User:RabbiTechno/EnglishCountryFolk
Tourists come from around the world to visit England for a great many reasons. Some come to gawp at the Royal Family, a centuries-old anachronism that has somehow survived into the 21st Century, while others come to sample the fine cuisine that made the nation the envy of the world. Many come to admire the English themselves, a tall, fair and clean-limbed race who, though seemingly equipped to govern the world are far too polite to do so and prefer to allow others to stumble along in their own way. Yet if one were to stand at the ferry terminal at Dover[1] or in the arrival lounge at Heathrow asking every newly arrived holiday maker why they've come to our sceptred isle, the same answer will be heard time and time again: "We've come to see your quaint English villages!'"
These tourists know that, despite having cities as cosmopolitan as anywhere in the world and despite remaining an important actor on the world stage, England remains in its rural heart a golden, enchanted place where endless summer evenings are accompanied by birdsong and the gentle note of leather striking willow. They know that their souls will be elated by the sight of bounteous crops laid out to dry in the warm sunshine and that their stomachs will revel at the flavour of traditionally brewed real English ale, perhaps consumed whilst sitting in the immaculate garden of a beautiful countryside pub. If you have yet to take in the timeless beauty of a charming village in England, this article is intended to serve as a brief guide to what you can expect should you choose to take your next vacation in our land; and if you've been lucky enough to have toured our villages many times it will, hopefully, serve to remind you of the happy times you have spent here, gladden your heart with the sheer joyfulness that comes simply from knowing There Will Always Be An England and rekindle old memories of happy holidays gone by, so that you may remain heartened by them them until you are next able to visit us.
- ↑ Don't stay there too long, though - sooner or later, someone will assume you're an immigrant and repatriate you somewhere or other where you'll probably get tortured.
Introduction[edit | edit source]
Of course, there are simply too many English villages for a complete survey to be possible and so for the purposes of this article Uncyclopedia researchers travelled the length and breadth of the land, each making notes on the villages they came across and their inhabitants. This done, they got together and came up with a list of one hundred things that an English village ought to have, and then scored the villages they had visited from one to a hundred according to how many of these features they offered. It was a long and arduous task, made even more difficult by the sheer number of villages achieving high scores, but finally one village was picked to serve as the topic of this study and, as such, as a guide to English Country Folk.
Among others they traveled to Goatsey, a delightful hamlet in deepest Buckinghamshire made famous after stunning photographs of its many charms became a worldwide internet phenomenon. They spent a happy day in Bell End, where locals proudly claim to have won the Most Beautiful Village in England prize nine times[1] and they struck far out into the marshy fens of Norfolk to see Hickling Green where the landscape contains more water than it does land and where, as a result of the damp conditions, the inhabitants have evolved gills and webbed toes. In Wickhambreaux, a little-known village in Kent where it is said that the spiders in the village church's rafters are more intelligent than the resident humans they thought, for a while, they had discovered at long last the perfect English village, the place that would receive the honour of being the focus of this very article. But, to the dismay of the good citizens of Wickhambreaux (and its spiders) it was not to be, for just four miles along leafy country roads outside the ancient university city of Cambridge they stumbled across a place that trumped all the rest.
That place is Gladshere Fort, which although sleepy and small ticked every box and soon proved to be the very epitome of what the perfect English village should be.
- ↑ A proud claim it may be, but it's a false one. They've actually won it only twice, and on one of those occasions because they threatened front runner Finchingfield they'd get "bust up like a little bitch" if they didn't pull out of the competition.
History of Gladshere Fort[edit | edit source]
Gladshere Fort was mentioned in the Domesday Book of 1068, where it is called Gladdeshearre and described by one Simone le Branleur as "a hellish hole of a place." Yet this is merely the first mention of the village in print - evidence unearthed by archaeologists at Dogger's Knob, an earthwork believed to be a Neolithic chambered tomb located on the outskirts of the village in Flasher's Copse, suggests that the region has been the site of human habitation since at least 3500BC.
