What Is Wrong With The English

The nightmare you see above is the birthday dinner of choice not for a random insane person, but for 42-year-old multimillionaire global celebrity sports icon David Beckham, who could have virtually anything in the world to eat. He chose this. Beans, some kind of sad approximation of fries, ham, not one but two helpings of what appears to be some sort of mushed-pea horror, cole slaw, suspiciously canned-looking pineapple, and an extremely poorly cooked sunny-side up egg. That is what seemed good and appetizing to David Beckham. This is because he is English.

Broadly, this revolting compost heap is identical to every other plate of English food I have ever seen. Apparently this is just how the English eat: They pile some wan, vaguely browned potato wedges and beans on a plate, heap a random assortment of dubious slops and canned fruits and vegetables across this, and top it all with a poorly cooked sunny-side-up egg. Each successive layer is more like an apology than the last: Oim sorry, Oim troyna fix it, we don’t got noffin’ noice ‘ere ... ‘ere, troy this green stuff. Maybe some poinapple? Maybe cole slaw? An egg! How abou’ a noice egg? Nobody don’t loik eggs, au fink? And ... Bob’s your uncle! 

What is wrong with the English? Why are they like this? Is this why they spent centuries subjugating the actually vibrant and interesting parts of the globe, because left to their own devices they could not do better than I dunno, upend a fucking garbage can on it when confronted with an empty dinner plate? Were they searching for help?