about 1.5kg.  If you extrapolate that further it could be quite effective in the long term.  I mean, you’re essentially starving yourself.

What’s wrong with it?

Apart from needing to be insane?  This is basically starving yourself with the added bonus of actually eating whatever you like. 

You may be satisfying the psychological need for food but not the physiological need.  Apart from losing weight you’ll also end up losing your teeth and it comes with a whole host of other benefits like:

• Scarred hands from rubbing them against your teeth when you make yourself gag.
• Heart problems from electrolyte imbalance
• Heartburn from hell
• Inflammation of the esophagus
• Ulcers
• Constipation

A lot of these occur because you’re throwing up a lot of acid as well as food.  Your throat, mouth, teeth etc were just not designed for that sort of abuse.

For those of you contemplating this one, I have a second hand car I can sell you.

Similar Diets: The E.Coli Diet.

CONCLUSION

Well my little lettuce crunchers.... what have we learned from this socio-psycho-physiological experiment? (wow.... I just made that double hyphen word up and it sounds like a real one).

Theres only two ways about it.

1.  Embrace the fuller figure that the lord has bestowed upon you (I intentionally didnt say cursed you with to make people feel better.... oh dear.... did I say that out loud?). 

Eat whatever you like with the full knowledge that that last pie and chips followed by doughnuts is worth all the contempt that people heap on you.

You'll probably die when you're poorly oxygenated heart gives up trying to pump blood to every cell of that oversized lump of lard that passes for a body.  You'll most likely be eating at the time.  At least people can say "We'll at least he went doing what he loved". 

I digress here but I think that can be said about anyone if you include breathing.  I mean, who doesnt love breathing? Have you tried not breathing? ..... where was I?.. oh yea.



2.  Care for your body and your health by eating the stuff that rabbits eat.  Theres a reason we keep them in cages.  To stop them ripping our throats out at night and raiding the fridge.

Have you ever noticed how all the healthy food comes out the other end much the same as the way it went in.  I bet the the toilet in these health food joints looks much like the buffet.

Anyway.  Eat healthy and excercise.  Run for miles and sweat like the pig your not allowed to eat.  Have you noticed how all runners grimace? They never smile.  I cant believe you can enjoy anything that makes your face contort like that.

Eat healthy and excercise and you'll live a to a ripe old age.  You'll have decades to fill with regret and resentment for not eating that steak or that cream cake.  It's too late now.  You're body couldnt take it now as you munch through muesli just so your arse doesnt stop working.



Its a grim picture either way.  Sorry.

On a more serious note....

I havent been able to post for a while (there's a tendency for me to start my posts like this recently), life's been a little hectic. Right, excuses over.


If you read my blog, you may come to the conclusion that I'm a very angry person indeed. Funny thing is, if you met me, I come across as being quite an affable sort of chap. Dare I say, even cheery at times.


I suppose I vent my anger through writing. Never got over the teenage angst thing I suppose.  I have decided, since this is my blog and I do what the hell I please, that I would post something serious.


The only time I ever get serious (apart from some job interviews) is when I write poetry. ("OH MY GOD!!!!" I hear you gasp "IS THERE NO END TO THIS MAN'S TALENTS?"). Yes it's true, I shit you not dear friends. I have been known to dabble in poetry, albeit in response to some calamity that has been thrust upon me (mmmnn, thrust, I should use that word more often).


Nonetheless, I am going to post a poem that I wrote when i got dumped many many years ago. Please..oh please... oh please, if any of you get a sudden urge to critique it for style, structure or content, do me a favour and go do something more useful like removing your eyes with a pointed stick or battering your tongue wafer thin with a steak tenderiser.


So here it is...


Cry


The pain will go away? Time heals all? More fish in the sea to seek?
Do you feel a sickening ache in your gut? cry yourself to sleep? have guilt cutting you to the bone? come share awhile before you speak,
or leave me be and take your tired old clichés and your pretentious vomit with you.
Your oh so considerate and judgmental sympathy; the way you glance at each other and roll your eyes, that way you do.
I know what you think, and I don’t care, festering in my own unshaven and hungry misery,
lapping the last drips from the bottle, its emptiness a fitting reminder of my own destiny.


Grief is such a chore, and so lonely, why cant it come with an accomplice?
Pain would suffice, but sleep would be a more welcome solace.
A monopoly of despair, stop the greed,
share and share alike, many more desperate hearts to feed.


Ahh, opportunity knocks, an open door, respite, redemption, the terminal high
never asked for help, why? would it not then be a cry?
as the mist clears, a bloodless shell, the testament, a reluctant witness
swimming in a crimson sea of solitude, a naked lonely child thrown into an abyss

100 million what!!!?



I know I havent blogged in a while.  These anger management CDs seemed to be working.  "Seemed" being the operative word.  Needless to say I have smashed them, burned them and pissed over their twisted plastic remains.  Its much more therapeutic to actually scream, rant, break something or punch someone in the face.  Anyway, I digress, so let me get to the point.

