Our English correspondent Seneca III presents this meditation for the Holiday Formerly Known as Easter.
A Brief Conversation Between Three Old Men in the Outside Lavatory of a Village Pub on Easter Sunday Just Prior to the Boat Race
“Bloody hell, it’s cold in here!”
“Yeah, and you know what’s going to happen? They’re going to blot the landscape with more *%!$#&* windmills.”
“Bloody windmills — my electricity bill’s just gone through the roof!”
“Yep. And have you seen your latest Council Tax bill? The so called ‘Community Charge’ is twenty four per cent up on last year.”
“Can’t figure that one. We’re not paying for that many bloody immigrants and illegals here — what’s it for?”
“Dunno. Mind you, over the way they’ve got a real problem. Friends of mine in Banbury are now referring to it as ‘Islamabad-on-Cherwell’.”
“Can’t be as bad as Milton Keynes, though. More Somalis there than in Puntland. All living off benefits and up to their necks in every racket going when they aren’t knifing each other with gay abandon in drug turf war disputes. Just keeping them contained is costing a bloody fortune.”
“I’m glad I’m old, you know. I’m not going to be around much longer. It isn’t going to get any better.”
“And me, but I fear for the kids; Christ! What a heap of *&!@#%* we have left for them.”
The old men lapse again into silence, shake, put away, and leave for the warmth of the pub with its small fire and its small television, totally unaware that Middle England is waking up far too late.
— Seneca III
For links to previous essays by Seneca III, see the Seneca III Archives.