Mum, using all her worldly experience, taught you to expect an insensitive oaf.  Somehow it eluded her that she only received the intimacy she craved AFTER she did the deed.  Or if not, she could not quite explain this to her sweet innocent daughter.  Who was thus doomed to repeat the inexperience.

RESULT: Desperately seeking sensitivity, you couldn't get your knickers off until you were effectively unconscious and almost blind. You worked in a bar and then you complained about the male results. 

Isn't your universe and its limited options so unfair!

ACTUALLY FOR ME it is your own obsolete, unoriginal and very self-defeating psychopharmacological profile which makes you unloveable. We British beings from the future look at you and see a baby killer. Yes, you. If you had taken your opportunity when I was heartbroken and rich I would have overlooked your ignorance. But now my senses have recovered.

NOW THERE WAS A TIME when the British were just as good as Old Europe at hating anything different, and many still are.  For my part I am ready to give it a go, to try to save some Old European woman from themselves.  But the potential victims see things somewhat coldly.  

So how does Old European woman feel about it?  For her, foreign relations fall intuitively into the categories of employment, servitude and martyrdom, not those of blissful adventure, equal partnership, or romance.  I'd never really thought of it Old Europe's way.  Obviously you cannot do something no-one has ever taught you.  I am disappointed "Falling in love with immigrants" wasn't included in your curriculum.  I have been forced to attend to another fact: it's not in British ones, either.

Education Incorporated could not admit to such a purpose, with all the short-term dangers to teachers' income which might result.  There's nothing worse than loads of screaming babies in the classroom, if their parents even come to school at all, or worse still actually start doing things and not just learning about them.

Better stick with the program. THEY TOLD YOU you were super, after all. And never mind that all the other naive children are super too. What do you care about them? Who could resist such a treatise? Not you. Not them. Now that education is 49% capitalism and 51% showbiz, who needs a lover when you have a teacher to pour syrup on your every little achievement? Until you are safely past the menopause. 

The characteristic of capital is that it divides every transaction into smaller and smaller slices. GETTING EVERYONE CHASING AROUND after little targets has made Britain what it is today: demoralised, inegalitarian, reviled, snooped on, a paranoid puppet state, as much overconvinced of its superiority as it is utterly stoopid. 

WHAT AM I DOING HERE in Old Europe?  I left Britain so I could watch another country imitate it, to please the West, and make the same mistakes all over again. 

But this time I would already know what will happen, in advance, and why. A chauvinist alcoholic cancer-prone guy studied economics for 12 years and was super.  He finally earns 750 a month in a mundane office job.  What is certain is that those who promised him everything owe him nothing.  His income outcome can be blamed on...the economy!

Thanks to your important work at the bar the supposed reasons for all that effort he expended becoming super, and his long pursuit of those qualifications which would prove it, are easily forgotten.  Instead he enjoys the stability that comes from knowing that both your girlfriend and your mother agree about your limitations.

IN THE SYSTEM of Zlatorodgucation he pissed and he passed. Compared to him I got nothing...unless you count functioning senses and an uncanny ability to control parts of my body and remember what I did yesterday. 

How do I compare as a catch?  Old.  Erratic.  To OEW I am at best a totem to her resignation and compromise, an alternative to a wide range of predictable local guys and the least worst of the wrong reasons.  Or to living like a nun, one of the less popular models, awaiting her sale to the highest bidder. 

So your sense of foreign adventure represents one direction, vibrating yourself into a Jesuit jelly the other.  Maybe  martyrdom IS better than having to listen to the other nuns confuse your tentative enthusiasm for everyone's obvious choice of he-man with being a tart. 

DO WHATEVER you like to yourself. What do you expect me to do about it? I'll be the one snickering when you finally reappear on the arm of your chosen one, looking like a scabby yellow lizard with a big fat bottom. 

UNIVERSAL UNCOORDINATEDNESS and obedience to authority are as unattractive to me as your legal drug addiction.  As long as you all copy each other by smelling like a great big babykilling pepelnik you'll probably find me easy to describe in simple terms: "misogynist" will do.  With "satyriasis" maybe?  

