When in London recently, I was impressed by the efficiency and frequency of Tube services in the inner city. When I travelled a little further out, I discovered that the above ground service wasn’t at quite the same standard.
Transport unions (who else) had decided to run fewer services in protest over the fact that Britain hadn’t gone full communism just yet, or something, so we figured it was wiser to hail a cab to complete the rest of our journey. Two native Brits, a male and a female, very kindly let us join them in a four seater, as it turned out they were going most of the way to where we were going, and as we really had no idea where we were, we figured we should take a punt.
The conversation was most jovial, and I as usual enjoyed ribbing them about their so-called “killer summer”. A royal guard had fainted the week before in the middle of the Changing of the Guard ceremony, in oppressive heat of 34 degrees centigrade.
The Englishman told me that it was hellish playing cricket the weekend before, but it was the Muslims in his team who fared the worst, because it was the middle of Ramadan, and they couldn’t drink water during daylight hours. For a moment I thought, “here we go, I am about to meet a Pom who actually notices things.” (London is lost).
But then he informed me that one of them scored 90 in the heat and remarked “that’s what was so crazy about it, they were dying of thirst and they’re still better than us.”
Initially I was despondent, but the more I think about it, well, his voice kinda tailed off, and he had a funny look on his face. There was a chance, a chance, that he had just red pilled himself.