It was the Normans who added the suffix Fort to the village's name after they established a grand castle here, the remains of which can still be seen on an artificial mound south of the village green, and it was from here that le Branleur ruled the manor awarded to him by William the Bastard - also known as William the Conqueror - in recognition of his loyalty at Hastings. Though the castle was fitted with all manner of luxuries imported from Normandy, le Branleur appears not to have held any especially affection for his new subjects. "Zey are, 'ow you say, le beegest bernch of paresseux scermbags eet 'as ever been my displeaseure to meet," he wrote in his diary, fragments of which still exist in the British Library, "and zey are so rude. Whenezzer zey see me ern my cheval, zey mutter inserlts at me, theengs like "whyfore dost thou notte fuccke offe back to thine own country, ye gay Froggy gytte?" and "oh welle, there goeth ye neighbourhood. Ye wholle playce wille stinketh of garlic withinne weekes." I do not like zem."
Following le Branleur's death in 1089 the manor passed to his son, Charles le Têtedemerde, who held similar views despite marrying a local girl. "Everyzing Ah 'as 'eard abert zese Anglo-Saxons is true," he said in a letter to his cousin, Richard le Visage de Baiser, "zey steenk of sheet and zey eat rosbiff all ze day. 'Owezzer, Ah 'ave met a local jeune fille named Sharon - she eez thick as merde de porc, but Ag can persuade 'er to do whatezzer Ah wish, even le analle. Wizz 'er, eet ees ma plan to imprerve ze blerdline of le village and create le new ruling clerss."
Sharon bore Richard 17 children, and in doing so played her part in establishing the ruling class that still holds sway over Gladshere Fort to this day.
Demographics and Local Industry[edit | edit source]
In a local census conducted during 2003, 99% of Gladshere families described themselves as "white Protestant" [1]. One family, believed to be Asian, refused to answer any questions when a census official visited, saying only "You leave us alone! We do no harm to you! Why you brick our windows and throw petrol bombs at us?! You go or we call police!"
A local census carried out in 2006 included the question to which social class do you consider yourself to belong? 20% of Gladshere's population answered that they were upper class. Though seeming at first an unusually high figure, data supplied anonymously by a member of staff at Gladshere's medical centre reveals that 98% of those who said they were upper class exhibit polydactyly, a caudal appendage, near-terminal cretinism or at least one of several other attributes considered by medical science to be evidence of several generations of inbreeding and, thus, an indication of aristocratic heritage. The remaining 2% was later discovered to be one Mrs. Tracy Russell-Smythe who, though claiming to be upper class, is shunned by Gladshere's gentry because "she has gold taps in her bathroom," "wouldn't know what to do with a grouse if flew into her oven" and is the wife of a builder.
Gladshere Fort's most prominent industry has, for many centuries, been the breeding of working class people and, as the name suggests, the well known Gladshere Scumhound originates from the village - it is they who make up the rest of the local population (see The Let's All Go And Sex Up That Bitch Festival, below). Bred for strength and just enough intelligence to follow simple orders, years of selective breeding have seen specimens take the Best in Show trophy at Crufts on six occasions, in 1923 (Ch. Protestant Protector, breeders: Lord and Lady Haw-Haw), 1931 (Eng. Am. Ch. There Goes The Neighbourhood, breeder: Rt. Hon. Mrs. Myrtle Himmler), 1951 (Ch. Niggerbiter, breeder: Sir Arthur B. Enpee), 1952 (Sh. Ch. Enoch Powell, breeder: Mrs. E. D. L. Whyte-Power OBE) , 1976 (Ch. Halt The Yellow Tide, breeder: Lord B'Starde) and 1999 (Sh. Ch. You Can Say What You Like About Them, But The Jews Did Run Everything And Something Had To Be Done About Them, breeder Mr. and Mrs. Forth-Reich).
Traditions[edit | edit source]
England's rural conurbations are famed for their traditions, many of which have roots in pre-Christian indigenous pagan history. Gladshere is no different, and has several unique customs of its own as well as many common throughout the land.
The Let's All Go And Sex Up That Bitch Festival[edit | edit source]
When a working class Gladshere girl comes into heat for the first time (usually her tenth birthday), a great feast is organised by the village's ruling class. She will be dressed in the beautiful garments similar to those worn by countless generations of her family in days gone by[1] and is then led with a parade of village youths to a clearing in nearby woodland that has been the scene of this celebration for many hundreds of years. There, much rejoicing commences as the youths drink locally-produced White Lightning cider, smoke hand-rolled cigarettes containing a secret herb reputed to possess magical properties and regale her with the mesmerising lyrics of a lilting folk music style known as Arrandbee. They must prove their worth by waiting patiently - sometimes for as long as several minutes - until she signals that she has become sexually receptive; which she will do by calling out, in Old English, "Oi! Do any of you wankers fancy a shag or wot?!" At this point, a queue of eager lads forms and they take turns to mount her.
