Category Archives: British cuisine

The agony of English meals

Gooseberries, writes Dalrymple,

were always served, in the England of my childhood, with custard, a yellow concoction with lumps in it and a skin that sent shivers down your spine. The lumps and skin were regarded in the same light as outdoor team games in inclement weather: they were character-building. Meals in England in those days were treated as an ordeal which had to be gone through.

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I’m fat, ugly, stupid — ‘n fuckin’ proud of it!

Screen Shot 2016-03-22 at 19.50.35Many British people, Dalrymple observes, are

beached human whales.

Dalrymple encounters a male whale in the hotel lift.

His T-shirt was emblazoned with a single word, ENGLAND, a superfluous message if ever there were one.

The British, says Dalrymple, are

fried food made flesh.

Their appearance signifies one of two things, or both:

  1. collapse of self-respect, at least in the aspect of physical appearance
  2. total lack of imagination as to the impression they make on others

Dalrymple points out that

slum-dwellers in Kinshasa make a better effort, with more success, in turning themselves out well.

Anglo-Saxon gastronomic impoverishment

British culinary imbecility British culinary imbecility

Dalrymple writes:

I happen to dislike prepared foods, though more on æsthetic than on health grounds; I see what people choose and am appalled by their choices, which seem to me to be those of overindulged children who have never matured in their tastes.

He has

no real objection to regulation of the sugar content of prepared foods, provided it was done on intellectually honest grounds. Those grounds would not be that people are incapable of acting other than as they do, but that they are too idle to cook, their tastes and pleasures are too brutish, their habits too gross, for them to be left free to choose for themselves. Someone who knows better must guide them.

English gastronomic cretinism

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Cuisine britannique: le chip butty

I beseech you in the bowels of Christ, must you eat that muck?

An important feature of the profoundly unappealing modern British, writes Dalrymple,

is their lack of self-control. They scream their obscenities in the street, eat everywhere they go, and leave litter behind them. They are opposed to self-control on grounds of health and safety. They see self-control as psychologically harmful or impossible: self-control is the enemy of self-expression, without which their existences would be poisoned as if by an unopened abscess.

The idea that sugar is addictive is

music to their ears. Not only is self-control bad for you, it has been proved (by science) to be impossible. Further good news is that fatness is genetic. Never has Man’s eternal urge to excuse himself received so much authoritative support.

The debased British

are among the fattest people on earth. Much of the economy is the Soviet Union with takeaway pizza.

Meals are

nasty, solitary, British, short, and frequent. The elementary social discipline of eating with others is lost. The Englishman’s street is his dining room. Streets are littered with the detritus of junk food. Were it not for smoking, the British would be even fatter.

Many billions of pounds of public expenditure

have made the dream of the political class come true: people have become the product of their environment, all needful of official assistance.