The British invariably complain with an inevitability bordering on the mystical, usually about the weather. Being British, I carry this sociogenetic trait with me like a moaning cross. ‘It’s too hot!’ is my current mantra. Added to that, the Ugly One insists on having fans blasting all through the house which irritates me, as I would rather put up with the ambient heat than having warm air fired at me by a machine.
‘Why don’t y’all have AC?’ Americans will ask, to which I generally respond, ‘There’s no point, since we don’t need it for eighty percent of the year, and besides, it dries up my contact lenses and the British have taken on far too many American ideas already.’
So, should we complain? Why do we complain?
Personally, I find it quite enjoyable. There’s a masochistic side to the British psyche which allows us to bond with other sufferers. We make more friends who share some sort of target of complaint than anything else. Some time ago, I made quite a few friends from the society I set up The AC/DC (the Anti Celine Dion Campaign) which sought to ween addicts of this whining pathos-vampire away from the darkness and into the light.
I am sure that many people who have moaned to each other at bus-stops about the rain/sun/fog/hail/buses/new Celine Dion album have ending up shagging like rabbits.