Apparently Enid Blyton does not rule all England any more. No more middle-class interfering kids ruining your smuggling operation. No more joyful picnics with nary a drop of white cider and no knife fights to mar the occasion. We have stopped using the dying days of summer to remind our kids that they've got to trudge back to school soon by dragging them out into the middle of fucking nowhere and picking blackberries.
Ah, the blackberry. Nature's Mars Bar. Eat about a hundred of these and you too will be dragging employees of McDonald's over the counter in a fructose-powered frenzy. Pack about a hundred of them into your loinfruit's smaller frames and that's a recipe for projectile vomiting, cage-fighting across the back seat and fractured sentences full of expletives spat out at passing police cars by your likkle ones.
We don't take our kids out blackberry picking for another reason too. How on earth do we explain England's countryside full of corpses?
-Dad, I just tripped over a mound shaped like a man.
-It's okay son, that'll just be another unsuccessful small-time dealer who thought he could spend the money his supplier kept demanding with menaces.
-That's alright then...aaaaaaaaargh! What?
This was why dad and son fishing trips have fallen by the wayside too.
-Catch a fish there son?
-Nah, just another limb wrenched from the submerged corpse of a petty criminal who got too big for his boots...aaaaaargh!
-Calm down, son. Just chuck that soggy white-fleshed lump onto the pile over there. We'll tell everyone it's Hoki and pass it off as just as good as cod.
We must continue to take our children fishing AND blackberrying, even in the face of a green and pleasant land that has disturbing surprises just beneath the surface. How on earth else will we wind up with a Tupperware tub half full of a disturbing black liquid that's still in the crisper drawer of the fridge six weeks from now?
[Still taking it from foreign sailors on the orders of: Humor-blogs.com ]
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