Randy Brits warm up for a right royal shagging
If you crave yet another clue as to the level of plot-loss we humans have achieved, dare to consider the recent trumpeting of an upcoming British baby boom.
And confuse yourselves not – this has nothing to do with the fruitful joining of loins between Kate and Wills, although there is, as often is the case, a royal angle.
Rises in birth rates are not new; historically they arrived during periods of plenty, times when one’s tribe was not being overrun by another tribe or when pickings were slim on telly during a long winter in the cave. However, this next one in the old country is being credited to the unlikely collision of two events – the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee and the success of the nation’s go at running the Olympics.
Strap yourself in before examining the logic of this – it’s a hairy ride. It reminds one of the joke about how marriage occurs when one person turns to another and says: “Darling, our love is so wonderful that we really should get the government in on it.”
So imagine one lover saying to another: “Darling, you’ll have noticed our unelected monarch, a doughty woman who is the latest in a line of overpampered fools thumbing their noses at democracy for centuries, has held that job for the time it takes the Earth to go around the Sun 60 times. To honour this, we now must procreate, splicing our genes into one being, one which will demand all our energy and many thousands of pounds to rear.”
No, no, no ... even in a world which makes big news of Justin Bieber smoking a marijuana cigarette, this is just too plain bonkers. Surely this next scenario will make more sense:
Imagine one lover saying to another: “Darling, you’ll have noticed that a small number of people whose athletic gifts are greater than average have excelled in competition, and several earned the right to garner their necks with medals of gold. As they are from the same mudheap as us, we now must procreate, splicing our genes into one being, etc ...”
This is either the last laugh of the great British eccentricity or the coining of a new phrase along the lines of “Lots of sex, please – we’re British”.
Possibly the real source of black humour here is how that nation’s mercilessly slashed health service is going to deal with more slippery deliveries than even the England bowling attack can muster.
Possibly the real surprise to some beyond these twisted connections is that the British are somewhat happy about their lot at the moment.
It could be so; having lost more than a million jobs since 2008, the country has staggered back into something which could be regarded (by government spin doctors, presumably) as a recovery.
Hosting the Olympics was credited with giving the UK economy a 0.9 per cent fillip between July and September, although the Bank of England has admitted that progress in the past four years had been “zig-zag”.
Still, mustn’t grumble, which is something of a curious catchphrase in Britain as it is often the cue to grumble loudly and frequently.
Maybe it’s the rich and celebrated vein of comedy the green and pleasant land can provide. Yes, we are miserable bastards, they’ll say, but at least we grin oddly as we moan.
To hear someone with a Manchester accent – or even better, a Birmingham one – say “looks like rain again” as they turn a sodden collar to the elements is to know that British humour is a (sort of) happy cohabitation of surrender and stoicism.
It makes sense that the likes of Morrissey, a largely misunderstood lyricist and constant thorn in the side of the royal family, are hero and anti-hero at the same time.
But be not surprised that the Poms have a sense of humour – including the Queen. Just look at one’s husband.
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