chrismoyles.net
By MyPurpleUndercrackers - Tue Jan 30, 2007 7:51 pm
- Tue Jan 30, 2007 7:51 pm
#267890
Look, I own an atlas, you own an atlas; we all own a * atlas. And what do our atlases tell us? That there's a lot of * snow on the South Pole and pretty much nothing else.
Now, given that we all own atlases and mankind's topographical and climatic knowledge of the South Pole is at worst OK, why the * do overly rich Britons consider it necessary to piss off there on a regular basis?
Let's just think about what actually happens. Some wanker - usually with a double-barrelled or other ludicrous name - waltzes down south, walks around on ice floes with his similarly crappily-monikered chums, and then falls in a big ol' hole, loses some feet, and needs the ever-faithful tax-payer to bail him out with several hundred thousand pounds-worth of search and rescue.
Needless to say, it is the latter which does most to inspire my chagrin. To my mind, there can be no bigger waste of public money than bailing out a glorified gap year student who didn't pack enough baked beans to go ice-skating. The motivation for these little forays is invariably selfish - there is no public good in sending a 432nd person across the Antarctic, it merely serves to foster immense self-satisfaction in those work-shirking * who believe they are somehow contributing to society by re-crossing already discovered terrain.
Indeed the only other people who derive any pleasure from the exploits of these little * are the editors of the right-wing broadsheet newspapers, who for some reason seem convinced that we are still living in the Victorian era and must encourage Britons to chart the world, and then consider it a cause for celebration when they are saved from impending death by a vastly expensive rescue operation. Thank goodness these newspapers' policies towards the working classes and ethnic minorities have progressed over the years.
On an aside, I would just like to bid farewell to readers as I am going to be unavailable for the next two weeks while I cross Lincolnshire. Be sure to follow my exploits in the Daily Telegraph, culminating in my planting the Union Jack in the centre of Skegness. It's what the Queen would have wanted, if only she had lived to see it.
Now, given that we all own atlases and mankind's topographical and climatic knowledge of the South Pole is at worst OK, why the * do overly rich Britons consider it necessary to piss off there on a regular basis?
Let's just think about what actually happens. Some wanker - usually with a double-barrelled or other ludicrous name - waltzes down south, walks around on ice floes with his similarly crappily-monikered chums, and then falls in a big ol' hole, loses some feet, and needs the ever-faithful tax-payer to bail him out with several hundred thousand pounds-worth of search and rescue.
Needless to say, it is the latter which does most to inspire my chagrin. To my mind, there can be no bigger waste of public money than bailing out a glorified gap year student who didn't pack enough baked beans to go ice-skating. The motivation for these little forays is invariably selfish - there is no public good in sending a 432nd person across the Antarctic, it merely serves to foster immense self-satisfaction in those work-shirking * who believe they are somehow contributing to society by re-crossing already discovered terrain.
Indeed the only other people who derive any pleasure from the exploits of these little * are the editors of the right-wing broadsheet newspapers, who for some reason seem convinced that we are still living in the Victorian era and must encourage Britons to chart the world, and then consider it a cause for celebration when they are saved from impending death by a vastly expensive rescue operation. Thank goodness these newspapers' policies towards the working classes and ethnic minorities have progressed over the years.
On an aside, I would just like to bid farewell to readers as I am going to be unavailable for the next two weeks while I cross Lincolnshire. Be sure to follow my exploits in the Daily Telegraph, culminating in my planting the Union Jack in the centre of Skegness. It's what the Queen would have wanted, if only she had lived to see it.
