Great Britain!

Reviewed by Great Grandma Hughes (with a little help from Doris Fosbury Bloomingdale of the Fleetwood Poetry Society).

Right...are you goin' first the Missus? What a magnificent beast this country is! 'Ave we started yet or w'at? Broad in the beam. Perky round the bosom. Well forested around the nether regions. 'Oo are we talkin' about? Not that Mrs Perkins from the florists? 'Er tits are made o' psyclone, so Mr Roberts at number 86 reckons. So nobel in spirit, so dignified in expression and yet so charming, delightful and sensuous in appearance. Can't be 'er then! When's it my turn to say sommet? From the crags of the Cheddar Gorge to the patchwork leas of the home counties. I went t' Cheddar Gorge once. Nearly broke me effin' teeth ('scuse me Anglican) on one o' the rocks. I much prefer the stuff from the Cheese Emporium on Lancaster Street. From the snow capped mountains of darkest Cumbria to the deepest vallies of sheep-covered Wales. Aye...bloody Welsh. Always fiddlin' with innocent sheep. If my 'Enry was still alive 'ee'd skin 'em alive. Couldn't stand the Welsh 'ee couldn't. Used t' call 'em a bunch of inbred yakidars. 'Ee was very perceptive like that was my 'Enry. And then, of course, there's Scotland with its wild haggis and windswept firs. Bunch o' dress wearin' faggots they are, an' all...all tossin' their cabers in public and dying their 'arses red.

God bless this cliff-mired island and all who were born here. With the exception of the nig-nogs of course. And that Mr Johnson from the launderette 'oo goes round sniffin' old ladies knickers when they're not lookin'. Needs lockin' up 'ee does...and 'is bollocks need chopping off ('scuse my Atlantian). Our grand parade of those who carved the twenty-first century with their own invention, their art and their literature. Bloody artists...they're all puffs an' all. Forever jumpin' in and out of each others' hammocks an' painting each other in the nuddy with tiny cocks. From Robert Louis Stevenson to Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Everhard 'oo? Oy...is it my turn yet? From Florence Nightingale to Stephen Hawking. 'Ee's that arse bandit in the wheelchair inee? The one w'at sounds like a dalek? From Chaucer to Shakespeare, from Dickens to Cartland. Oh, I liked 'er. She was very good. All them ripped bodices an' heavin' bosoms an' tall dark-haired men with bronz coloured shoulders an' Cumberland sausages down their slacks. From the enigmatic mists around Stonehenge, to Cromwell's introduction of Parliament, this wonderous nation has given so much to an unappreciative world. I'll go along wi' that. Bloody French wi' their beef protests and their evil, garlic ways. Don't appreciate nothin'. 'Oo saved their froggy arses durin' the war, eh? They might 'ave forgotten but we bloomin' well 'aven't! Turner, Elgar, Constable and Thackery. The Brontes and Hardy. Churchill and Gladstone. Kent and Cornwall. Aren't they solicitors? Our ages-old castles mellowed through time with their impenetrable fortresses and sad stone eyes. Mr Wilkins 'as got a glass eye. I asked 'im which one it was was an' 'ee told me t' mind me own business. So I asked 'im again and 'ee said, "It's me bloomin' Jap's eye, innit Missus!?" I didn't even know 'ee 'ad any oriental in 'im. 'Course I never spoke to 'im again after that. Our steadfast villages with their dreaming spires and masticating cows. Dirty buggers! The policemen are blue and the telephone boxes red. And they're filled with urine most o' the time an' all! Bloomin' stink they do, them boxes! I caught someone wonking off in one of 'em the other day. Said 'ee was emptying 'is colostomy. First time I've ever seen an 'ip bag full of spunk! Our welfare state, our bluebell woods, our rolling downs and tumbling broads! We back onto that Mrs Perkins again? God bless this island in its munificent sea and long might we stand fast against Iraqi terorists. Amen t' that one, Missus...Muslin bastards! Will you shut the fuck up you stupid, ignorant old bitch?!! Well I never did! 'Ow dare you speak t' me in that tone o' voice you big fat slut! Thinkin' you're bigger an' better than the rest of us just 'cos you've got a decree in stuck-up poems!

Next week: Colon Powell and Jacques Chirrac review "France!"