What hope for a country where people will camp out for three days to glimpse the Royal Couple? Where one store clerk refers to another as his ‘colleague’?
… God save the Queen and a fascist regime … a flabby, toothless fascism to be sure. Never go too far in any direction is the basic law on which Limey-Land is built. The Queen stabilizes the whole stinking shithouse and keeps a small elite of wealth and privilege on top …
The English have gone soft in the outhouse. England is like some stricken beast too stupid to know it is dead. Ingloriously foundering in its own waste products, the backlash and bad karma of empire. You see what we owe to Washington and the Valley Forge boys for getting us out from under this den of snobbery and accent, this ladder where everyone stomps discreetly on the hands below them:
"Pardon me, old chap, but you aren’t you getting just a bit ahead of yourself in rather an offensive manner?"
… The English thing worked too well and too long. They’ll never get all that ballast of unearned privilege up into space. Who wants that dumped in his vicinity? They get out of a spaceship and start looking desperately for inferiors.
OH MY GOD! IT’S A FUCKING CALAMITY! WE MIGHT AS WELL END IT ALL NOW AND PUSH THE ENTIRE COUNTRY OVER THE EDGE OF THE WORLD! HOW CAN WE EVEN CONSIDER CELEBRATING THE WEDDING OF THE LOVELY WILLS AND THE RADIANT KATE IF THERE ISN’T ENOUGH SODDING BUNTING STREWN ACROSS THE ENTIRE LENGTH AND BREADTH OF THE COUNTRY!
Time to announce that I’ll be appearing later in the current series of Britain’s Got Talent with my speciality act Thee Amazing Stigmata Man. The performance involves a highly expressive dance routine in which I display the various signs of crucifixion while tunelessly bellowing the song Unbelievable by ’90s one-hit wonders EMF.
“I guess it’s a question of tone. I react against the variously contrived sloppinesses of all those ‘sort ofs’ and ‘kind ofs’ in tandem with, sometimes followed by, the magisterial flamboyant (‘Existentiovoyeuristic conundra notwithstanding’). Or the grunge affectation of the double ‘though’ in: ‘There are big differences between Agassi’s and Joyce’s games, though. Though Joyce…’ It’s not that I dislike the extravagance, the excess, the beanie-baroque, the phat loquacity. They just bug the crap out of me. As do the obsessive parenthesising, insistent italicising, footnote-generating footnotes and typographical gimmickry that reaches a kind of apotheosis of unreadability in ‘Host,’ from Consider the Lobster. And it bugs me, of course, that his style is catching, highly infectious.”—
I have to be brutally honest with you. I’m really fed up with your obsession with the photo-pornography of bookshelves. So you have a lot of books. I’m very pleased for you. And you’ve put them on display in crazy / interesting / artful ways. How amazing. And you’ve taken photos of them in ever-so-serious black and white. Utterly astonishing. Now fuck off.