A report produced by the European Commission has concluded that the ugliest people in Europe are… wait for it… the English! What a surprise.
The only countries that didn’t agree with the findings were: England (not entirely unexpected) – which alleged that Belgium (home of the European Commission) is home to the ugliest MF’s in Europe, Turkey – who believe themselves to be the unprettiest, and Russia – which dislikes the appearance of its close neighbours and military allies, the Byelorussians – which just about proves the maxim, ‘With friends like these, who needs enemies?’
But seriously, the EC’s findings are probably correct… and I’m an Englishman. Surely I am not the only person who, while walking the streets, supermarkets, and industrial estates of England, has noticed that everyone you come across (barring the odd Mcfitty or Uberbabe who are probably foreign, anyway) is just plain ugly. Another maxim springs to mind: ‘They don’t make ‘em like they used to!’ – how bloody true!
Where did it all go wrong?
I know a pretty girl when I see one, and I can also discern a handsome man (being one myself) from the endless fugly bastards who drive past in white van after white van, and I can testify that they are few and far apart. So, what went wrong, England? Where are the Audrey Hepburns and Peter O’Tooles, the Angela Rippons and John Noakeses? Where are the Penelope Keiths and the David Nivens? Gone, it seems. The golden age of natural beauty is seemingly a thing of the past.
Unimagi nation
Modern beauty in England is apparently measured by the number of tattoos one can display on one’s chest, leg, or forearm, or by the amount of zit-covering pancake make-up one can ply onto one’s face before plastering endless selfies across a plethora of ‘socials’. The fashion trend of sports casual wear (including compulsory trainers and baseball caps) emblazoned with corporate logos that is banal the uniform of anyone under thirty, does nothing to undermine the perception of the innate inelegance and unimagination of England’s woe-begotten frumps.
So, in the week that iconic English sixties fashion designer Mary Quant passed away, rather than get shirty at Europe’s dislike of our frowsy appearance, we should perhaps get out our best shirts, skirts, and classic couture, and remind our European critics how it used to be done.
