Having previously formed the opinion that naming your child Damien, Jason, Jake or Darren near guarentees the little spawn will end up a petty criminal, I was unsurprised to find that a similar force operates in relation to places.
The past month and a half has seen me pass through 2 Campbelltowns and a Penrith. An unfortunate occurance which highlights the fact that giving a place either of these names is likely to ensure they evolve and grow into first class depressing cul-de-sacs of stunted human potential, and taudry joyless shitholes.
Town planners take note.
The afternoon trundling across the north west of England also brought home to me much that I should be eternally thankfull for.
Chief among these being that I do not live in Bolton.
...
As I left the burned brown heather, stern mountains, black lochs and grey stone towns of scotland, I have time to pause a moment and ponder a few things with regard to my month and a half north of 'the wall'.
Firstly, what the FUCK is Iron Bru, and how did this bizzare budget brand of cough-medicine masquerading as soft drink EVER come to be popular. Some may sheet the blame for the decay of British society, productivity and ingenuity home to education, declining manufacturing and the rise of generation z... personally I blame the popularity of Iron Bru... whatever the fuck it is.
I dont understand football.
Not the game, which is of course ridiculously popular precisely because the most square-jawed, toothless caveman from Motherwell CAN comprehend it. No, im talking about the pervasive obsession with the game, and every facet that surrounds it, such that a group of 10 60 year olds in a pub can spend a solid 6 hours talking of nothing else. Literally. No joke. If this were an isolated incident, one could probably pass it off, but its the norm. Can ANYTHING be so important or interesting as to absorb so much time, effort and attention? Let alone a professional game, played perpetually, between manufactured teams of overpaid preening mercenaries? A population that spends the evening crapping on about football, and then swigs a bottle of Iron BRU on the way home has problems that no programme of fiscal austerity can fix.
Why is Glasgow bus station bigger, more efficient and better connected than Sydney?
I dont know the answer, but considering it exists in a region populated by the people Ive just written about, this is surely a serious indictment of Sydneys transport malaise.
Who is going to tell most of Scotland that the accent they are so proud of is actually English? And that the true Scots accent doesnt come from the Weegies in suburban Glasgow, but in the westcoast highlands and Islands where they speak Gallic as a first language.
I pondered making an open announcement in a Glasgow pub, but decided that the cost of buying the requisite conciliatory pints for the bar afterwards, was prohibitive.
Where do black face sheep come from? Why dont we have them at home?
Beards may be practical as facial fortification against chill, damp weather, but they are bloddy annoying and make eating soup and drinking ales a task necessitating a box of tissues.
....
Hello Manchester.
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