by Gary Otto
“Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch” – or so says the most scrupulous Brit this side of Depeche Mode. In “Cool Britannia” where the humor is dry and the climate is wet lives the paradoxical average British bloke. A man who calls chips “crisps” as if they were fucking Waffle Crisp.
And let’s be clear: WAFFLE CRISP SUCKED!
Yes, the country that brought you defiant teen angst turned middle-aged whiner Morrissey or the 45 plus-year-old women who dress like 13-year-olds and call themselves The Spice Girls. Or the Be-Tools who walked the yellow brick road on their way to hell in a hand-basket. A place where there is a queen and she can order Kentucky Fried Chicken if she wants, but if the press were to pick up on this – or like, if Princess Di had eaten Kentucky Fried Chicken, the papers would have had a field day. Simply because it was she who ate it.
The one that currently is being run by some guy who looks like Ernie from Sesame Street, Boris Johnson.
Like that party I went to a decade some-odd ago, simply thirsting and aching for this girl I had been getting ready to close escrow with – when some skinny loser with a “Bwum Pwummin” accent comes through the door I had never seen before, he utters some incoherent something totally boring if any American dude had said it, BUT BECAUSE HE HAS AN ACCENT, his dick is in her ass faster than you could say Andy Capp’s Hot Fries.
Starting to ring a bell here? Sound familiar? If so, it’s time to take a step back and really ask yourself the question of who these people are, what do they want, and what the fuck is Brexit anyway – it sounds like the name of a Parker Brothers board game. Enough is enough!