You should always check with a man to see if your simple idea is simple enough.  Your polite lady rivals will certainly agree about men to your face - until they can find a motive strong enough  to betray you.  

After all your elaborate preparations, bedtime with Old European Man will obviously be a comedown.  Would you have it any other way?  But it is hard to manipulate any animal without some kind of reward.  Your hope that smaller rewards would stimulate greater effort just increased the cunning and rivalry instead.  

From your Hapsburgian viewpoint you could not know that I am not he.  You do not expect we aliens exist.  You are superficial, and I am superficially alike enough to be classed as OEM.  

And now we ARE dangerous - more so than even your mum ever managed to make us when she was behind the bar.  As you mess around cutting your love offer into hopelessly uninteresting thin slices, are you surprised if the chaps will agree with any story you can think up which might favour them over the others?

OLD EUROPE IS PARADISE FOR THOSE who can define huge groups of peoples in a single word.  Čefur, šiptar, peder, žaba, cigan, nigger, nekvalificiran - your little world is a simple place full of simple ideas for simple people.  In this way the others are easily understood.  For the largest out-group that cannot be understood your danger-men have the ultimate invented category: bitches. 

When looking for somewhere to hide, remember that god and the Virgin Mary don't NEED you squidging around drunk in the dark, just the baptisms, confirmations and weddings.  Finally your NEED for sex outweighs your NEED for social approval and the time for your and his frozen, clumsy late development arrives.  But first there must be a sensible decade.  Rituals must be observed.  He NEEDS to drink to meet the bitches, NEEDS it as he puzzles over their lack of interest, and then he NEEDS it to forget about the whole thing.  Realistically, you NEED the money the liquor men give you for selling other men the drug they NEED.   You look prettier than the liquor men, who know well enough they NEED you - a sex object to front their vague, blurry dream for sale.  

You sure fell for that one, Old European girl.  You sold your birth canal (or some dim misguided promise thereof!) for a mess of pottage.  

How could it go wrong, this 5% w/w wet dream?  All the NEEDS are real enough.  Realistically you all NEED each other.  

Sadly, just not quite in the way you imagined.  

So, ladies, does it not appear that the whole aim of this psychopharmacological symbiosis is a lowering of the standards to which you will, realistically, NEED to lower yourself?  

So men and metaphysics have the same solution: make something up. 

For those who profit thus, everything must stay the same.  Fortunately for that, your titchy languages and bitch-blessed psychopharmacology were successful at preventing the unrestrained breeding of ideas and people.  Diminished senses made perceiving a shrunken world via a limited terminology such a life of ease, that you became bored.  And so you got curious about communicating with those 1500 million English speakers.  

You want our language because of the money, right?  And the rock and roll message of course.  The nonconformity, heresy, irreverence, satire and sexual freedom...not so much.  Careful now.  Dizzying verbal concepts such as "marketing", "upside down" and "upstream" - for which no words hitherto existed - might recklessly endanger staying the same.  This wanton attack on staying the same demands a warlike response.  Let us call upon Italian Marxism.  Another lazy drunk generalisation is available.  You can dress up that need to crawl back into the security of your familiar self-containment as a protest against US/UK hegemony, or more properly cultural imperialism.  

BUT first THERE IS A CULTURAL MISUNDERSTANDING. You are mistaking shopping for culture. 

I DON'T MEAN FOOD and clothes shopping. Not shopping for belongings but FOR BELONGING. We long to belong. So I mean shopping for respectability. Shopping for Heaven. Shopping for legality. Shopping for ideas. 

As long as you are shopping for the same items in the same store as everyone else, you are a GIMP.  It doesn't matter whose.  A gimp is a gimp.

As YOU SUCCEED in helping teacher eat with disastrous purchases in all these areas, I am sad for you, for I believe that my dream girl cannot be a misandrist baby killer barmaid.  Time to light up another penis and reach for that epithet. 

