“Johnny Foreigner is a bloody disgrace.”
They don’t know how to queue, smell of garlic, have oily hair and drive on the wrong side of the road. Europe is not fit to lick Britain’s boots.
In a two-part debate, guest contributors comment on the differences between the UK and the rest of Europe. To begin with, we hear from Britain’s Major Wilbur Smythe-Caldicott (retired).
Continental Europeans, what a shower they are! I have never met a single one of ‘em who could hold a candle to the worst type of low-class English oik. Second rate? Hah! I wouldn’t even place Johnny Foreigner in the top ten. Even worse than the useless patoosies who worked on our plantation in Darjeeling. At least those wallahs knew their place.
Which is what really gets my goat about ‘Europeans’. They think they’re so ruddy superior with their Sistine Chapel, their Eiffel Tower and their awful pate de foie gras. Don’t they know anyone can knock out a mural? That’s why we have Banksy! And we’ve got the Blackpool Tower and Shippam's Salmon Spread. That’s good honest fish paste, not some rancid muck scraped from the rectum of a goose. No, there’s nothing superior about any of Johnny’s culture. Give me the BBC, a glass of English stout and Des O’Connor any day.
As for their politics, it’s a total shambles. Watching any of their governments in action is like watching three naked boys wrestling in a sack – a sport I am rather particular to. It’s all sharp elbows, arseholes and sweaty gestures. They do not even qualify as incompetent. It takes the British parliament to show them how to do that!
Le voiture crap
In a moment of weakness, I once bought a French car. Can’t recall the name. Thing was an absolute terror. Gutless engine, rocking horse suspension and the odour of camembert. Faster in reverse than forwards. No surprise there given the Frog's war record. Got rid of the perisher as soon as I could. Swapped it out for a sturdy Morris Oxford. Wonderful car. Yes, it didn’t go in the rain and it weighed seven tons, but that’s what craftmanship is all about. That one smelt of the sea, football boots and the green on the 17th hole at Troon. Marvellous!
They think it's all over
Finally, there’s Johnny’s sporting prowess. That's not even a joke. Pathetic. Only the Germans have any gumption and we’ve stuck it to them away from home at least twice if I’m correct. Whenever I see that Great Britain is taking on some wobbly lot from the continent, I bet a fiver with our gardener, Ivano. He always keeps the money of course, but I let him have it. If he wants to imagine that Bulgaria can beat England, let him live in his little fantasy. He needs the cash anyway. As soon as Brexit's done, he’ll be on the first boat home – I'll make bloody sure of that.
Now let’s sing Jerusalem. We live in England’s green and pleasant land! What-ho!