There's this guy in the gym. He's got one of those names that are initials, this guy, and Gimme is suspicious of people thus nomanclated. He also looks alarmingly like a certain cartoonish tv character. You know the one. Again, suspicious. Oh and it turns out he's a racist. I think. Is it racist to hate the English? Because if it is then there are a lot of racists about. There are a lot of enablers too, enabling all over the shop. Turns out I count myself among them.
But is it racism, really? Cause you know, the famine and shit. And we shouldn't vote Sinn Féin because of all those innocents that they murdered and shit. It works both ways, this historical atrocity bender.
I know lots of English people. And I can stand to be around most of them about as much as I can stand to be around anyone else. A couple of them I even kind of like. So when, as we discussed the horrorshow that is the upkeep and management of my place of work, this guy in the gym leant in and sweatily said 'What do you expect? Run by a nigger.' I found myself saying nothing but 'Yeah well, that nigger anyway.' Except he didn't say 'nigger' of course because you can't say 'nigger' and I didn't say 'nigger' because it wouldn't have made sense because he didn't say 'nigger' and anyway the running in question is being done by a man who might reasonably described as many things but 'nigger' is not the first that springs to mind. He said 'Englishman'. And I said 'Englishman'. Not as bad, right? Barely in the same ballpark. As disparate, one might say, as male and female circumcision. And yet.
Wow, check me out, I just did my very own blog version of Joel Schumacher's 'A Time to Kill' starring Mathew McConaughey and Samuel L. Jackson. I'm fucking welling up.