The oddest thing about the contemporary Anglosphere is the prevailing concept of feminine beauty. For what makes a woman with lemon-hued hair and orange skin ‘beautiful’?
Anglo-Saxon women are physically disgusting: by the age of thirty (sometimes even twenty-five) they are dry, wizened oranges, their ludicrous Permatans hanging in pachyderm folds on their crooked bones. But this decline is in the script: the Anglobitch spends most of her younger life lounging under sunbeds, yearning to turn her skin that peculiar shade of orange so celebrated across the microencephalic Anglo-American media.
No doubt this Anglo yearning for sunshine reflects some Nietzshean obsession with the Dionysian; some Keatsean fixation on the warm south, Provencal song and sunburnt mirth. And this is perfectly understandable, for a people locked in a puritanical prison of their own devising. Unfortunately, Anglos struggle with the sun: their thin, pasty skins sprout cancerous growths or, failing that unlovely fate, soon hang in fluorescent folds. Nowhere is this more evident than in the case of the Anglobitch who, by age thirty, is a waddling monstrosity cased in thickening rind like a wizened, dried-out orange.
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