NEXT UP FOR OLD EUROPE is what we in Britain call The 1980s, when we dumb down your senses enough to let you think you can be in control by being a business biyyatch. This next stage of differentness - which you think is fantastic like everyone else - is being metered out to the population BY THE PEOPLE WHO KNOW BEST...that's us - men - and some  mangirls we carefully selected for you to copy.  Sticking your head through the glass ceiling is your new toy.  

To facilitate your entrepreneurialism Bangladeshi girls on a dollar a year are already stuffing huge stockpiles of shoulder pads in readiness. Just another phoney corporate revolution my fellow retards thought up for you, girls.  But in Britain we have already moved on another step.  

The DANGER that girls might actually run things somewhat better had to be contained somehow.  Along with eternal war for the boys, we now have eternal self-improvement for ladettes.

The future success of these scholars is guaranteed. That's because it will ALWAYS BE IN THE FUTURE.   Forget NON SCHOLAE SED VITAE DISCIMUS. In the old days learning meant gaining skills. Nowadays the most important skill - for both teacher and pupil is  stretching time.  

Spinning education out as long as possible is great for students - they don't have to get a job.  But if they do, it's great for the employers who don't have to pay them properly, due to their lowly student status, to which they are conditioned to cling under pain of other penalties.  These Skinnerian arrangements, with rocks and hard places in every direction, teach them, over time, to accept their eventual gimpdom as highly qualified, but fatally unworldly, inexperienced and therefore (unless DYNASTY intervenes) miserably-paid employees.

It's great for teachers - the smaller and  slow e  r the slices of capitalist education are, the less marking there is.  The bigger and longer the project the more important they seem to be.  Their job for life is even more guaranteed than ever.  

And it's great for  governments.  By common consent, students can be excluded from the count of the unemployed.  Even more creepily, administrations faced with the threat of independent womanhood don't want to hand out welfare payments to misguided mothers who might imagine that tax-raising activities were somewhat less important than spending an entire parliamentary term off work loving their offspring.   Politicians produce platitudes aplenty about FAMILY.  But did you ever once hear the shocking proposal that you should make babies, in any party manifesto?  Surely this would be an electorally popular message.  And yet...?

It is the threat which dare not speak its name, this power of the one and not the many.  It is a danger to the moneyed few, who feel entitled to survive on your obedience, and wage slavery.  To these folks it is an ominous cloud bearing all that is untaxable: the private, the uncontrollable quietness and intimacy of the home, the politics of personal space, self-medication, sexy mornings in bed, all of these a threat to their own families.  Because they who tell you what to do, how to do it...and when you are qualified to do it, are taking 25% AT EACH STEP to spend how they please.  The ideal citizen is like the worker ant.  The ideal citizen does not breed, but only works and dies.  The awfulness of procreation cannot be entirely eliminated.  But it can be degraded.  Delayed indefinitely, at best.  Cue cacophony of shock horror news stories about qualification deprivation, venereal disease, pregnant teenagers, twenty-somethings, thirty-somethings...?

 This must be why the media say we should not criticise the media.  If you can't wait until the future to see the results, go LIVE in the futuristic country of Britain.  A visit to the London Eye will not suffice to explain.  

Love looks through a telescope.  Jealousy looks through a microscope.  You Old Europeans must return to the bar, obedient and lawful, respectful of your sexually gauche pisshead traditions.  You must pretend to love me as you probe me for flaws.  You must squint at me through your microscope.  You must drink to your epithet to the bottom of your glass.  For I am one and you are the many.  

And what will you do, the many?  You will take from me what you can use and discard the rest.  You will make a bad purchase like all the others.  You will disdain the differentness and imitate the difference.   And when you have shopped your way to the frontier of the new religion you will drown a sorrow, set fire to your penis, and you will certainly decide amongst yourselves in simple-to-broadcast terms exactly what is wrong with me.  

And between your own kind, what will you do?  You will give your loyalty to philanderers, and your devotion to papist rapists.  You will hear only what they tell you about themselves, and once in a while you will tut tut as one gang successfully overwhelms the tales told by the other.  You will sell yourself to the liquor men and dissolve your winning hand by your own labours.  You will stupefy your guys, and for comfort you will kill your babies.  You will complain at the way things have not changed, while you make them more the same.  You will hope it was worse in the past, and pray that the future will not be too...futuristic.