It is by way of this tradition that Gladshere's aristocracy ensure that with each year comes a crop of new livestock to their village. In older times, this ensured a good supply of beasts of burden to toil upon the parish's farms, but nowadays many will be sold to breeders around the world. However, they are always careful to keep the best of each litter to continue the bloodline for in so doing they ensure that all available housing stock in the immediate area will be allocated to those born and bred in the village (ie; not black people). As a result, the village has absorbed few, if any, outsiders over the centuries; which is why so many traditions long since extinct in other parts or the country survive here[2]. It also explains how Gladshere, unlike almost anywhere else in Britain, is still 100% white[3].
- ↑ Comprising of a tightly-fitted vest bearing the words "Dolchey and Gabanner" (bought from a local market for £3.50), short skirt, white stiletto shoes and g-string (Asda, £1, suitable for ages 2-12, sizes 8-34).
- ↑ As well explaining the high incidence of mandibular prognathism.
- ↑ With the exception of Mrs. Tracy Russell-Smythe again, who visits a tanning salon three times a week.
Giving of Manure Gifts[edit | edit source]
Once or twice a year, an individual or family to have recently set up home in the village are selected in a secret vote. This family are then given special treatment with a range of traditional welcoming gifts delivered anonymously to their house, usually under cover of darkness. Some - such as animal faeces - may seem a little unsavoury to modern sentiments, but local historian and lawyer William Fanshawe explains that "gifts of animal faeces represent manure, which brings goodness and productivity to the soil. When a newcomer receives such attention, they should not be offended - someone is wishing them a productive and fertile life in the village. As an example, Mrs. Whyte-Power collected several sacks of faeces from the breeding pens at her kennels a few years ago so that she could welcome a new family by the name of Patel to our community. However, as the Patels were not familiar with our country ways, they misunderstood Mrs. Whyte-Power's intentions and called in the police, having her arrested for racial harassment. Thankfully, I was able to convince the judge, Lord Justice Bigot, that this was not the message she had meant to convey and she was found not guilty."
Home Airing[edit | edit source]
The same is true of another local custom, that of breaking the windows of foreigners that move to the area. Rather than an act of vandalism born of intolerance, this is a symbolic representation of locals' invitation to share with them the sweetly-scented country air that wafts through the village, carrying as it so often does in Gladshere Fort the delightful aroma of the ornamental lakes just a kilometre or so to the south-east at Swanost, a neighbouring village.
The Bonfire of the Newcomers[edit | edit source]
Sometimes, if newcomers to Gladshere are deemed worthy of special attention by the village's inhabitants, they will be treated to a grand ceremonial bonfire. This was the case with the Maalouf family, who moved into the area from Kenya after father-of-three Abimbola was offered a job at a nearby electronics firm.
Within days of their arrival, the Maaloufs returned home one day to discover that somebody had written the acronym "BNP" in six foot high letters across the front of their house. "I was concerned about this," says Mrs. Maalouf, "but my husband told me not to to worry as he thought things would soon settle down."
Just days later, the same three letters were scratched into the paintwork of their car. The family decided enough was enough and reported it as a crime. They received a visit from local police officer DI Scrimination the very same afternoon. Scrimination, now retired and devoting his time to his new business specialising in the distribution of previously-unpublished speeches by mid-20th Century European politicians, takes up the story:
"We received a complaint from a family of wogs... er, I mean, recent immigrants that they had been the target of racial hatred. However, as a Gladshere man I was able to reassure the family that this was not the case and that the letters painted on their home and inscribed upon their car did not represent the name of a far-right group and were in fact intended to convey a welcoming message. The letters actually represent an ancient greeting that is customarily used to welcome newcomers to the village, namely "Becometh neighbours, prithee!"
"Some days later, we received a further complaint from the nig... er, family that they had returned home from a shopping trip to discover their house had been burnt down. Unfamiliar as they were with local culture, they again assumed that this indicated some sort of racially-motivated ill feeling towards them. I then informed them that far from being victimised, they should consider themselves lucky as they had received a very great honour - that of the welcoming bonfire, in which Gladshere folk stuff petrol-soaked rags through the letterbox of a house belonging to a recently-arrived monkeys...I mean, residents before setting them ablaze. This is intended to symbolise a warm welcome to the community and, if the house subsequently burns down, is believed to bring great luck as it signifies a fresh start for the homeowner. I also informed them that they'd better exercise caution as next time it happened they might be asleep in their beds."
