The Colour of Your Blood

England is a plain and vicious land, a land of dreary housing estates, mounds of rubbish, grey skies, beaches made of rocks, sewerage, leverage, blue blood and moronic laws. It was made that way by a couple of thousand years of mismanagement, inbred royalty, war and tribal in-fighting. No one really gives a shit about England, especially not those living in it. They all want to escape. But they can’t, there’s nowhere to go – nowhere. Because, everywhere they go they find a little bit of England, find that their filthy forebears have been there before, impregnating, manipulating and killing. The English are a very violent people, they live too close together; there is no space in England. That's it, so fuck off. 'This is your whole essay on England, a country with a history that stretches back to the start of time?' 'Yes.' 'Well you're getting an F for Fuckwit.' 'I don't care I don't want to live here anyway!' 'Of course not, no, the likes of you wants to be European, or worse, French.' 'I'd rather be Welsh than English.' 'Get the hell out of my class boy!' So I did, but there was nowhere to go - England's too small.Sometime Much Later: 'So you knew she was dead before or after you ordered Indian food and watched England lose to Brazil?' 'Uh . . .'