Why do I bother to pretend to write about food when this tripe passes for food writing? Why do I tug at my beard and puzzle about how to frame my next sentence about food when maroons like this can actually be getting paid for speaking their mind about themselves, not about food? I really am downgrading Brits these days . . . with their princes and skinheads and soccer, added to this absolute drivel . . . the place I went to boarding school and got the best possible education in the world at the time seems now to be a shabby shadow of its proud former self.
And did those smelly feet . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment