There were a variety of choices for the song from the Juiced-box to accompany this post (high on the list would have been “London’s Burning”, but that would’ve been too obvious) and this was the one which pinged my twisted sense of humor. Enjoy a bit of Twisted Sister.
I haven’t had a drink – of any kind – in about a month. For me, this is nothing new: I’m not what you’d class as a raging alcoholic, nor am I really a social drinker in the true sense of the word. About the only time I’ll drink (with the exception of my pre-Christmas “I Quit My Job” booze-up) is at home with the wife and maybe a few good friends over a well cooked meal and some nice conversation. I go to the bar – I drink Coke or juice. I go to someone else’s party – I drink Coke or juice. I get home from a hard day at work – I drink Coke, and play with my young daughter and watch the children’s programming on TV. Only on the odd occasion do I pull out a bottle of cheap red from the cupboard and swig it like I stole it.
If I was a cop in Britain right now, man, I’d be drunk off my gourd and slumped in a dark corner somewhere, waiting for the darkness of unconscious oblivion to swallow me whole. I’d be as far away from London, Manchester, Bristol and wherever else Sony warehouses are burning to the ground, hiding in a dark corner somewhere, my police badge conveniently left at home. I would be so smashed, the mere thought of entertaining a thought about joining the riot squad would begin with the line “An Aussie, a Yank and an Irishman walked into a bar…”.
We’ve all seen the pictures filtering through the poorly orchestrated media circus of Britons swiping, burning, smashing and stealing their way through most of Southern England. Fuck me if that doesn’t look like a wonderful time, eh? Skinheads, punks, skanks, slags and fuckwits just running about with abandon and destroying property and lives because it seems like a good time. I’m almost disappointed that I can’t join in and steal a few plasma TV’s and Reeboks as well – because if you’re gonna have a good riot, then fuck me, why not steal a bunch of shoes. Pansy ass, lowbrow, jut-jawed neanderthal faggots, if you ask me. No disrespect to all good faggots out there, but if all these feral stains can think of is flogging a few shoes, some jewelry and clothing, then England’s worse off than I thought. I trawled the web a little the other day, and not once did I see a bunch of hoodie-wearing fucksticks clambering out of a pub with a few cartons of beer under their arms, scampering away as the cops arrived.
For all that’s been stolen, it strikes me as an alarming statistic that (and I’m just making this shit up, now) almost no alcoholic premises were looted for the booze. There’s a fair bit of damage to property, from what I’ve seen, but nobody really thinks of booze as an expensive item to pilfer. I’m no criminal (at least, not that can be proven in a court of law) but I’ll bet some other rioting wanker will be sitting there next week, when all the shit’s died down, slapping his head mumbling something about stocking up on a nice set of Shiraz or Cabernet, instead of pillaging a quickfix of Harold And Kumar BluRays from Blockbuster. Priorities, guys. I’d rather a good drink than a too-small pair of Nikes.
Maybe if these dopey bastards (here in Australia they’d be called “Drongo’s” or some other colloquially cringe-inducing shit by the media) had bothered to flog some booze, go home and get fucked up, we’d have been spared the sight of London burning, people being killed, and vigilante groups arming themselves to combat the violence. A good riot never solves anything, but maybe a few drinks at the local could’ve.