Sadly, the Maalouf family were not available to comment as they moved from the area shortly afterwards.
The Village Hall[edit | edit source]
In many of those villages with a more traditionally-minded, community-spirited population the village hall is still the centre of village life, serving a wide range of needs from Boy Scout/Girl Guide meeting place to the venue of old folks' sing-alongs. Most can be hired for a short time, perhaps an hour or two once a week, to provide a location for local clubs and societies such as Gladshere Fort's Amateur Photography Club[1], the Countryside Alliance[2] and the Pureblood Aryan Warriors (Suffolk and Cambs) League.
- ↑ No longer subject to inconvenient raids by Her Majesty's Constabulary Child Protection and Obscenity squads since Chief Constable Bernie Jones, head of Cambridgeshire CID, and his open-minded wife found the club an ideal place to share their own interest in photography, nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more, say no more.
- ↑ Motto: "People who disagree with us don't know anything about rural life."
Population Growth[edit | edit source]
According to doctors at the Gladshere Health Centre, the local population is unusually procreant and most females in the village will give birth at least fourteen times during their lives - this is considerably higher than the national average and as a result it may seem strange that the resident population has not grown, and shows no sign of growing, to sufficient numbers as to reclassify the village a city. There are two simple reasons for this phenomenon - one; most teenagers flee to somewhere, anywhere, where things happen once in a while, and once there tend to be exposed to what their parents view as undesirable influences (eg; left-wing politics, multiculturalism, curry) and never return, and two; due to the unusually high numbers of upper class and aristocratic individuals in the area at least 62% of all babies born to Gladshere parents are so hideously deformed that they're locked away in secret attics or cellars forever. This was discovered to be the case when social services investigated the case of an infant known as Child M in the early 1980s after rumours spread beyond the village that an unmarried woman named Miss Henrietta Thrice-Poked, the daughter of local landowner Sir Humphrey Thrice-Poked, had given birth to a child subsequently confined to a hidden chamber by her family. Accompanied by police officers, social workers raided Gladshere Manor, the family's ancestral home. One of the child protection service officials present on the raid, who does not wish to be named, later recounted her version of the attempts that took place:
"We gained entry to the Manor shortly after midnight, after the police commissioner - who, coincidentally, had been educated at the same boarding school as Sir Thrice-Poked - succeeded in convincing him that if he continued in his attempts at holding us off with his shotguns then several society gossip magazines would be receiving letters detailing precisely what used to go on between Thrice-Poked and somebody called Walter Cholmondeley Harris every night after lights out in their dormitory. We then searched the property, which took several hours, until we discovered a bolted door concealed behind a bookcase in Thrice-Poked's private study. Using a battering ram, officers broke down the thick, oak door and, well, what we found behind it... I don't know if I can even bring myself to describe it. It had teeth like, like... well, there's no way they belonged in a human mouth, and it had short, chesnut-coloured hair covering its entire body. It stood on all fours, staring at us, occasionally issuing a weird whinnying sound."
After briefly examining the child, social workers concluded that perhaps old Thrice-Poked had known what he was about after all and had the officers replace the door rather than expose the world to the horror they had witnessed beyond it. Miss Thrice-Poked, who later changed her name to escape media attention, never revealed the father of her child's name but reportedly commented during an unguarded moment that he had "made quite a name for himself at Ascot."
Newcomers[edit | edit source]
Like all close-knit rural communities, Gladshere Fort is suspicious of strangers[1] and those who choose to make their home in the village may find that it's a long time until they are accepted as belonging there. Yet, once Gladshere folk decide that someone is a valuable addition to their community, that someone can be sure of the very warmest of welcomes. Following the village's rise to fame as a result of media interest in Kevin Currie following his Young Entrepreneur Award, rich business people began looking at Gladshere as a desirable place to live, fully able to supply everything they required and within easy commuting distance of London. Since they were white, Conservative and rich[2], they found the place as welcoming as they could wish and had soon become part of the fabric of local society.
