“I enter the [pub]. Everyone is shouting, but still no one can make himself heard (which perhaps is just as well). Twenty televisions blare: eight each playing two different songs (one rock and one reggae), and four relaying a wrestling match. Ten seconds of this and one feels one has a food mixer inside one’s skull working at full speed on one’s brain: I too stagger out. The base of a lamppost nearby has been fertilized with vomitus during my brief visit to the pub. I walk on, marveling at the wonderful vulgarity of English girls. Is this a country, I wonder, without mirrors? Or is it merely eyes that young English females lack? They have evidently chosen their clothes with great care, for such gaudy slatternliness is not natural. They squeeze their fat and suety figures . . . into tight iridescent outfits, which leave no contour unstated.” (Theodore Dalrymple, Life at the Bottom, p. 62).
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