As a resident of a small village in West Sussex I have obviously started reading the correct publications to hasten my integration into this brave new world. My first observations of Countryside magazine are disturbing indeed…
Most subscribers dogs have better beds than I had between 1977 and 1986.
Tractors are fucking expensive, even an aluminium trailer that they pile horse-crap into costs as much as an American Vintage ‘62 Stratocaster.
These country ladies must own a scarf that has a picture of a horse on it – failing to will inevitably result in being buggered senseless in the top barn by the second undergardener. They are also required to own 35 ‘pretty’ floral ‘blouses’ and clumpy lesbian shoes.
Dogs are treated better than most urban children (excluding middle-class West London kids – you know who you are).
All published country literature has only three permitted topics: Animals in general, little plants grown in Hampshire greenhouses and cow’s fannies.
A farmer’s quad-bike is not an extension of his penis – it is his penis. You’d get more jail-time in Shropshire for nicking a quad-bike than you would for kiddie-fiddling.
There is nothing odd about a ten year old boy in a white lab-coat holding onto a sheep while other men in lab-coats stare and slightly dribble.
If you don’t have at least 13 open fires in your house/manor/hunting lodge you are a Commie Fairy. No exceptions.
For some strange reason they all like Elton John! He’d be lynched or paraded through the village if he was Reg Dwight, ‘Tiny Dancer’ has a lot to answer for.
Those who do not wet themselves or reach orgasm while thinking about dogs and doggy stuff will certainly burn in hell.
It’s early days yet but perseverance is essential, I’ll report back in a few years….
