more militantly ugly and unintelligent than any other known to me, one that consumes without discrimination and enjoys without taste.
With regard to ugliness, he writes,
it added to whatever ugliness nature had bestowed upon it by refusing to wear any clothes that might lend it any dignity, choosing apparel that accentuated its natural unattractiveness. Grossly fat slobs insisted on wearing figure-hugging T-shirts that did not quite meet the tops of the shorts that exposed their fat white tattooed calves, exposing their repellent midriffs to the appalled gaze of the minimally sensitive.
Of the women, he says,
it would be kinder not to speak; suffice it to say that they made the men look like Beau Nash or Beau Brummel.
The taste of the British in everything from food to music and clothes
Dalrymple notes that it is not that they know no better—innocent vulgarity can be amusing and even refreshing—but that
they know better and reject and hate it.
They refuse to aspire to what is better,
and try to intimidate others into abandoning it, with some success.
The productivity of such a nation, Dalrymple points out,
is unlikely to rise very fast or far. It will be lucky if in the modern world, with so much competition, it achieves stagnation.