Yesterday Bligh called me in only to have me do the worst job: scraping a year's worth of gunk out of the pans. My shoulder is almost dislocated from repetitive strain injury (because I do the same motion on the conveyor belt every day). This has now reached critical mass. I have decided to cut short my law degree (because my arm is about to fall off), and emigrate a lot sooner than expected. I already have two degrees, so a third is unnecessary. Besides, there are no opportunities here: education is meaningless.
Moreover, after ordering The Secret Barrister's works (I have only heard the podcast so far) it will be quite plain that there is just no way I can make headway in this profession. It is for nobby types that never did a day's work in their lives, looking condescendingly down their nostrils at "mere mortals", helping their corrupt rich friends get even richer while getting the guilty acquitted. That's okay too: crime is Britain's "virtue".
I will leave you with a few lines from Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni
Decianus Catus:
The Britons will offer the earth, but truth
ousts their false promises. They’re hollow,
as a rotten oak tree with looks of youth,
but by closely looking if you follow
their empty promises, their oaths sworn
before the immortal gods, proves Britain
does not keep its word, which is why it’s called
perfidious Albion. Give your all
for this so-called country and see how far
it gets you! Rome is true, an honest friend,
a faithful companion in times of need
or plenty, a true friend, that’s far beyond
anything this small island of wild-men
could possibly offer. Britain’s untrue,
changeable as Caledonian hues.
It is a nation of slaves and beggars.
They talk a good fight, but don’t deliver.
They don’t put their money where their mouth is,
but believe, Rome honours its promises.
A man’s only as good as his word,
Britain’s word is not worth a single thing.
There’s no future, no opportunity,
no hope, no joy, nothing which is worthy.
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