In a week in which the Free World displeased Donald Trump, Anthony Bourdain died as well as some fashion figure beloved by many people with whom I have never associated, two pudgy dictators flew into Singapore for noodles, and it was revealed that Moscow is surrounded by out of control toxic waste landfills, the one thing that caught my eye was an increase of the French Pox in England.
Quote:
"Syphilis might be more commonly associated with centuries past. But it's been on the rise for the past decade in England, with more cases last year than in any year since 1949.
The disease was, in effect, eradicated in the UK in the mid-80s only to re-emerge around 1999."
End quote.
[SOURCE: BBC - Why is syphilis is on the rise?.]
Apparently the cause for the dramatic spread includes dating apps, drugs, and group sex. Almost San Franciscan type behaviour.
Quote:
"The increase in syphilis was almost all among gay, bisexual and other men who have sex with men, according to government agency Public Health England, accounting for 78% of all cases diagnosed last year."
End quote.
This paints a picture of an England where the social activities of a public school dormitory have broken through to adult life, and cold showers are no longer common.
Which is distressing.
As an unabashed Anglophile I naturally blame the Irish.
Now please excuse me as I retire to my booklined study to contemplate the dissolution of proper standards, rise in immorality and sea levels, creeping Trumpism, and culinary improvements that undermine society and make people believe they could actually enjoy life, instead of being miserable and reserved.
Which I shall do with a cup of tea and some bubble and squeak.
Than which nothing is more self-chastising.
Those British need birching.
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THE ADDENDUM AT TEA
Tea time, as regular readers know, is very important to me. But instead of going to one of my regular places I gave it a miss today. I just ...
3 comments:
England: It's like San Francisco with better food.
Does the gentleman require flogging? A Filipina dominatrix could take you to the whipping block and lash you with the birch while you hot box Clan in a filthy cob. You could even outdo Swinburne at Eton:
I sing the Flogging-block.Thou, red-cheek’d Muse,
Whose Hand the Blood of smarting Boys imbrues.
Scholastic Dame, revered of the State & Church,
Whose Lords to be have writhed beneath the Birch,
Thou that canst see, and smile, before thy Frown
A budding Bishop take his breeches down,
And, tingling at the Terrors of thy Rod,
A Judge that shall be strip to taste the Rod,
And ere his Brow be ripe for Boys to come,
Birch, Birch entwine the beardless Poet’s Bum,
Birch, Birch alone embrace his brawnier Part,
Birch, Birch inflame his Flesh with constant Smart
Birch, daily Birch, ring Music in his Ears,
Birch, hourly Birch, renew his recent Tears,
Birch, Birch incessant Birch, fill all his Days with Fears
M
Sounds zesty. Never the less, I prefer to keep Filipinas at arms length.
I have a can of pepper spray gel in case any come near.
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