Education[edit | edit source]
Following the Government's decision to allow local trusts to take full charge of schools[1], a group of Gladshere parents who shared concerns over what their children were being taught as part of the National Curriculum put in a proposal to control the village school.
Worries first arose when a six-year-old girl named Eleanor Jenkins-Pryce, who was in her second year at the facility, informed her parents that she had been corresponding with a female pupil of the same age who attended a village school near Mumbai, India. "We were absolutely shocked," explains the girl's mother, "that our innocent daughter was being encouraged to associate with a filthy wog. My husband and I went straight to the school with every intention of complaining, but before we could register our displeasure the head teacher informed us that this outrage is, apparently, an important part of modern English instruction and that it also ensures a child gains a respect for other cultures. I've never seen my husband look quite as angry as he did when she spoke those words - I fully expected him to climb back into the Range Rover, return home for his shotgun and then come back here to give the silly bint both barrels. However, it soon became apparent that a better course of action would be to withdraw our child from the school and educate her at home."
The Jenkins-Pryces did precisely that and their daughter is now well-versed in, her father says, "the sort of things that a young lady ought to know about, including why the negro and the coolie will always be subservient to the white race. If only more people knew the kind of claptrap being shovelled into our children's minds each and every day, we'd soon have the Empire back." He is also proud to say that young Eleanor now has a reading age far in advance of her age and reads The Daily Mail from cover to cover every day.
Other parents, alerted by the Jenkins-Pryce family, also began to look at what the school was teaching their offspring. "The place was a hotbed of lunatic left-wing radicalism," says Frederick Berrington, who took his son William out of the school a week after Eleanor's departure. "I went there one morning and was horrified to see two of the teaching staff reading The Guardian as I passed by the staffroom. Thankfully, I removed my son just in time - had I not have done, he'd probably be a Labour-voting Commie by now - and how the hell would I explain that down at the golf club?"
Once the Trust came into being, parents wasted no time in taking full control of the school and just weeks later rejected the National Curriculum entirely, replacing it with a curriciulum of their own devising. The school now offers a range of traditional subjects, including Defending The Farm Against Negro Uprising, Beating Beggars and Shouting At Foreigners.
Popular Pass-times[edit | edit source]
Like rural inhabitants everywhere, the inhabitants of Gladshere Fort are never happier than when they're killing something (especially if it happens to taste so revolting it's virtually inedible, such as a fox). Almost all of them keep shotguns and cartridges in their homes, using them to blast away merrily at rabbits, pigeons, crows, rats, mice, sparrows, spiders, black people and just about anything else that moves. The only exceptions to this are foxes, which must be controlled because one of them apparently killed a very small and sickly lamb (which was probably going to die anyway, but all the same) at some point in history, and hares which must be controlled because country folk enjoy watching them being ripped apart by dogs.
Foxes have, in the past, been chased by people on horseback with dogs for many miles during which the animal frequently injured itself in its panic to escape and, eventually, would simply give up due to stress and sheer terror, at which point it would be torn apart by the dogs. Precisely why hunting foxes in this manner proved so popular remains a mystery as they taste like shit, but as country folk are so fond of pointing out we townies know nothing of rural ways and probably just don't understand it enough to see the point. In recent years, hunting wild animals with dogs has been banned in the United Kingdom. However, canny country folk have found a way round the prohibition: discovering that "hunting with dogs" is defined in law as pursuit of an animal then killed by the dogs, they realised that there was nothing to stop them allowing the dogs to chase the fox provided they do not kill it. Thus, nowadays, the fox is chased by people on horseback with dogs for many miles during which the animal frequently injures itself in its panic to escape and, eventually, simply gives up due to stress and sheer terror, at which point it is shot before before being torn apart by the dogs. Precisely why hunting foxes in this manner has proven so popular is still a mystery, because a shot fox tastes just as shit as any other fox. However, this method is not recognised legally as hunting and is therefore perfectly acceptable (except to foxes, who reportedly find it no more preferable to the other way).
Hares are traditionally coursed. This means that they are chased by dogs, usually a pair of lurchers, and are torn apart by them if caught. Precisely why hunting hares in this manner proved so popular is a mystery, because hares taste delicious - but who wants to eat something that's already been chewed to pieces by some stinky mongrel?
- ↑ This being a really effective way of saving a few billion quid every year which could be much better spent on duck houses, Jaguars, porn and rentboys rather than education.