Tube strikes, Wimbledon woes and tea: Was this the most British week ever?
Even the weather went back to being British
Sometimes international affairs dominate the news with stories of far flung unrest and American cat videos. Over in Britain we’re just not that interesting and that’s just how it is.
But this week we collectively shook off our trousers to reveal a shiny pair of Union Jack undies, yelling “oi chaps – for god sake I still exist” to the entire world.
Usually cases of Brits overbearingly conforming to their stereotypes are staggered throughout the month. Hordes from middle England might journey to Magaluf to flaunt their bad teeth and drinking problems, but we’re given a much-needed respite before the new series of Dr Who and tears on transfer deadline day.
Just when we thought we couldn’t become any more twee, enough amazingly British events happen in one week to fill an hour long Coronation Street Jubilee special.
Tube strike turmoil
We just love nothing more than standing in a fucking good queue on these isles. This week tourists couldn’t get their heads around why a TfL strike couldn’t be prevented in the first place.
Having a right solid moan about how you have to take the long way around the Essex border via at least five buses became a national sport. Longer, more arduous treks home almost turned into a game of oneupmanship – but we all know you just got a price-surged Uber anyway.
Spare a thought for the poor saps who queued their way in or out of France when the migrant situation spiralled a bit out of control. They were entrenched in either Dover or Calais, two of the very worst places in the worst, while strikers set fire to piles of tyres on train tracks to stop anyone moving.
Our tube drivers just didn’t turn up to work and watched Jeremy Kyle at home with their wives or life partners named Denise.
The most dire place you could have been heading on Wednesday or Thursday night was your shoebox flat in Bow or Clapham man-pad.
The weather went back to normal
The sun had his hat on, then realised only poly students and 15-year-olds wore snapbacks and promptly chucked it off.
Last week we had Sahara topping death rays and it all got a bit too European over here. But now even the weather’s come over all British and it’s finally started raining now and again.
Whether we’re drinking some overpriced ale or baking ourselves in the sun without even a slither of suncream, Britain doesn’t do things by halves.
And this couldn’t be more evident than this week, with our people visibly wearing the hangover from last week’s jovality on their bright red sunburned patchy skin.
Get your whites out, Wimbledon is happening
Bad language and throwing rackets on the ground is just not cricket, never mind Ashes antics. Wimbledon doesn’t really do change and nor do we. Goran Ivanisevic was rocking a topknot back in the 90s, but we only started wearing them last year thanks to some bloke from Made in Chelsea.
But nothing ignites the fire in the heart of a Brit more than a threat to our archaic, strained national identity from abroad. Our Andy might have been slain in the semis by some floppy Swiss chap, causing us to miss out on yet another sporting triumph, but the biggest threat in tennis came from the other side of the world.
Get a load of these Australian invaders supporting upstart Nick Kyrgios over our shining Prince Andy Murray. Extremely concerning racial implications of painting your face black aside – it was Vegemite they used and not our precious Marmite. That’s just not on.
Andy Murray’s dear mum Judy hit out at the defiantly un-British “foliage overdose” in her glass of Pimms. Keeping those au naturel continental types at bay just comes instinctively, and of course we had to prove it on the most British week of all time.
Take a step back and compare Wimbledon to the Pamplona run, where they let a bloody great bull loose charging in the streets.
Our quaint little racket game couldn’t be further from this bloodbath going on in Spain right now. Several people have already been gored in one of their country’s greatest national sporting events. The closest anyone has come to getting a graze at Wimbledon is when Kyrgios chucked a racket and “nearly” brushed a spectator. There was uproar then too.
Nobody protests Wimbledon, but this week Brits have been travelling abroad to get their clothes off and make a stand against somebody else culture. It’s just what we do.
Meanwhile our own take on this gore-fest, the quintessentially British sport of fox hunting could be set to return, getting Durham and Bristol students hot under their pale blue polo shirt collars.
The Budget broke our hearts
Good god that was a bad budget. But when does the national day of slashing everything important in life go swimmingly?
There’s nothing more infinitely British than having our hopes and dreams put to the sword of Excalibur by a government who cares more for their country home than they do for your future.
They snatched our maintenance grants, putting an end to three years of free money just for listening to our tutors babble for a few hours a week. A living wage for over 25s might be a lovely thought, but nobody who really matters is over a quarter century anyway.
In the typical British way, the left rallied together to enjoy a fragile sense of hardship.
Greece have had a pretty bad week too you know. Fighting against their emptying shelves and bank closures by storming the streets in a Zorba of fiery passion.
But they don’t get the same smug satisfaction out of grumbling about it like us. Brits just went on their own internet odyssey and mouthed off on Facebook.
We shook off the budget by building a pub which only serves tea to empty our pockets even more.
In the week where we came together to mourn and remember the 7/7 bombings, Britain still managed to take a look at ourselves and laugh to polish off the most outrageously British week in history.