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Ashburn Wine Shop. It seems the lazy Pommy bastards are at fault.

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Or, more accurately, one Pommy in particular. His name was Robert Owen, a heavy-handed, dogmatic authoritarian who was alternately revered and cursed as the father of English socialism — an ideal that today can be found bleeding and gasping its last in a gutter off Brick Lane in the east end of London. It was in that Comrade Owen unilaterally instituted a hour day at his sweatshop in New Lanark and proceeded to demand the same for workers throughout England. The government, much like the unemployed of the time, thought he was mad.

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It took seven years and a very high staff turnover for Owen to realise his mistake. The idea looked good on paper, but, as we have all discovered at one time or another, eight hours of recreation quickly turns into twelve.

Factor in hot monkey sex followed by gnarly rush hour traffic and you are left with maybe three hours of rest. Which means that maybe one out of the eight hours of labour will be productive. With a rider, of course. Only women and children would benefit from the new hour day. Men would continue working until they dropped.

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And they still are. Well, maybe not since the dole made it possible to acquire a heroin habit, a Mohawk, a full body tattoo and still earn the same as an entry-level astronaut.

That was then, before Britain became an American colony. Before America realised the danger of setting aside one day of the year for the bourgeoisie to rally around. They already had Thanksgiving Day, a day devoted to the Pilgrims who all took a long shower after breaking in Pocahontas down at the river, thereby ensuring a solid defence if any Puritan had to be accused of spreading dread diseases throughout the New World.

The children of the Mayflower generation should be made to crawl on their hands and knees across shards of glass every fourth Friday in November instead of ramming turkey and candied bourbon flavoured yams down their ungrateful white throats. Successive right-wing administrations have succeeded in turning the day into a drunken orgy in which everyone celebrates the last day of summer and nobody mentions the working class. This did little to stop virile pagans from committing random acts of degeneracy in the name of the great unwashed. Your email address will not be published. Notify me of follow-up comments by email.