British summertime. The perplexing and enchanting period in which this little island shows both it's oldest charms and it's sweatiest ball sacks to the world.
Geographically the size of a walnut in comparison to others, Britain has swaggered it's way through centuries of colonial greed and crushing industrialisation like a petulant bully. It exhibits all the stereotypical traits associated with the Naploean Complex like an undersized, horny peacock; attaching itself to authority figures and manipulating itself into positions of control and leadership. Lets face it, our country, on the world stage, has small man syndrome.
The true heart of this land has gradually been forgotten, steadily covered in layers of politics, excess and ignorance clogging up our souls like fat in our arteries. We've replaced our heritage with a population of us brought up around the legacy and lore of this old country without even an idea about what it represents. One such moron was I.
Vast swathes of my childhood summers were spent drinking cider, listening to folk bands and watching maypole dances. Did I have any inclination of what lay beneath these age old traditions? No. I was too busy getting drunk and taking the piss for that.
I'm not suggesting we all don our bells and and ribbons (there are a great many more wand-waiving, yellow-toothed, weekend-pagans than is strictly necessary here already) what might be fun though, is to put down your frappacino, just for a sec, and explore what this land used to be before it's gone for good.


Recent Comments