Ah good old Bertie, warning those of a sensitive nature are best advised to leave now.
Warning bad language that would make a sailor blush.

Compare and contrast, the previous working class? comic , there were many, but he pushed the boundaries:

“That there are men in all countries who get their living by war, and by keeping up the quarrels of nations, is as shocking as it is true; but when those who are concerned in the government of a country, make it their study to sow discord and cultivate prejudices between nations, it becomes the more unpardonable.”

Thomas Paine, Rights of Man

I should have expanded more on my yes.

I don't like energy vampires, I box them as oxygen thieves. The negative types who wallow in their misery wanting to drag others for a roll in the mud with them. That's what I meant. Not a feeling of superiority just hate the stuck up pretentious attitudes, the sense of entitlement of many who think the world owes them something. Well guess what, the world owes you nothing, it was here first.

The personal victims brigade who find fault with everything and whine that this life chose them not the other way around.

Negativity of negpats, makes me shake my head. All about attitude and I'm always upbeat by nature.

I'll give you an example. A few years ago I went to a wedding party in Dhaka, Bangladesh, woman I worked in Qatar with. Wealthy family but poor groom, no worries, they are wonderful, generous people. I was standing around the wedding buffet when this loud mouthed Pom pulled up a waiter and started giving him a dressing down from his pretentious status that 'This lamb is uneatable!' I smiled to myself as he repeated 'UNEATABLE' to this poor Bangladeshi fellow several times. Waiter chuffed off to sort out the lamb, the pretentious Pom turned around and said to me. 'Peasants can't cook lamb, it's uneatable.'

I got on my pretentious high horse and replied. 'There is no such word as uneatable. Perhaps if you said inedible he may have understood.' He got a bit red in the face and asked if I was a teacher. Told him no, and English is not my first language, go try the beef instead, and walked off. 

Husband giving me a big smile, 'Mo, you're naughty', but he couldn't stop laughing and that fellow was watching us, had a truck company so it was ok to bash the locals. Nothing wrong with the lamb, said to my hubby, 'maybe if the idiot put his dentures in the right way he'd be able to chew it.' Hubby shares my sense of humour btw. The Nordic Club in Dhaka this was at and they have great food.


 

And some may prefer to dream of Manderlay

From the opening of "Brideshead revisited"

