Weekly Wire
Weekly Alibi The Headless Brits

By Captain Opinion

NOVEMBER 1, 1999:  While traveling in Italy once I had to endure the sorry English of a ticket clerk who was selling me a train pass. It took a while to understand what she was saying, and it was frustrating. As an American I had places to go, things to see, peasants to pity, wine to drink and a tiny continent to tour and ridicule. And having to spend even a few extra seconds deciphering the words of someone who tortured the world's premier language was unpleasant.

But the early morning's wine and beer were beginning to produce their pleasant effect on my grouchy disposition, and the clerk was trying, so I took pity on her and let fly with a compliment.

"You speak pretty good English," I told her with that fake sincerity that bosses use on underpaid employees when they want even more work out of them.

"I ought to," she said while further butchering the language I loved. "I'm British."

I pitied her even more because I knew right then that all of the things I had ever heard about the English having a talent to screw up almost everything was true.

The English botch everything. They turn choice cuts of red meat into boiled mush, sweet crisp carrots into boiled mush and onions and potatoes into boiled mush. They even turn boiled mush into mushier boiled mush.

The Brits would have lost World War II were it not for us. The well-exercised, sausage-eating Germans were horrified when they encountered British soldiers in France. Our pasty-faced brothers across the ocean were skinny and malnourished looking compared to the well-muscled warriors of the Wehrmacht. The Huns were shocked to see that many Brits had rotten teeth or no teeth at all. It was apparent that the English, who were once proud, hardy fighters themselves, had, because of their habit of boiling food and not working their jaws, evolved into skinny, toothless wimps. Even the Italians would have beaten them.

In Italy I saw firsthand how the British botch things. The people who had refined the English language were now unable to speak it properly.

This is significant because the British, in their sad, slow decline, are on the verge of ruining -- no, destroying -- one of the greatest things about human existence: beer and proper beer drinking. The socialistic misfits across the Atlantic are demanding that their government take the fun and tradition out of beer and beer drinking.

The beer drinkers of this dreary island nation are complaining that pub owners are pouring too much foam with their beers. The crybabies claim that pub owners are making $400 million a year by adding a little extra foam to beers, and they have asked the British government to step in. The government bureaucrats have proposed a law that would levy an $8,000 fine against bartenders who consistently pour beers with more than five percent foam.

Ian Woolverton, a spokesman for the anti-foam whiners who call themselves The Campaign for Real Ale, was recently quoted as saying, "We feel beer drinkers in this country have been getting a bad deal for many years, and we'd like to put this to bed right now."

Woolverton and his fellow crybabies should jump into the English Channel and end it all. They are a disgrace and not worthy of drinking real beer.

Foam, or the head as it is properly called, is essential on a beer. A good, thick, smooth, creamy, lingering head is what beer is all about. A real beer, a good beer, a great beer should have enough carbonation and be poured so that a great frothy head develops and spills over the glass and slides down its side to make a nice puddle on the bar, Formica kitchen table or automobile dashboard.

When you guzzle a real beer, the head should be such that it engulfs your nose and leaves a mustache and beard of alcoholic bubbles on your face.

The flat, headless beer that Woolverton apparently wants is what led to the revolution in the American beer industry. Our giant brewers used to make the dishwater stuff that Woolverton yearns for. But real American beer drinkers revolted. We wanted beer with heads that would send foam up our noses. And we got it.

But I guess we should pity Woolverton and his wimpy followers for trying to ruin beer.

What else would you expect from people who can't talk right?


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