Not one day goes past without thinking of the relentless misery of the British existence. It is not just the weather. It is too the omnipresent, oppressive architecture whose age predates the grand conflicts that have long gone by, and the depressing lives that occupy these buildings.
One can travel hours in various directions and is still confronted by the haunting persistence of rows and rows of ‘terraced houses’. What a term to refer to the homes of the majority of the population who actually live in a townhouse outside of the town, in part of a house, and with no terrace.
The concentration of prevailing wealth and beauty is osmotically drawn to one of few large dirty cities, with the overwhelming amount of vibrance pulled towards London. London that is otherwise a paper mâché financial diorama for the global super-rich coming from the arid world and the cold world to congregate and flaunt stolen money in front of the poor Cockney’s uneducated eyes.
The marketplace is as monotone as the grim gothic architecture and suppressive of a potentially diverse economy through the systematic forced extinction of small businesses. And the employment system is so out of touch from the value that workers can offer the economy with a health and social care system ran by a single monopoly having absolute control over any opportunities for competition.
What appears to pacify the locals for the shortcomings is the nostalgic post-Victorian glory that the Kingdom was once part of a mighty empire that had more than its European counterparts by being able to get new and exciting goods from far away, but this now obsolete with the current trade limitations that it has forced upon itself.
Making the totality of the experience worse is the native’s unrelenting positivity for the status quo and the unforgetting reminiscence of the progress of the past. An unworldly self-sustaining people that is proud to call the old, shitty poor terraced houses their home; cycle through a weekly binge consumption culture of the local specialties of colourless beer, over-done meat and soulless bread; and promote the arduous prolongation of the inbred and futile monarchy which the place is reliant upon to provide idiosyncratic ‘charm’.
What a blessing it would be to witness bulldozers go astray and do some mercy to flatten out the ancient and outlived structures and give the Britons the chance to build on their Kingdom’s soil some structures that would meet the standards encountered across the Channel, with infrastructure, or insultation, where they need not hear their neighbors washing machine running in the late of the night nor have the rain from above greet them in generous puddles at their feet when awaking to a glorious day on the island.
Some hopes are unworthy, and for the British to be considered European, was surely one of them. I have lived and lived abroad, and collated other’s experience of witnessing the non-existence of a comfortable middle-income class in this nation that should afford the enjoyments in which their Western European ‘peers’ can readily indulge. But rather does the system indulge it its own informal flexibilities and complacence of half-modern comforts, that it may produce a mean gross domestic product that is brought close to that of its neighbours only though the foreign effects of the City. Nevertheless, I may let it be. It would be easier, but less true to myself, to have never known better.
One can travel hours in various directions and is still confronted by the haunting persistence of rows and rows of ‘terraced houses’. What a term to refer to the homes of the majority of the population who actually live in a townhouse outside of the town, in part of a house, and with no terrace.
The concentration of prevailing wealth and beauty is osmotically drawn to one of few large dirty cities, with the overwhelming amount of vibrance pulled towards London. London that is otherwise a paper mâché financial diorama for the global super-rich coming from the arid world and the cold world to congregate and flaunt stolen money in front of the poor Cockney’s uneducated eyes.
The marketplace is as monotone as the grim gothic architecture and suppressive of a potentially diverse economy through the systematic forced extinction of small businesses. And the employment system is so out of touch from the value that workers can offer the economy with a health and social care system ran by a single monopoly having absolute control over any opportunities for competition.
What appears to pacify the locals for the shortcomings is the nostalgic post-Victorian glory that the Kingdom was once part of a mighty empire that had more than its European counterparts by being able to get new and exciting goods from far away, but this now obsolete with the current trade limitations that it has forced upon itself.
Making the totality of the experience worse is the native’s unrelenting positivity for the status quo and the unforgetting reminiscence of the progress of the past. An unworldly self-sustaining people that is proud to call the old, shitty poor terraced houses their home; cycle through a weekly binge consumption culture of the local specialties of colourless beer, over-done meat and soulless bread; and promote the arduous prolongation of the inbred and futile monarchy which the place is reliant upon to provide idiosyncratic ‘charm’.
What a blessing it would be to witness bulldozers go astray and do some mercy to flatten out the ancient and outlived structures and give the Britons the chance to build on their Kingdom’s soil some structures that would meet the standards encountered across the Channel, with infrastructure, or insultation, where they need not hear their neighbors washing machine running in the late of the night nor have the rain from above greet them in generous puddles at their feet when awaking to a glorious day on the island.
Some hopes are unworthy, and for the British to be considered European, was surely one of them. I have lived and lived abroad, and collated other’s experience of witnessing the non-existence of a comfortable middle-income class in this nation that should afford the enjoyments in which their Western European ‘peers’ can readily indulge. But rather does the system indulge it its own informal flexibilities and complacence of half-modern comforts, that it may produce a mean gross domestic product that is brought close to that of its neighbours only though the foreign effects of the City. Nevertheless, I may let it be. It would be easier, but less true to myself, to have never known better.