WHEN I reached 'C' Company lines, which were at the top of the hill, I paused and looked back at the camp, just coming into full view below me through the grey mist of early morning. We were leaving that day. When we marched in, three months before, the place was under snow; now the first leaves of spring were unfolding. I had reflected then that, whatever s cenes of desolation lay ahead of us, I never feared one more brutal than this, and I reflected now that it had no single happy memory for me.
Here love had died between me and the army.
Here the tram lines ended, so that men returning fuddled from Glasgow could doze in their seats until roused by their journey's end. There was some way to go from the tram-stop to the camp gates a quarter of a mile in which they could button their blouses and straighten their caps before passing the guard-room, quarter of a mile in which concrete gave place to grass at the road's edge. This was the extreme limit of the city. Here the close, homogeneous territory of housing estates and cinemas ended and the hinterland began.
The camp stood where, until quite lately, had been pasture and ploughland; the farmhouse still stood in a fold of the hill and had served us for battalion offices; ivy still supported part of what had once been the walls of a fruit garden; half an acre of mutilated old trees behind the wash-houses survived of an orchard. The place had been marked for destruction before the army came to it. Had there been another year of peace, there would have been no farmhouse, no wall, no apple trees. Already half a mile of concrete road lay between bare clay banks and on open ditches showed where the municipal contractors had designed a system of drainage. Another year of peace would have made the place part of the neighbouring suburb. Now the huts where we had wintered waited their turn for destruction.
Over the way, the subject of much ironical comment, half hidden even in winter by its embosoming trees, lay the municipal lunatic asylum, whose cast-iron railings and noble gates put our rough wire to shame. We could watch the madmen, on clement days, sauntering and skipping among the trim gravel walks and pleasantly planted lawns; happy collaborationists who had given up the unequal struggle, all doubts resolved, all duty done, the undisputed heirs-at-law of a century of progress, enjoying the heritage at their ease. As we marched past, the men used to shout greetings to them through the railings - 'Keep a bed warm for me, chum. I shan't be long' - but Hooper, my newest-joined platoon-commander, grudged them their life of privilege; 'Hitler would put them in a gas chamber,' he said; 'I reckon we can learn a thing or two from him.'
Here, when we marched in at mid-winter, I brought a company of strong and hopeful men; word had gone round among them, as we moved from the moors to this dockland area, that we were at last in transit for the Middle East. As the days passed and we began clearing the snow and levelling a parade ground, I saw their disappointment change to resignation. They snuffed the smell of the fried-fish shops and cocked their ears to familiar, peace-time sounds of the works' siren and the dance-hall band. On off-days they slouched now at street comers and sidled away at the approach of an officer for fear that, by saluting, they would lose face with their new mistresses. In the company office there was a crop of minor charges and requests for compassionate leave; while it was still half-fight, day began with the whine of the malingerer and the glum face and fixed eye of the man with a grievance.
And I, who by every precept should have put heart into them - how could I help them, who could so little help myself.? Here the colonel under whom we had formed, was promoted out of our sight and succeeded by a younger and less lovable man, cross-posted from another regiment. There were few left in the mess now of the batch of volunteers who trained together at the outbreak of war; one way and another they were nearly all gone - some had been invalided out, some promoted to other battalions, some posted to staff jobs, some had volunteered for special service, one had got himself killed on the field firing range, one had been court-martialled - and their places were taken by conscripts; the wireless played incessantly in the ante-room nowadays and much beer was drunk before dinner; it was not as it had been.
Here at the age of thirty-nine I began to be old. I felt stiff and weary in the evenings and reluctant to go out of camp; I developed proprietary claims to certain chairs and newspapers; I regularly drank three glasses of gin before dinner, never more or less, and -went to bed immediately after the nine o'clock news. I was always awake and fretful an hour before reveille.
Here my last love died - There was nothing remarkable in the manner of its death. One day, not long before 'this last day in camp, as I lay awake before reveille, in the Nissen hut, gazing into the complete blackness, amid the deep breathing and muttering of the four other occupants, turning over in my mind what I had to do that day - had I put in the names of two corporals for the weapon-training course? Should I again have the largest number of men overstaying their leave in the batch due back that day? Could I trust Hooper to take the candidates class out map-reading? - as I lay in that dark hour, I was aghast to realize that something within me, long sickening, had quietly died, and felt as a husband might feel, who, in the fourth year of his marriage, suddenly knew that he had no longer any desire, or tenderness, or esteem, for a once-beloved wife; no pleasure in her company, no wish to please, no curiosity about anything she might ever do or say or think; no hope of setting things right, no self-reproach for the disaster. I knew it all, the whole drab compass of marital disillusion; we had been through it together, the Army and I, from the first importunate courtship until now, when nothing remained to us except the chill bonds of law and duty and custom. I had played every scene in the domestic tragedy, had found the early tiffs become more frequent, the tears less affecting, the reconciliations less sweet, till they engendered a mood of aloofness and cool criticism, and the growing conviction that it was not myself but the loved one who was at fault. I caught the false notes in her voice and learned to listen for them apprehensively; I recognized the blank, resentful stare of incomprehension in her eyes, and the selfish, hard set of the comers of her mouth. I learned her, as one must learn a woman one has kept house with, day in, day out, for three and a half years; I learned her slatternly ways, the routine and mechanism of her charm her jealousy and self-seeking and her nervous trick with the fingers when she was lying. She was stripped of all enchantment now and I knew her for an uncongenial stranger to whom I had bound myself indissolubly in a moment of folly.

You think too much buhi.

Dissembling and looking into the abyss is it a Western trait? I don't know.

“Whenever you are about to find fault with someone, ask yourself the following question: What fault of mine most nearly resembles the one I am about to criticize?”

― Marcus Aurelius, Meditations