The South is best and I can prove it

Alright, m’lover today we’re going to speak about Somerset.

When you say, “I’m from the South”, people either think “He’s a wanker” or “He’s a farmer” –  this is London’s fault. London has ruined the South.

Listen: if you’re from London, you’re not from the South so you can fuck off. Go back to being corporate shills and doing yoga.

I’m from the South, the proper South — Wurzel country South. Yes, I’ll say it loud and proud: I’m a cider drinker and I’m okay with that. We’ve all dealt with the insults about our accents, when city slickers don’t not want talk proper like us country bumpkins from good ol’ Somerset.

Nobody understands poor Ed

Growing up in Somerset, in roughly the same five square miles, your geography is a little poor: Bristol is the North, Leeds is a myth (I hope to God it is), and Edinburgh is pretty much on a different continent.

And it’s pretty clear God did a proper job when he made the West Country — glorious green fields and half-decent weather.

You can have more fun in Somerset than anywhere else in the UK: from the world class ferret racing, to the A-grade cheese, and the first rate scrumpy.

For the more musically-minded there’s Glastonbury, the best thing that happens to Britain every year.

If there’s an apocalypse, or if we’re all unexpectedly flooded for the ninth year in a row, we’ll all survive: after all we’re taught the basics (hunting, fishing, shooting and riding) since birth.

No joke though – my village has planned for the apocalypse

And something that is lacking everywhere else: family spirit. Whether it’s when we move as one “landie” convoy in our tweed and cord livery, or the fact your uncle is your cousin — it’s fun for all the family.

So come on down and join the cuntryside folk.