hero of the day: Tony Benn
Now hear this...
I live in London and London has many problems. It is violent, overcrowded and expensive. You can't walk out your front door without being eviscerated by some dipshit gangster wannabe or glassed by some Burberry clad fuckwad. A pint of beer costs more than the entire GDP of Fiji and house prices anywhere near the M25 are enough to make a cat laugh.
But there is one thing about London that even I, softly spoken, gentle, forbearing Mr Fynder just cannot stomach.
People with giant cars, gargantuan egos and tiny willies.
It is a phenomenon that has plagued civilisation since cavemen got around by squeezing into hollow tree trunks and getting the missus to push them down a hillside. It is unavoidable, ubiquitous, and familiar to all and its herald is the shrill cry of: "Mine's bigger than yours! Ner ner!"
It gives me the fucking hump.
There was a time when the car was simply a means of transportation. Families would travel to the seaside in the Morris Minor and cheer when they reached 50 mph.
Then came Thatcher.
For reasons best known to herself Thatcher decided that the modest, small pleasures, overalls-and-Ovaltine Britain of old was past its sell by date and had to go. In its place would be the monster that we now know as "Modern Britain Today" with its greed and its ignorance and its selfishness and its obsession with self.
Thatcher's Britain and the value system by which it lives manifests itself in many ways. For example, children today are now so obsessed with clothing brands and the prestige they bestow that mental illnesses, particularly eating disorders and depression have been blamed on tragedies such as Mummy and Daddy failing to provide the £300 Dolce and Gabbana leg warmers or the trauma of Emma from 4G getting hold of a limited edition Prada codpiece. Is this indicative of a healthy, happy nation?
I would say not.
Thatcher told us greed is good.
I think greed is shit.
Thatcher genuinely believed (and still does... but nowadays she also believes she is a Jedi Master called Frank so she's probably best ignored) that if the rich got richer and the poor got more numerous Britain would benefit a hundred times over.
She was barking.
The British were shown greed at its most voracious, the sort of greed that only the Americans can do and the effects were disastrous.
The Prada-induced anorexia is merely a taster. In a society as class-obsessed as Britain prestige has always mattered a great deal and under the shadow of Thatcher, prestige could be earned in one way and one way only.
Gone are the days when a donation to charity would make the ladies swoon, long forgotten is the era of reading and of education, of discovery, of learning, of cultured people trying to win the greatest accolades by simply discovering amazing things about our universe. Even the quaint gestures of building churches or shelters for the poor have been trampled on by Thatcher's brave new world. The only thing anybody gives a shit about now is how much you can eat, shit, spend and burn and the best, least imaginative and most convenient way of announcing: "I cost the Earth loads!" is by driving around in the most ridiculous, ostentatious, garish automobile you can find.
And you don't have to look very far to find some tosser who thinks he's King of the World because he's spent the annual military budget of Columbia on a car.
Just take a brisk walk through central London and you will find dozens of ludicrous machines with growling, macho names like "Crossfire!" or "GTI!" or "Trooper!" or "Wanker!" (Pajero means wanker in Spanish... sort of). The more macho the name, however, the more stupid the occupant looks sitting behind a rickshaw at a red traffic light.
And there lies the irony.
That's what cars do these days. They sit. There are so many of the bloody things they have managed to make themselves useless. The fastest way of getting around London is on a pushbike. That's how stupid it has become.
We've all signed up to Thatcher's Britain with vigour and this is what we got for it: bulimic Prada addicts and gridlocked wankers.
But there's still a battle for these morons to win and they'll make sure they win it every time. It is the only way that Mr Pee Wee MG and Maggot Manhood Man in his Jeep can salvage anything resembling masculine pride.
They may indeed be travelling so slowly they have managed to bend time, the queue they have sat in for three and a half weeks may indeed be so long it is visible from space but they're going to get to the front of it if it kills them... or you.
Every day, I see some cock on four wheels cutting up, swerving, jumping in, pulling out, hooting, swearing, spitting or shouting, all in the name of two and a half inches.
THEIR two and a half inches.
So do me a favour and listen to these sage words from The Fynder.
A real man sits and waits.
A woman with a brain will excercise a bit of patience.
The rest of Thatcher's greedy, small-minded, self obsessed little island would rather kill a stranger than wait for the lights to change.
And that is bollocks.