There was a massively hyped article on the website and in the print edition of the UK newspaper ‘The Daily Mail’ earlier this week about the booziness of Australians on Melbourne Cup day. It was amusing to read the holier-than-thou commentary from the Brits, which I considered to be somewhat ironic given their penchant for getting righteously pissed in all parts of the world and yelling at the tops of their lungs like a bunch of drunken, sunburnt fucking hyenas.

I must admit that there is nothing less impressive to me than a sight of a drunken ‘bloke’ (to call him a man would be far too refined…) donning a pair of easily identifiable (fake) Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, sporting questionable facial growth, a shitty matching hat and wearing an ill-fitting, loudly pinstriped polyester 3 piece suit clumsily stumbling across the lawns of the Flemington general admin area with a pre-mixed bourbon can in one hand and a Peter Jackson dart in the other, puffing away like a carcinogenic steam engine.

What’s just as unimpressive (and equally enjoyable to watch) is this man drunkenly escorting his girlfriend/de-facto/wife/missus across the rubbish-covered lawns of the Flemington general admin area, her impossibly high heels clutched desperately in one hand and her half-full pink plastic champagne flute bobbing precariously in the other. With a dress sullied from repeatedly falling over throughout the course of the day in her ridiculously high heels (as they act as involuntary trash collectors, seemingly expertly stabbing discarded aluminium cans underfoot until it looks like she’s wearing platforms), it’s truly a tragic sight.

By the way, I’m sure we’ve all run into an Englishman or woman overseas that has been absolutely fucking unbearable. Their voices cut through bar room conversation like a sickle through a fucking cornfield. It’s ridiculous. They are always sunburnt as well. Never seen one that hasn’t been… If I were have to give a stereotype of a classic English travelling couple, the man would be a wiry looking short bloke with an old Manchester United strip from the 90s on, his hook nose burnt beyond all recognition, his sunken English eyes pushed back in his head like a retarded monkey. He wears round coke bottle glasses and drinks Tetleys tubes like water.

His partner screeches uncontrollably at any possible moment and wears impossibly low cut white singlet tops, showing off her ample yet gravity-stricken rack, which, like her husband’s nose, is perpetually sunburnt. For some inexplicable reason, today’s top is cut lower than the previous day’s tan line, giving her mammarian orbs the look of a couple of sweating strawberries gently dipped in sour cream.

Aww, fucking horrifying…

I mean, I guess what I’m trying to say is that British people have titties on page 3 of some of their newspapers. Don’t pay too much attention to them.

/end communication