Medical assistance and a witness statement

I do not delude myself that I am a writer. I am a writer only inasmuch as I am a marine biologist on the grounds that I keep a few guppies. Writing does not make me. It does not sustain me. I write only in the vain hope that I might one day earn enough from it to lock myself away forever on a small, forgotten peninsula and there be left alone until my time comes to descend into the great black nothingness of death.

Some people just want to go out and travel, some people want to leave and pretend they’re doing something worthwhile with their lives. They want to go to Africa and there strut nobly like a great white god, amongst the smiling brown natives running beside them with wide smiles and happy laughter.

“But we built a school, dontchaknow?”

Never mind that two weeks later the iron faced jihadists rolled in with their tanks, dragged the girls out of the building, forced them into burkas and underage marriages, then used that same educational establishment to promote a doctrine the harshness of which hasn’t been seen since the dark ages.
“I’m making a difference!”

Don’t get me wrong, I hate England. We English are, to paraphrase Jonathan Swift; “The most pernicious race of little odious vermin that nature ever suffered to crawl upon the surface of the earth.” The World Cup sums us up. They should put a statue of Rooney up in every school and we should exalt him as the symbol of our nation just as years ago the downtrodden of this land used to look up with doe eyes at Kitchener, who was at that moment sending millions of them into the mincing machines of the trenches.

Summed up in Rooney is the very essence of what’s wrong with us as a nation; the moderate ability dressed up as genius which inevitably fails to produce even the smallest spark of talent when up against those who actually know what they’re doing. When faced with a real challenge, a real opportunity to make a difference, Rooney, like everyone else in England, bottled it. The relentless excuses, the self-pity, the twin obsessions of obscene wealth and then afterwards squandering that wealth on destroying yourself and your family, the few good things that actually meant something in your life. Above all the laughable false positives.

“At least we’ve got some hope for the youth of the future.”

And yet everywhere you go the rights of the isolationists are being eroded. Nowadays it isn’t even possible to go and drink yourself into oblivion alone in the pub without some cunt coming up and asking if you’re okay. I go to the public urinals and there are signs staring down at my dick warning me not to engage in non-consensual sex (Well, it’s been a lovely evening. We went out to dinner at the Crown, to the wine bar afterwards and then back to hers for coffee. However for some reason I get the feeling there’s something amiss. Of course! I’m raping the ever-loving shit out of her!)

Let us briefly recap on these public information adverts. We warn people not to drink and drive because a lot of people might be tempted to do it and not see the harm. We all drive whilst tired, right? The adverts make us aware of a danger we may not see. Rapists don’t read signs, they don’t respond to adverts. Why? Because they’re fucking rapists, that’s why. You don’t go appealing to their sense of common decency.

Meanwhile the grass and the snitch are lauded like never before. The other day I witnessed a minor car crash between a young chap and a rotund, balding executive. The youngster wasn’t looking where he was going and hit the exec on a roundabout. Not content with the youth facing higher insurance premiums the fat cunt decided to give the youth a piece of his mind. The youth broke his nose and left him puking in his own blood, smashed his windscreen for good measure then drove away. Afterwards I walked past, laughing heartily whilst ignoring the fatster’s pleas for medical assistance and a witness statement. Previously this was my God-given right as an Englishman as defined by Magna Carta and the countless wars we fought for freedom. Now, by definition of the law, I’m the cunt.

I really hope Scotland votes for independence in September. When that happens I think I shall move to the Highlands in the hope that the independent government is a damned sight more fuck-off friendly than Westminster. It is fitting that the final, stubborn rebels retreat to the mountains to continue their cause. Soon I fear I shall be forced to make my final stand.

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