Boring Blokes of Britain

It’s what makes Britain, so British.

Our ability to be boring is unprecedented in the Western hemisphere and more specifically, it’s boring blokes that symbolise what it’s like to be truly British. They’re just about the only ones fighting our ever-impending, completely-embarrassing, totally-americanized, culture and the best thing is; they don’t even know it.

I’m talking about all the Dave’s, Jeff’s and even Pauls out there, big up to you all for reminding us it’s great to be boring, that it’s okay to memorise all the junctions on the M1 AND M25 and that it’s pretty fucking cool to know the location of all drill-bit retailers in a 10-mile radius, because, let’s face it, what’s life without a drill-bit? But, we mustn’t get too excited, there’s a sad and complex undertone to this article, a terrible and horrifying realisation has overwhelmed me and I feel simply compelled to share it to the world, the boring bloke is dying out.

Soon the Adrian’s and Trevor’s of this great and wondrous planet will be no more and who then will keep record of the quickest combinations of beating an automated answering phone, who then will be browse the hallowed aisles of B&Q on a Sunday night and most importantly, I hear you cry, who then will support the greyhound racing industry! Alas, we’re doomed.

This year, Norman was voted the UK’s least sexiest name and outrage swept the country, or at least amongst all men named Norman. The boring-bloke will soon be a myth, a legend, a whisper in the wind; no longer will mysterious figures atop motorway bridges, snapping number-plates of every 2.0 litre Honda Civic diesel, an art-form that will be thoroughly missed. Instead, the world will be full of Oscars, Horacio’s and Alessandro’s (apparently people are genuinely naming their children via this monstrous label) and this is a sad fact, because Britain needs it’s Brian’s.

by Rob Henderson.