The nutter in question

So Chinese artist, Ai weiwei, has an exhibition at the Tate modern gallery in London. BBC Article here

What he’s done is dump 100 million sunflower seeds onto the floor of the Turbine Hall (some 1000 square metres of floor space). This moron isn’t just content with normal sunflower seeds... no sirree... these are 150 tonnes of porcelain seeds handmade and hand painted by south Chinese workers and brought over to the Tate (the seeds not the workers!).

You know how much I despise the art world. But this really takes the biscuit. 100 million seeds!!!! It beggars belief.

If we just work out what this means.  This is a very rough estimate to put things in perspective.  So you cost engineers and quantity surveyors please do not start picking at it.  You are free to do an intricate analysis in your spare time whilst touching yourself provocatively.... as i know you are prone to do.

Let’s assume that it takes someone a minute to mould and paint one of these things. I am not an expert but I assume they’ll also need to be fired in a kiln of some sort. Anyway 100,000,000 minutes is about 190 years. Now I am assuming that not one person did all these. He says it took about two years. Now I know its china and people are worked like dogs with little break and certainly no holidays; but for comparisons sake, I’m going to assume it has similar conditions to the U.K. So; to translate the 190 years of effort into something rational. 190 years are about 85 people working nonstop or 255 people on 8 hour shifts; for those two years. If we take lunch breaks, toilet breaks and breaks to laugh at the idea; it will be around 340 people. If we take off weekends it becomes 470. Factor in holidays, we have about 520.

520 people working on nothing else but this garbage. FOR TWO YEARS!!! I haven’t even included people to fire the seeds, pack them, transport them, deliver the raw materials, run the factory... etc etc. Or even costs of energy, water and everything else. Did these people work for free?

I would wager a conservative estimate of over a thousand people. A THOUSAND PEOPLE!!!! WORKING FOR TWO YEARS!!!!! Just so some idiot could get his picture in the paper. I would have preferred if his claim to fame was that he was crushed under a single 150 ton block of concrete (porcelain’s too good for him)

The thing that really pisses me off is that chief curator at the Tate, Sheena Wagstaff was quoted as saying it was a "beautifully simple idea that belies an extraordinary rich layer of meanings and references." What? Are you serious woman? More like “a ridiculously expensive prank that belies an extraordinary thick consistency of shit occupies the space my brain should be in” Do people actually get paid for saying stuff like this?

I worry for the human race… I really do.

Hey buddy!

Yesterday, I looked at our relationships with the fairer sex. Our princesses that make this whole life so sweet, until you marry one of them. But thats another story.

Today, I thought I would post rules for men interacting with other men. There are etiqettes to these relationships and the following should help you form understanding, fruitful and totally manly interactions with your buddies.

Again, no credit for me here. I just added pictures for our dyslexic readers.



Under no circumstances may two men share an umbrella.








It is OK for a man to cry ONLY under the following circumstances:
(a) When a heroic dog dies to save its master.
(b) The moment Angelina Jolie starts unbuttoning her blouse.
(c) After wrecking your boss's car.
(d) One hour, 12 minutes, 37 seconds into "The Crying Game".
(e) When she is using her teeth.








Any Man who brings a camera to a bachelor party may be legally killed and eaten by his buddies.







Unless he murdered someone in your family, you must bail a friend out of jail within 12 hours.








If you've known a guy for more than 24 hours, his sister is off limits forever unless you actually marry her.






Moaning about the brand of free beer in a buddy's fridge is forbidden. However complain at will if the temperature is unsuitable.





No man shall ever be required to buy a birthday present for another man. In fact, even remembering your buddy's birthday is strictly optional. At that point, you must celebrate at a strip bar of the birthday boy's choice.










On a road trip, the strongest bladder determines pit stops, not the weakest.







When stumbling upon other guys watching a sporting event, you may ask the score of the game in progress, but you may never ask who's playing.







You may fart in front of a woman only after you have brought her to climax. If you trap her head under the covers for the purpose of flatulent entertainment, she's officially your girlfriend.





It is permissible to drink a fruity alcohol drink only when you're sunning on a tropical beach... and it's delivered by a topless model and only when it's free.








Only in situations of moral and/or physical peril are you allowed to kick another guy in the nuts.






Unless you're in prison, never fight naked.








Friends don't let friends wear Speedos. Ever. Issue closed.












If a man's fly is down, that's his problem, you didn't see anything.








Women who claim they "love to watch sports" must be treated as spies until they demonstrate knowledge of the game and the ability to drink as much as the other sports watchers.







A man in the company of a hot, suggestively dressed woman must remain sober enough to fight.









Never hesitate to reach for the last beer or the last slice of pizza, but not both, that's just greedy.








If you compliment a guy on his six-pack, you'd better be talking about his choice of beer.








Never join your girlfriend or wife in discussing a friend of yours, except if she's withholding sex pending your response.









