It's drinking tea on cold mornings.
It's spilling snakebite on nightclub floors.
It's hosting your child's first birthday at the local Wetherspoons.
It's doing drugs in the Wetherspoons toilets, which are always impossibly clean, at your child's first birthday.
It's staring at your shoes when a fight kicks off on public transport.
It's staring at your shoes and filming on your phone when a racist rant kicks off on public transport.
It's buying reduced sandwiches from Tesco on your way home from work.
It's punching a single mother for a reduced maxi-dress in Primark.
It's thinking someone's a cunt but never letting them know.
It's carrier bags blowing in the wind and cans of Special Brew rolling in the gutter.
It's watching Netflix to get rid of a hangover.
It's drinking more booze to get rid of a hangover.
It's wanking several times to get rid of a hangover.
It's bumping into your ex when you've been up for 48 hours doing mephedrone, there's urine and phlegm on your trousers, and she's on her way to a well-paid job because it's a Wednesday.
But more than anything, Britain is a strawberries & cream cornish pasty, manufactured by white van man favourite, Ginsters, to coincide with the Wimbledon tournament, where not a single toff would dream of touching such a thing.
Is this for real? If you have to ask, you should be tried for treason.