Friday 24th 72F, 22C, warm, breezy and very humid. Bright start but clouded over. The exact opposite of the DMI forecast. Possible thundery showers after lunch. Best to go without lunch then? Just a steady walk down to the village to stretch my legs. Swallows and Martins were swooping wildly around together. A dead cat on the verge had obviously found the car with its name on it. While a large brown buzzard is hunting low over the front field. Just another [lazy] day in paradise.
Those of a nervous disposition had better gloss over the following diatribe:
Some of my readers may still be be unaware of Gravely Blighted's EU referendum "sharp exit" result. I just hope I won't need to pay the Continental 'coyotes' for an illegal boat ride back to the UK. As British, ex-pat immigrants [despite having British birth certificates] we will have to come ashore at some quiet cove to avoid the armed Border Patrols. No doubt supported by red neck, Cornish pasty toting vigilantes in rusting SUVs. With a row of red, white and blue LED spot lamps arranged across their bull bars. No point in trying our luck at the Chunnel. It's been done to death by others who claim far more right to be living in the UK than mere ex-pats. Perhaps we should stop wearing sombreros and 3rd degree suntans and try to look more like the newly impoverished we really are? Even the charity shops over here are far too upmarket to disguise ourselves as recognizable 'natives' beyond the grinding, off-white teeth of Dover.
Over 320,000 Brits live in Spain alone. Claiming refugee status as having escaped from 'cruel and unnatural' treatment by the vile EU Dictatorship won't help the immigrant's cause. They had turned their backs on all that England holds dear [Eton, Oxbridge, Cliff Richard & Old Money] and must pay dearly for their disloyalty to Gravely Blighted. House prices in Spain will collapse overnight if they are all forced to move on from their chip shop & Corry, razor wire gated communities.
Meanwhile, the innocently blameless, at the center of the EU dictatorship, are demanding Brixit leave ASAP so their private dictatorship can continue unabated. i.e.Without personal loss of [their] fabulous incomes and [their] unnelected status. No lessons must be learned at all [taxpayer's] costs + VAT + Strasbourg + VAT + Ist class travel allowances + VAT plus 6 star hotel accommodation + allowances on the gravy train + VAT + 7 star chefs for breakfast + a private aircraft + VAT + neutered eu parliament + tin pots + VAT.
We must all publicly weep for St. David Cameron now he has retired to a life of grinding poverty on his lifelong pension, in a former council house. His monthly pittance and wealth regulated heating allowance, will be paid in now completely worthless, British Pounds. As the rain falls steadily over The Lordanumb Markets of Ye Olde England and the bloody Empire. Perhaps they will name a star after him. Or, at the very least, an EU paperwork, landfill crater. Which reminds me: I'd better invest in some removal boxes before speculators force prices out of reach for we, former-EU citizens.
For all my tongue-in-cheek complaints about Denmark they'll have to drag me kicking and screaming onto the ferry back to the UK. Back to the sleaze, the crime, the traffic noise, the violence and the grime. The well-earned and well-oiled chips on shoulders and the crippling insularity and insecurity. The ignoring the neighbours and the delusions of grandeur if they find a half crown down the back of a secondhand, faux leather settee. While perusing the charity shop wares and posh frocks in the identikit, grim and brutalist grey, chain store, double lined, diesel belching, buses only, high streets.
The mongrel society with such empty claims to racial purity that racism and class intolerance must be worn like an impenetrable force field to avoid all risk of contamination. Above [and below] all, the micro-hierarchical layers of class and prejudice. The empty snobbery and inverted snobbery. The flea market, house clearance, antique dealers and secondhand booksellers and gallery-daubist shifters and snake oil salesmen with their posh, put-on accents. The chip shop grease purveyors and takeaway staff with their fake "Frenchy" accents to add "a nice bit of class, innit" to the ritual proceedings.
Where everybody knows their place and know nothing of place beyond the drunken bars of mass tourist resorts and/or the local pub. Where the make and model of car defines the man [or woman] and their social status to an absolute Golf tee. Where good taste in building became an endangered species back in the late 14th century. Where inequality lives cheek by jowl on opposite sides of the same, traffic blighted streets.
Where anything not fixed down is "just aksin' to be taken." Where nothing is sacred except institutionalized sexism, thievery, bullying and snobbery. Where mention of bank robbers alludes only to the institutions and never the folk heroes. Where dressing like a scruff has been raised to a mass form of coat couture. Where voice analysis, to place the user in their allotted class, is locked into the British genes. Where fear of strangers is so deep seated that you can smell its acrid stench in every social interaction. Where delineating a marauding Viking, terrorist, lower order peasant or Typhoid Mary, plagues every sweaty-handed introduction.
Where "getting away with it" is the first order of the day even before the first cigarette or jolt of ashtray aroma, instant caff. Where the scowling mask of social indifference is worn with national pride. Where counting the number of local burglaries is a closely fought, national sport with annually engraved and stolen trophies. Where voting is always for the least worst choice amongst the [police station] line-up of toffs, spivs, be-suited scruffs and upper crust, mafia bosses. Where they all delude themselves that they are infinitely superior. While living in a perfect facsimile of some backwards hell hole lifted straight from some dystopian 3rd world sweatshop where the forecast is always more rain. Where litter, projectile vomit and graffiti are the only recognized, public art forms in all their infinite variety and rainbow hue.
Where the opening moves of every conversation are a poorly disguised interrogation of the stranger's blood loyalties to some football-shirted bunch of multinational millionaires riding around the filthy back streets in plastic sports cars. Where accomplished ignorance is the highest level of attainment in many a 'public' school. Where shouting louder is the British-born and white bread, Google Translate of yore, and today. Where none should walk with their heads up. For shame of a long and bloody history of human exploitation and modern slavery in equal measure. Where the rules of dress are so deeply ingrained that it is standard wear for all seasons and all weather conditions. Or, to be spoken of, in derogatory terms, unto the 5th generation. Where charity and "rip-off" Britain begins, and ends, at home.
I'll get my [multicultural, Johnny foreigner] coat [of many colours]. ;-)