Well, as it happens…. Or, as we are in the UK, as more often it doesn’t happen, we are gathered here today on this fine… er… drizzly, dull day to celebrate the fact that we are all one year older and – probably – not all that much wiser than when we gathered here exactly one year ago today to celebrate the fact that we were gathered here again, resembling nothing much more than a bus queue waiting for a bus that will never come, and thereby forced into that most uncomfortable situation for any English person – having to acknowledge the existence of other people and – worst of all – make some sort of attempt at communication with them beyond a forceful tutting and shaking of the head.
After all, though, everyone must remember that the British don’t like it when things work. We always expect the worst and are disappointed when we don’t get it. There is nothing that frustrates a free-born English man and/or woman than having something work as it should; it feels as though we have lost our divine right to complain that the world is not as shoddy and badly-made as we’d hoped and we – therefore – have noting to complain about… or, ideally, mutter under our breath about.
To be honest, we don’t actually like complaining either. There is always the danger that if you complain, something will be done about it and – rather than making it worse as we secretly deep-down hope – some conscientious and competent bastard may actually come along and fix it, make it all right… and then where would we be?
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