Feminism has well and truly put the boot into British "bloke culture". It's time to put the boot right back up their self-righteous arse!
Ever since Margaret Thatcher was handed the keys to No. 10 Downing Street, a tide of feminism and political correctness has been seemingly chipping away at the pride and sense of identity of Britain’s vastly underappreciated, yet most vitally important citizen: the working class English male. In the two or so decades since Margaret Thatcher ruled and subsequently handed power to that most emasculated of men - John Major - the men of England who single-handedly built this once great and invincible nation have seen their entire way of life come under-attack on all fronts. From the way we work to the way we enjoy our free-time, literally every aspect of our lives has been modified with the sole aim of appeasing both rabid feminists and health and safety zealots alike. Hell, even the immigrants are getting in the act of castrating the proud English male, but that is another story for another time.
It seems like everything that we enjoy, right down to the simplest of pleasures such as eating a bloody great steak or having a few pints after a shitty week at work hold the gravest of consequences for our health and wellbeing, if the hysterical do-gooders are to be believed. At one point last year even the mainstay of the great English breakfast, the “Bacon Butty”, was implicated as a major cause of cancer. I wonder how they arrived at this conclusion, for it was not the bacon on its own nor the bread, but once combined could form a lethal combination that would immediately sentence you to a painful and unavoidable death by cancer of the arsehole, I shit you not. No? Actually I’m not buying it either.
This afternoon, while scouring internet news sites for stories to post on Shoutwire during one of my considerably frequent periods of downtime at work, I discovered a story on the Daily Mail’s website (where else would I be lurking, eh Papagato?) that compelled me to put pen to paper:
“People who enjoy more than two drinks a day develop Alzheimer's disease almost five years earlier than others, alarming research shows. Smoking and drinking in combination hastens the onset of the degenerative brain condition by up to seven years. High cholesterol levels in middle aged also heighten the risk of the incurable disease that affects 500,000 Britons. The lifestyle links to Alzheimer's, the most common form of dementia, were revealed in two studies presented to neurologists in the US. One team looked at 938 people aged 60 and older who were diagnosed with possible or probable Alzheimer's disease.”
This to me is nothing more than the latest in a long line of thinly-veiled attacks on British drinking culture, that is the culture of the working class male, in the guise of yet more much-needed concern for our welfare, according to ol’ Gordy and his chums in Westminster. While I’m not exactly in the greatest of positions to dispute this on any kind of scientific basis, being that I achieved a lowly D/C grade in my GCSE Science Double Award exams and thus did not pursue the sciences any further, I think this is truly a load of old bollocks. British men have been drinking since the dawn of time and I put it down to natural selection that there are those who become ill, no matter what the circumstances are.
I am however qualified enough, being that I come from a long line of drinkers and dedicated alcoholics, to tell you the story of how Britain became great because of the spirit of it’s drinking classes. This isn’t in the slightest any kind of history lesson or even historically accurate at all, just a whimsical tale of the significance of the everyday great British boozer as passed down from father to son as part of a great British tradition.
Imagine, if you will, a grandfather, he could be your grandfather or mine that is neither here nor there. An honest and noble man, he survived a World War, and thus should instantly be recognized as a hero in the eyes of all modern Western men. Someone who had fought for Queen and country, and spent many years guarding prisoners of war in the Egyptian desert or serving the navy on the dangerous minesweepers in the north Atlantic sea. After returning from war he married at the age of twenty-two, that is if he didn’t marry before signing up to the army. In those days, British men married young, life centred around the family and men were real men at the age of eighteen. They owned houses and were expecting children at the same age most of our modern kids are graduating from sixth form college.
Back then women were no picnic. Unlike the women of today, they kept their honour so there was no “try before you buy” pre-marital sex clause that teens these days seem to buy into wholesale. Pretty much once you’d taken a girl on her first date she was yours, to have and to hold in sickness and in health, whether you liked it or not. There was no escape it seems, except to the pub for these standard-bearers of British binge-drinking.
Every single weekend, after a long and arduous week of chauffeuring rich politicians around the country, a certain David William Smith (Ok, so this is about my grandfather) like many of his peers, would end up in one of the many pubs in Fulham Broadway on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon to cheer on his football team, Chelsea FC. Unlike today’s pissed and drugged up masses though, his couple of pints would rarely end up in bloody murder or even the faintest sniff of a punch up. There is a reason for this, and one of which I truly envy them. They very rarely got fucked off their nut, there wasn’t any reason to. The men of yesteryear went to the pub to chat, watch the footy and then returned home to their wives, who stayed in preparing the roast dinner and looking after the kids. In the rare instance of one of their number getting ‘drunk’ and out of hand, the worst that would befall him would be a couple of slaps from their upset mates, with the real onslaught coming from his wife for his ‘disgraceful’ behaviour. You see, that’s why many men went to the pub back then, to have a few hours away from their wives and a few hours peace and quiet. There was no binge-drinking, no thuggery, and very few men carried blades aside from the Kray Twins.
There are certain differences between the pub culture of yesteryear, in which bars were solely the domain of real men, and the “bloke culture” of modern times. I personally blame rampant feminism for all the changes that have occurred within the last two or three decades.
Now before I continue this editorial I realise that there are a few people that may take offence to what I am about to say. Let me just take this opportunity to express my sincere apologies to those that may be suffering pre-menstrual tension or any of the symptoms of feminist extremism. You’re welcome.
Now, where was I? Oh yeah, the decline of the final refuge of the English working class male. So what is it that I consider to be the final nail in the coffin of the traditional English pub? Aside from the fact that a family run or independently run pub is closing every six hours in Britain due to the ridiculous smoking ban that has seen pub attendance drop almost 40%, I personally blame feminism. Many people will see this as a blatantly sexist viewpoint, but so what? I’ve never been ashamed after being labelled racist, sexist, nationalist or any combination of the above, not to mention my extremely politically incorrect view on the disabled. So why do I blame feminism? Funny you should ask that, isn’t it? My personal view is that males thrive on ‘oneupmanship’, and the ultimate expression of this is gaining the attention of females. Once upon a time, the only focal points at the pub were the football and a pint, nowadays men are a little more competitive, as women make up around 60% of all pub attendance these days. It might not be such a coincidence that instances of binge-drinking and violence are becoming all the more prevalent, with men hoping to impress girls by showing how much they can down, and if that goes tits up, how hard they are if another ‘alpha-male’ encroaches on their ‘territory’.
Now, I don’t think it’s such a bad thing that women are attending the pub in record numbers (in fact many on irc have seen the pics of me with many different ‘pulls’), but isn’t it about time that British men, as well as American, Canadian, Australian and European’s claimed their right to drink without the curse of feminism? It’s about time we took our pubs and bars back, so that we can watch the Football and Hockey, without some screaming harpy who only knows the clubs songs because she fancies the star player.
If that doesn’t work, then we’re surely doomed to living the rest of our days in the shadow of some wrinkly old dingbat, who’s husband was named Dennis, for the rest of our lives.
Otherwise, it’s surely last orders at the bar please, Gents.