Howdy, Ni Hao, Guten Tag, Buongiorno, and a hearty Yorkshire “Alright love” to all. This blog has been briefly abandoned, but by no means forgotten, merely left on the hard shoulder of life for a while as I sped on (alarmingly quickly) down the M6 of work, revision, panic, exams, and then some maaaaaaaaaaaad raves afterwards (read: drowning my sorrows at the pub).
But now we’re back, refreshed, rejuvenated, and mostly because I’m now at home for three months with little prospect of finding a job and need to find something to do before I go just a teensy bit insane. So I sat down at my
desk recliner, and thought about what I could come back with. There hasn’t been much anger recently, which may possibly be because I’ve reached a state of permanent apathy and/or the THC has caught up with me and all I can think about any longer is how funny the puppet sex in Team America is and how much I want some Doritos. However, I’ve decided that instead of my usual long form rants that meander about and don’t really lead anywhere, I’d try my hand at something different.
To quote Wayne’s World: “Does anyone else find this weird? I mean, we’re looking down on Wayne’s basement.. only that’s not Wayne’s basement… isn’t that weird?” “Garth, that was a haiku!!” “Alright, excellent.” Poetry.
I studied English Lit. at A level (A* bitcheeeeeeeeeeees) and we read a great deal of poetry, from Wilfred Owen, from Sylvia Plath, from John Donne and Philip Larkin, and it was the last gloriously depressive great that stuck with me the most. Philip Larkin was an outstanding poet, one whose witty observations of British life, often misinterpreted as being overly morose, struck me particularly close to home as both a Yorkshire local and a lifelong cynic. Therefore, it is with great trepidation and with a feeling akin to the men that were in the control room at NASA when Neil Armstrong was busy pissing about on the moon, that I present the next step of The Angry Indian’s evolution from a place where I ramble (via a place where I ramble about specific things), to a place where I ramble in new and potentially interesting ways.
I present to you the “Ode to…” series.
Ode to the Brit-Asian.Oh thou, Brit Asian, oft from the South, From London and Leicester, From Wembley, Harrow, and Slough. Or perhaps from the North, From the proud town of Bradford, Though proud may be the wrong word, More like…there. Bradford is there. But O Brit Asian, I have a gripe, Not against one, but against your general type. I’m not being racist, I don’t think that’s a thing, But whenever I see you, I just want to sing. Sing words like, “Goddamn you’re a twat,” or, “Fuck off you prick.” Don’t get me wrong Brit Asian, I’m not being a dick. Well, maybe a little. Take for example, the way you dress, I’m not entirely sure who you want to impress. Your trousers are too low, your hair too short, It doesn’t really come off as “gangster,” more like a wart On the face of society, a pimple on our culture, While you try and draw others in with your excess cologne, acting as the carrion to their vultures. Speaking of culture, it’s not like there’s much, Your religion seems to be Drake, shitty clubs your church. Drake is shit. And as for the girls, don’t get me started, Seeing you around just makes me downhearted. You’re all the bloody same, I honestly can’t tell you apart, Don’t know if you’re a good girl, or possibly a tart. Not in a nasty way, but maybe be more unique, And in the name of all that is holy… stop wearing those t-shirts that say “Geek.” How will you find a husband if your rotis aren’t round? But alas, Brit Asian, I fear it’s too late And my words of woe carry too little weight. You’re too set in your ways, too busy being “dench,” You’re just fucking useless, pardon my french. The whole idea is skewed, your heritage abused, It’s just a matter of time, until I run out of rhymes. And when that happens, Brit Asian you’ll see, That when all is said and done, and as I end this plea… Oh God just, fuck off will you. The End.
xoxo, The Poetic Indian.