Now, look, if what follows gets a bit sweary, you only have yourselves to blame.
Mrs Crox, who is a journalist who’s been working remotely for ages, is just about to lose her job – and is unlikely to find another, given that all the jobs worth applying for, both intellectually or financially, are in London, even though they could, and probably should, be performed equally well (or better) from anywhere with an internet connection.
There are probably many good, historical reasons why London is the hub, the place where things happen, blah blah blah, but history is history, and as the man said, you are only as good as your last record. From my perspective, in the Now, London is a great suppurating, cancerous stench, which, like a tumour, diverts all resources to itself and squanders them in witless, mindless, tumid heat, while sucking the life out of the increasingly corpse-like remains of the rest of the country. You might say that London gives back far more than it takes, but I would contest that. Like all tumours, it sucks mainly on itself. Yes, yes, yes, I know, it has many nice museums and galleries, but also far too many aberrations such as celebrities and London Fashion Week and people who do highly-paid nothing jobs as a way to furnish their inner emptiness. Honestly, who gives a flying fig except the metropolitan chatterati, who exist as parasites on what is already parasitic?
This tumour must be excised.
So don’t give me all that pretentious feculent arse-dribble about London being a vital, multicultural melting pot, essential to the health and wealth of the nation.
And, Dear Boris, whereas it is a fact universally acknowledged that posterity will view you as the greatest statesman of this or any other age, spare us the cant about London being the powerhouse of the economy and therefore we should all be grateful. I know you are only doing your job, but still.
Face the facts.
London is smelly, dirty, noisy, ridiculously expensive and unfriendly. When I lived in London, police sirens were the lullabies that sent us to sleep. When I lived in London, hospitals and GP surgeries looked like refugee camps. When I lived in London, that supposed great melting pot, I met more prejudice, more hate, more indiscriminate violence, more deficiency of basic human kindness and neighbourliness, more evidence of the ugly underbelly of humanity, than I have seen in Norfolk, even on a bad night in King’s Lynn. If too many rats are crammed together in a barrel, they will start biting chunks out of one another. London is a rip-off. London is cheap. London is vulgar. London is shallow. London is vile. London achieves what it does by bleeding the rest of the country – and at what cost, given the blackness of the ichorous filth it vomits over the rest of us? I am perforce drawn to London for work, and the contrast is yet more stark as I am forced to make the comparison daily. In London, the air is virtually unbreathable. It’s like trying to snort concrete that has been marinaded in re-heated vomit and human excrement of the kind that tells of a dodgy kebab the night before.
I might have kept my grumbling under the wire were it not for this piece by my friend Mr S. D. of Cromer, columnist with the Eastern Daily Press, who responds to a piece in the Sunday Times by restaurant critic A. A. Gill, in which the latter uses a visit to the Rose and Crown in Snettisham as an excuse for a typically lukewarm discharge of snide, effete, foppish insult directed at Norfolk. Mr Gill’s putrid, pustulent fecal tripe is mercifully behind a paywall, so I shall quote from Mr S. D.’s piece. “In case you missed exhibit A in the display case of snobbish, sneering London ‘journalism’”, says Mr S. D., “here are a few highlights:
“If Norfolk didn’t exist, we would have to make it up, and then regret it”
“[Norfolk is a] backward place to allocate dark lusts, incest and idiocy”
“The hernia on the end of England”
“A poverty-bitten place, keeping up its stained trousers with baler twine”.
“No doubt” (Mr S. D. continues)
he laughed to himself as he penned so many witty phrases, anticipating a flurry of air kisses from his acolytes. And I expect his waspish attacks on Norfolk will draw amusement and even adulation at the dinner parties of the chattering classes, where a tasteless titbit is far more digestible than the truth. After all, anywhere that is more than 10 minutes’ drive from the nearest Harvey Nicholls must be populated by primates who wave their fists at passing planes and drown women with warts.
So, not only do the metropolitan chatterati subsist on the table-scraps of the disgusting teratoma that is London, so seeking vainly to assuage a fragile, inner nullity that can never be filled, they see fit to damn anything else as inferior in all possible ways, no matter how degraded, misguided or untrue. But the joke, Mr Gill, is on you. You presumably say these things because you have no other option but to scavenge forever in that shit-pit you call London, which is – because of its pathology – the only place where people like you can exist, and – because of the same pathology – the reason why Mrs Crox can’t find a job in the clean, friendly, calm, measured, human and dignified atmosphere of Norfolk.