Phrases that may NOT be uttered to another man while lifting weights:
(a) Yeah, Baby, Push it!
(b) C'mon, give me one more! Harder!
(c) Another set and we can hit the showers!







Never talk to a man in a bathroom unless you are on equal footing: i.e., both urinating, both waiting in line, etc. For all other situations, an almost imperceptible nod is all the conversation you need.






Never allow a telephone conversation with a woman to go on longer than you are able to have sex with her. Keep a stopwatch by the phone. Hang up if necessary.




The morning after you and a girl who was formerly "just a friend" have carnal, drunken monkey sex, the fact that you're feeling weird and guilty is no reason for you not to nail each other again before the discussion occurs about what a big mistake it was.







It is acceptable for you to drive her car. It is not acceptable for her to drive yours.








Thou shalt not buy a car in the colors of brown, pink, lime green,
orange or sky blue.







The girl who replies to the question "What do you want for Christmas?" with "If you loved me, you'd know what I want!" gets an Xbox. End of story.








There is no reason for guys to watch Men's Ice Skating or Men's Gymnastics. Ever.

It's all in the genes

Something happened to me at the mall this weekend. I saw the ugliest baby I have ever had the misfortune to see. It was lost and some woman was dragging it round the store shrieking "is this yours?" only to be met by horrified faces as if she was pointing at some turd that someone had inadvertently dropped on the floor. She eventually caught the parents trying to slip out of the store and with a final triumphant "is this yours?" she cornered them. I could see the anxious father mulling it over in his head, he looked towards his wife for a second and with a shrug of his shoulders and a resigned look on his face he reluctantly said "yeah".

Now dont get me wrong. I havent always been this hunk of a man who makes women go weak at the knees. "NO WAY!!! THATS IMPOSSIBLE!!" I hear you scream. No. I kid you not my friends. I was the bane and nightmare of every parent. I was the ugly baby. At my birth, my father was approached by an ashen faced doctor telling him "I'm sorry, we did everything we could but it survived". My father asking about the sex of his first born was advised "we dont know yet, we haven't been able to stop it swinging from the ceiling light. Dont worry, we've sent a nurse down to the staff canteen for a banana".

It didn't stop there. My mother, bless her, used to breastfeed me in the dark. But I think even that was too much for her. In the end she just stopped and told me that she just wanted to be friends.

My parents took me to the doctor once, worried sick about my very bad breath and difficulty swallowing. The doctor soon solved the mystery by telling my parents they were holding me upside down. It was a relief to be rid of that diaper, it was suffocating me. I didn't miss that damn pacifier either.

My early childhood wasn't much better. My dad used to lock me in the wardrobe for hours when we had guests round. I believed him when he explained it was elevator practice.

My first school kicked me out because the principal said that my teachers were taking too many days off sick. My second school kicked me out because they said my hump was distracting the other students.

My father was faced with a dilemma. Find me another school or a career with the circus. As the circus wasn't hiring that year, it was another school. Recognising my talent for sport, he decided that an education in a sporting institution was what was called for. So everyday my father would drop me off at school with a tennis racquet and a cheese sandwich. I liked the school. Lots of open spaces and the teachers basically let you get on with it. It took me four years to realise that it was really the local park. I think I would have learned alot more if my dad had once given me a ball aswell as the racquet.

So, I sympathise with all those hideously ugly children out there. I was one. But patience my little vomit inducers. You will have your day one day. As I am living proof that a swan resides in that repulsive exterior waiting to be unleashed on the world. Just wait.

Get away from me damn you!!!

What is it with people here? There are partcular nationalities here (who for the sake of political correctness will remain nameless) who have no concept of personal space. I dont know where it comes from, maybe because they suffer overcrowding at home and its a conditioned response.

For godssake, yesterday I was virtually pulling people out of my pocket. One guy was so close that I could feel his hot breath on my neck and saliva dripping on my shoulder.

I can understand that the concept of personal space may have no place at a crowded U2 concert, where musical passion mixed with alcohol assures a homogenous mass of bodies swaying and singing in unison. I'm sorry, you may think I'm a tad anal, but I dont expect that queuing for a burger at Macdonalds.

I consider myself somewhat non-descript. I am not Brad Pitt or a hideous troll. somewhere in-between. So why oh why do people stare? where I come from, eye contact in a lift, train, bar is frowned upon. It is done, but so clandestinely that if the person you're looking at catches you, you feel like you have just been caught with your hand down their underwear. I was brought up with the concept "Dont stare. It's rude".
In England, you could run through the high street completely naked with an ostrich feather sticking out of your bottom and singing Queens Bohemian Rhapsody and noone will stare. People just don't do it.

Here it's a different story. I've had people stand squarely infront of me, staring like their lives depended on it. Again, it's usually the nationalities that don't understand personal space. If you ever get into a situation where they get up close AND stare at the same time, then you're really up against it. Looks like its "fisty cuffs" time and someones going to be picking their teeth up with a broken arm. Alternatively, I could dig that ostrich feather out again "I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me.....)

God save the Queen

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.