England. It's shit, isn't it? As a country, it single handedly manages to simulate the experience gained from using a melon with a hole in it for masturbatory purposes. It has some of the redeeming features such as moisture, consistency (apparently) but never manages to seem quite like the real thing. I could very easily be described as a romanticist but why the bloody hell not? Is it wrong of me to expect something more from my eco-system than damp fucking weather? Winter time: It rains. Summertime: It rains. For the briefest of brief moments, the extremes of seasonal change resemble something like that which we expect. It becomes sunny with a nice cooling breeze, as if God, Jesus and Elvis were taking it upon themselves to personally cool us down so as to save us from getting dampies. In the winter, we get that cosy kind of dry cold. The kind of cold that makes staying in bed for five minutes longer, wrapped in a goosedown womb of loveliness, a luxury and not just a sordid little excuse to feel that weird morning hard-on for a short while longer. But pretty soon, it's all shitted up. Yep, it's fucked. The sun very quickly becomes a burning ball of suffering, like Lucifer poking a nut out of the side of his shorts and shining it in your face. The breeze stops. All the oxygen is bought up by Disney Inc. to be taken away and redesigned to be all fluffy and warm. It's no longer cooling and fresh but thick and nasty. It stifles and paralyses, like being beaten over the head with a duvet that someone has taken great pleasure in sewing iron filings to. That gorgeous, cosy feeling that a dry winter creates? Gone. Removed to be replaced by a feeling that you've been walking around all day with a soaking flannel in your underpants.
Yep, it's pretty shit. It's the sort of place I expect a tyrannical despot in an episode of Star Trek to banish all his enemies to as punishment. It's the kind of place simpering fuck wits that say 'I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy' talk about. Habitually shit, a depressing little pocket of wank in a lapping, brown whores-tongue-at-your-ball-bag sea. England, along with many things if I'm going to be honest, is to me the final proof of the non-existence of God. As I write this, I'm watching brilliant blue sky appear in the cracks of grey cloud that I've just had to have pissing on me the entire time I was walking home from the bus stop. It was that sort of rain that doesn't just get your clothes wet. It was the kind of shower that soaks through your skin and makes your internal organs scream for water wings. And while I'm on the subject, who the fuck thought that soft fibre fabric would be a good choice for the standard hood on a coat? Well, this is just brilliant. I'm managing to keep my head dry for approximately 4.7 seconds longer than you wankers that didn't bring a coat with a hood! We'll see who has the last laugh! Look at me! I'm the worlds most driest man!!!
So, what's the point of this tirade? What do I seriously hope to achieve from this useless fist shaking exercise? Well, standing atop a hill and hurling abuse at the sky hasn't worked so far. Maybe God's in the internet these days. It's where everybody else seems to spend all their time.
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