Like all faux-intellectuals, I occasionally read foreign newspapers to keep abreast of the world. Often I will imagine that I have a pack of Gaulloises or Gitanes on my café table and that some snake-waisted aproned Frog twit is sneering at the Americans at the next table, but not at me because I am cool and hip, and somehow the service industry personnel in Foreignia can instinctively recognize that.
As I take another imaginary drag on a non-existent French cigarette, my eye spies the comment of the day.
"A spelling error is the only comeback you have you stuck up, head-up-your-fundament little Tory bootlick"
Wow. Such a set of precious mental images! Big British fundaments, and bootlicking class warfare!
This comment was underneath an article describing anti-gentrification protests by revolutionary worker types in a depressed and filthy part of London.
Customers at a cereal café felt trapped and frightened when an anarchic mob pelted the outside with paint and tried to storm the entrance.
Guardian readers protesting gentrification!
A cereal café?!?
I'm afraid I'm just terminally unhip. I cannot imagine myself ever patronizing a place that specializes in breakfast cereals. Instead, I see myself taking my screamingly British yobbo hangover to a teahouse and having cheungfun, siu mai, fu pei kuen, and a comforting bowl of jook.
While puffing on my imaginary French cigarette.
Washing it all down with buckets of kuk fa po nei.
Because real men can dig dim sum.
And lots of tea.
Commercial breakfast cereal products are the work of the devil.
Cereal-eaters are all a bunch of sailors.
Sailors!
Go and boil your bottoms, you sons of a silly person.
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