Can we dial-back the nation’s wankery? I am not sure such a thing is even possible. We have travelled far down the road of disappearing up our own arseholes. A return may not be an option.
We were once a simple people. Kinda bright. We could read, write, and count better than most of the western world, and we made things. All sorts of things, some of which even required the people who designed those things to be university-qualified engineers, and the people who made those same things to be trained and skilled in that regard.
But we’ve moved on from those halcyon days of self-respect and fulfilled simplicity, and the path we have chosen to move down is the path of profound and utterly abject wankery.
We are now ignorant, unread, and largely uneducated. Our kids keep dropping further and further down the ladder of sentience, and we’re lucky if they leave school being vaguely literate.
We have become a nation of wankers. Yes, OK. Not all of us. But enough of us to make matters quite unsettling and nauseous.
Let’s take the gin thing.
I’m not even sure how this happened, or even why, but it’s happened.
Gin was once a dreary oleaginous clear spirit used in cocktails, for it was far too vile to be drunk neat. It was invented by the British ruling class to stop the poor people from slaughtering them. The Poms saw what happened to the French and realised wine was just not gonna do the trick in that regard. The unwashed needed to be fully munted if the aristocracy was to survive.
And cocktails, as we all know, were themselves invented strictly as a means to get bitches pissed so that they’d agree to let you into their flat, and you could feel like a high-roller spending a stupid amount of money on a sugar-rich fruit salad that would hopefully kick off her panties like a mean-eyed mule.
Then one day, we woke up and gin was a thing. And now it came in flavours. Our wanking here became truly epic. Here was gin flavoured with chilli and mango (because that makes sense when you’re a wax-bearded cunt), gin flavoured with pineapple, apples, berries…basically any fruit you’ve ever put in your stupid mouth, and then there’s gin flavoured like bourbon, tequila, or whatever the fuck maple bourbon thinks it is.
Bitches, please. It’s gin. It was always rubbish and needed to be mixed with tonic in order to make the ensuing tiger hunt through the Indian jungle remotely bearable. But that’s it.
The fact those dank hipster gronks need to flavour it so that it tastes other than what it’s meant to taste like (which is despair and depression) tells you everything you need to know about the level of wank we have reached with this fermented juniper weed.
We couldn’t even leave our fucken beer alone, could we? Instead of following the glorious German model, and enshrining beer’s purity in law, so that only water, yeast, hops, and malt may call themselves components of beer, we belted off down the path of beer-wankery at a great clip.
There are a billion different beers in Germany. They all taste like beer should taste.
There are a billion beers in fucken Marrickville alone, thanks to legions of bearded she-males and their hideous thick-calved partners deciding they wanna run a micro-brewery, and fuck-all of them taste like beer.
Here also, flavours are added to beer to make it taste not-like-beer. Presumably in the hope that woman will drink it, though the girls I know who drink beer, prefer their beer to taste like beer, and not fizzy liquid strained through some shithead’s underpants.
This micro-brewing bullshit is one the dumbest things I have ever seen. Sure, once in a while one of them lucks onto something that tastes alright, but the vast range of inner-city micro-wankbrewers cannot produce a single beer that approaches anything made in Germany or the Czech Republic.
Why is that? I’ll tell you. It’s because these pieces of shit are wankers, and wankers don’t care about producing a quality beer. They care only about producing something that tastes like cold bubbly vomit and costs 15 dollars a glass.
And we lap it up like the wankers we have become.
Certainly, much of the blame for this can be laid at the vats of the major commercial brewers, who have consistently been producing garbage beer for decades. It stands to reason then when someone who has been necking Tooheys his whole life is offered an alternative and told it is “craft” beer, he’ll have a crack at it because, well, you know, “craft”.
And it tastes like arse. And he goes back to Tooheys.
If you were to hand that same bloke a cold glass of Weihenstephaner, Rothaus’ Pils Tannen Zäpfle, Franziskaner, or even a humble Paulaner, he’d never touch Australian beer again. He would very quickly understand what a beer can and must taste like when the brewery was opened in 1040AD.