Meanwhile, you are ALL still super.

And there is a holy union in your psychopharmacology, an odd bond between liquor men and exam-tickers.  Learn, but do not experience, say the exam-tickers.  You learn not only not to experience, but how to get marks for waging war upon anyone who does.  Wash away that nagging doubt that you are a completely non-individual thing, being taken for a ride like everyone else, with new whiter pride.  Education is now a game of snakes and ladders.  You climb the ladders, exam by exam.  Your pride swells each time you are super.  Inspired by your certain genius you drink to an incredibly stupid degree.  To distract you from questioning their own genius, the exam-tickers demand that you compete.  So sliding down the snakes must be a competition also.  For to truly belong among the many, it is absolutely essential not only that everyone tries to be cleverer than everyone else, but also that you strive to be the most proud of your stupidity.  

Thoreau claims that "Most men would feel insulted if it were proposed to employ them in throwing stones over a wall, and then in throwing them back, merely that they might earn their wages."

But even without the wages, the student alcoholic is not insulted.  With every drop of officially sanctioned legal druggery the need for greater efforts on the ladders is reinforced.  The project begins anew.  The whole futile scramble can be repeated ad infinitum.   What could have been learned in a month now takes a year.  Academia is no longer at war with forgetfulness.  Education Incorporated - it might as well, what the hell - houses the snakes upon its own premises for a two-way profit.  

Now remember this.  

Now forget everything.  

Now concentrate hard or you will fail.  

Now lose your memory or you will fail to belong. 

This is the model of Western societies' lawful drug use during a young adult's personal development?

  THE BRITISH ARE NOT GOOD AT LANGUAGES. But there is one language at which Britain beats Old Europe hands down.  Hands down panties, that is.  Education in this language is a direct threat to female exploitation, to male exploitation, to hookers, porno-barons, pimps and all you other Communists out there.

Old Europe does not want this language taught by either schools or parents. By leading to relationships and children, it can wipe out years' worth of profits from sales of alcohol, tobacco, religion, politics and school.  Powerful opposition.

Just a tiny smidgen of this dangerous lingo can get the natives uppity, and burghers twitching nervously at their drinking tables.  What is this strange tongue, which has not been received by Old Europe?  It is communication between male and female.

For UK progress in this most important foreign language of all we do not owe much thanks to governments, laws or schools.  Rather we have succeeded mainly thanks to drugs, comedy, music and dancing. Drugs not including booze and fags, though. But including pharmasocial changes via the prism of film and TV upon upon a wider audience of non-users.  

Sorry about that, lawyers and scholars.  Please stay behind and tend the fire and brimstone.

Naturally women of the world will do anything to prevent this diminuition of their victimhood, nor is an explanation of this odd behaviour likely to be forthcoming.  The nearest we chaps are likely to come to understanding it is that they secretly hate each other.  And, secretly also, they like to please us.

St Augustine (a man with no magic whatsoever, and also a MAN) warned your mum about Total Depravity.  An ignorant woman is a nervous woman.  NERVOUS WOMEN make MEN NERVOUS.  Nervous men might well drink.  DRUNK MEN might well confirm women's nervousness, therefore confirming mum...and proving St Augustine right.  Durrrr, I wonder what happens next?  

How could St Augustine be such a twat?  

INTELLECTUAL RAGE is what I feel. It is directed not at the herd and its well-known docility, not at the tobacco-women who, even when not doing as they are told do as they are told, but at geography, financial prejudice, and language: on these there is no backing down but there is nowhere left to turn. 

And most of all at the generations upon generalisations of Peter Pan men - and mothers - who led to your certainty that nothing can be different. 

Old Europe is destined to continue its mute relations between the XXs and the XYs.  It's time to get back to school and forget.  So it's bye for now to Slavic women from a traditional, buttoned-up, sexually isolated past so distant that, when it was last seen in war-torn England, I was still bereft of sramna dlakas. 

So when can I meet your Daddy? And tell him to STICK HIS WINE UP HIS ARSE?