Tuesday, February 24, 2009

No country for old mogs

Well here we are, back in dear old Blighty, the country whose inhabitants have every reason in the world to be worried indeed: The country's plumbing is essentially a piece of Victoriana nicked from a working museum, THE CREDIT CRUNCHY has slowed down sales of UGG-boots, skinny jeans and Red Bull to a worrying extent, 98.7% of Britons believe the earth is a 48-year old Blue Peter experiment and The Battle of the Girl Giants is likely to be won by the new Queen of Hearts and her criminal consort.

To cite that marvellous snob Noel Coward: There are bad times just around the corner - and there's no reason to indulge the optimistic belief that obese, inert and generally gaga Britain can take it.

This country is doooooomeed.

So, Britons ought to be worried about all those truly terrifying things that await them - and yet what do they seem to fear most (after flying, at least if you try to answer that question with the help of dubious research methods conducted on the internet)?

Cats. As in kitties. Pussymogs.

This is a displacement activity with distinct Jungian undertones, if you ask me. It's all about the all-engulfing cosmic maternal yoni.

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