But no. We have to either drink the commercial slurry, or befoul our innards with the loathsome “craft” beer from some shaggy-faced fuckwomble who dresses like a Canadian lumberjack because of the surfeit of irony in his vapid life.
Our booze wankery is now also augmented by our ever-growing food wankery – specifically in the realm of heirloom tomatoes, smashed avocado, and that new gourmet go-to for every fuck-wank who finds himself in charge of a commercial kitchen – aioli. This is the same kind of cunt who imagines drizzling balsamic vinegar on everything immediately renders it as haute cuisine thus attracting a premium price on the menu. Which we wankers will gleefully pay for because that’s what wankers do.
Like what the ever-loving fuck is an heirloom tomato, you tragic cunt? An heirloom (and if you pronounce the “H” at me I will murder you in your waitress outfit, you dim slut) is something of value that has been in one’s family for a long time. How can this term now apply to a vegetable? I mean apart from you jacking the price up because we think we’re getting something special and 90 per cent of the population wouldn’t know what an heirloom is in the first place?
And fuck yourself with your “smashed” avocado. It’s not smashed. I would be happy to show you what smashed actually is by flogging you with a stool until your head is smashed. That drug addict in the kitchen who insists on being called “chef” has simply broken up the avocado with a fork, or spread it on toast with a knife, and it’s still just fucken avocado. You can’t charge an extra ten bucks for it.
Which brings me to fucken aioli. Or fucken mayonnaise to give it is true non-wank name. Putting some garlic in it, or paprika, or the arse-juice of a stoat, only makes it a variation of mayonnaise. Fucken aioli. Go fuck yourself. If the idea of this bullshit is to make us feel like we’re being treated to something special to justify the wanker-price you’ve decided to charge for fat-cut chips and mayo (potato wedges and chef’s aioli), then it sure has worked. And it’s worked because we are wankers.
Of course, our wankery has many tentacles. It’s not just confined to us being happy and pleased to be charged idiotic prices for a working-class sedative, garbage beer, a staple vegetable, a fruit we grow so much of we can’t give it away, and wretched mayonnaise.
I will briefly touch on two more of these tentacles, so that there can be no doubt in your mind about our descent into national wankery, which looks complete and irreversible.
The mere fact that while driving, you are unable to understand that you must keep left unless overtaking, enshrines you (well, us) forever as the nil plus ultra of wankers.
Your belly nicely full of smashed avo and heirloom tomatoes drizzled with balsamic and dunked in aoli, and with the vaguest hint of underpants-flavoured beer or muskrat-fused gin on your breath, you pilot our SUVs (because you’re too fat to get into a sedan) down the road, policing everyone’s driving behaviour by driving like an abject cunt yourself. In the right lane. Where only cunts who are not overtaking drive when they’re not overtaking.
Clearly, you are on our way to your “farm”. Which is not actually a farm, since you produce and grow nothing. You just call it that because you’re a wanker.
It’s really just a few over-priced acres of non-arable land where you go with your disgusting hyper-urban family on weekends to commune with nature. There you are, all dressed up in your RM Williams get-up, nailing a sign up on the wall of your “homestead” that reads “LiVe, LoVe, BreAthe, sMiLe”, just before making some awful damper in a camp-oven you’ve bought at BCF last weekend, and telling the kids (who want to go home and watch Netflix) not to wander off too far lest the terrifying wilderness takes them.
Yes, it has come to this. I’m not sure why, but I think we have disappeared up our own arses because we simply don’t have anything better to do. We are an island nation, and hugely isolated and insulated from the world. We share no borders with another nation, who might have a word in our shell-like when we start wanking too hard.
I think that’s what’s happened. We have been left alone for too long and spent too much time without adult supervision. We have received no guidance, other than being firehosed with American media and entertainment virtually from birth.
But we are not Americans. We are not an empire in decline. We are our own thing. And it was once a thing that was simple, and honest, and very non-pretentious. It had dignity in that lack of pretence. We used to laugh at the very thing we have now become – wankers.
And it’s not very funny, is it?
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