Forget Islamo-Fascism.

I've come down with a dose.
A mild dose.

Of Albionic Poisoning, otherwise known as the British Disease or Anglo-Fascism.

Albionic Poisoning is typically contracted by detatched or actually foreign persons who tend to lapse into moments of 'out-of-context' experience in Britain.

So, when I walked into the Hunter's for a pint, I saw the morons in vests (in mid-Winter), piling into the pub ahead of me, I thought it looked grim.
I went in.
Very crowded.
Very noisy.
It was a rugby club.
And then I had an 'out-of-context' experience.

Because I had never paid any special attention to Rugby, not being particularly interested, I forgot everything I had observed over the years.
I did not ask why, when going to the best Real Beer pub in Yorkshire, these morons ordered Foster's Lager.(I mean for Christ's Sake!)
I waited patiently in the crowd, thinking(as so often) that I was anonymous.
I gave the attractive barmaid the once over while her back was turned, and my thoughts were interrupted by a braying squeal of faux-laughter from a plummy young thug on my left, part of a group of four.
This is not supposed to cause a fight. Because it's four to one.
No.
It is supposed to engender in me the same sexual impotence, and especially mental,sexual impotence, that the weakling of 'manly' sport has surrendered himself to.

I sat and drank my pint. I even laughed out loud at the thought of jabbing my thumbs into his baby-blue eyes and side-kicking his knee to end his sporting career for good.

But then I'd be the bad guy, right?

We have no guns in England, except for the criminals and the police.
The rest of us are supposed to be kept in line by the smiling, well spoken and trendy storm-troopers of Albionic Poison;

but you can always spot them. They are clumsy in everything they do to the point of full-on malapropism.
Trouble is, we forget.
Because who wants to keep the image of a louse in his head, as chronic reminder?