I seen this on Quora, the bloke has got it almost spot on....
Alright everybody, sit back on that DFS-corner-three-piece-with-matching-ottoman-that’s-still-got-three-months-of-0%-interest-before-you-start-making-the real-payments-which-you-already-resent, and relax! Here’s the definitive list:
Builder, plumber, sparky in your house? You offer that fucker a Tea. Within five minutes. Even if you don’t drink tea, this rule is so ironclad that you have a box of tea just for this purpose. You also have coffee, but the tradesman must request it.
The specifics vary by region and upbringing, but you will have some sort of ritual that you perform every time you see a magpie. This is an indisputable fact.
You will drive at least 10mph over the posted speed limit unless within sight of a police car or speed cameras you are unfamiliar with. Failure to do so means you’re either very old, very stupid, or a complete cunt. The worst offenders being, obviously, very old, stupid cunts.
When driving, you are only allowed to use your horn in the following circumstances:
two, but preferably only one, tiny beeps to alert someone that you’re outside (although only acceptable if you’re late for a wedding, the person inside is the best man or maid of honour and you’ve known them for more than ten years. Otherwise it’s just downright rude)
Someone is about to reverse into you in a car park and hasn’t seen you.
To save you from imminent death by a reckless driver on the motorway or a roundabout.
But the real unwritten rule is this. If you blare your horn for more than three seconds, you become the wanker of the day to everyone in earshot. Personally, I have had someone, rightfully, sound their horn at me, which has alerted me to their presence and prevented us from both being killed. I was so grateful that the horn saved us as I hadn’t seen the other car. By the fourth second of blaring horn my guilt had evaporated and I was calling the guy a wanker.
You think Piers Morgan is a festering carbuncle of triple distilled, charcoal filtered twattery.
If you like Piers Morgan, and have the intestinal fortitude to tell anyone other than your 65+year old, racist aunt Karen that you like him, we will know instantly that:A) you voted leave. you read the Daily Mail. C) you’re a proper cunt. D) I’m just spitballing here but, you probably don’t season your food for shit.
Only really applies if you’re white british. You have a 65+year old, racist Aunt Karen. She might be younger or older, or called Carol or Cynthia or Barbera. She is just as likely to be an Uncle as well. No matter the age, name, gender or relation, you’ve definitely got an aging racist in the family. Even if they’re the nicest person and loves everyone and doesn’t have an ounce of hate or discrimination in them, they will definitely say some problematic shit in public. Ironically, they will always say the worst possible thing to someone while trying to prove that they’re NOT racist. You will try to educate them by getting them a smartphone or tablet and introducing them to Buzzfeed and Tumblr.
Rule 8: (this one is definitely a global issue, but it’s my list, so, I’ll say it)
You instantly regret introducing them to smartphones and tablets. Sub rules for the recipients of iPhones and tablets who are over 55 are:
You will NOT hold your iPhone (or whatever) with one hand and scroll with your thumb. You will hold it in one hand and scroll/type with either the middle or ring finger of the other hand. This will always be your non dominant hand (which is busy holding the phone) which will make you slow as fuck.)
You will perform one software update, it will change one or two things about the user experience. This will scare you and you will have iOS 4.2 for seven years and claim the phone is broken.
Your son or daughter will update your phone for you. You discover that the little black boxes with question marks in them that you see in messages are “Emojis.” You find them ridiculous at first, then you think they are kind of fun, so you start to use them.
You 100% use emojis wrong. Fact.
You will, weekly, ask your son/daughter how to use any app or website that has been built at great cost by very clever people to be so easy to use that children who cannot even read can use them.
You get Facebook, memes disturb you, you get hacked.
Sub rules for givers of iPhones etc to the older generation:
You will remind your mum/dad constantly that they don’t have to start texts with your name, and end them with theirs. You tell them that texts are not letters. They will ignore you.
You will have to explain every acronym to them. Your mum will always think that LOL means lots of love.
Once you have explained that BRB means be right back, or somesuch, they will make up a one of their own like ICMSO. It will mean “I’m chuckling my socks off.” it will be shit. You will write LOL and not tell them how bad it was as they wiped your arse for the first three years of your life.
You will send any meme. They will ask if the person in the meme is your friend. You explain that Kevin Hart is not your friend. You then explain memes. They ask if you made it. You realise that you are products of different ages of innovation, that they grew up with three channels on the TV, an abridged version of an encyclopaedia, a piss poor library and schools staffed by violent alcoholics. You grew up with the accumulated knowledge of the entire human race available to you 24/7 365. You realise that simple memes will lead you down a very deep rabbit hole. You just say “yes, I made this meme”
You forget, and send them another meme. They ask whose dog that is?
Despite having email, messenger, texts, Facebook, WhatsApp and even, god forbid, snapchat; they will call you, and if you don’t pick up, they will leave a voicemail. Only corporations to whom you owe money and your parents leave voicemail. They will, always, start the message by saying what time it is. Despite knowing, because they love and use voicemail, that the recorded voice says “Message left at…Seven..Oh…Four.. On…Saturday” etc. You will say to yourself “why the fuck are you ringing me this early on a Saturday!” It’s the law.
When leaving any social situation, you will, without fail: wait for a lull in the conversation, look around to catch peoples eyes, say loudly, briskly and commandingly the word “Right”
If you are sitting, you will slap your knees with both hands as you say it to aid you getting up. The non verbal exclamation mark. If you are standing you will gently slap the table or bar if there’s one in front of you. If there isn’t, you will clap your hands together and rub them together or you will clap and clasp your hands together at chest height.
“Right” on its own is sufficient, but can be suffixed with the following:
“I/we had better make a move/ get going/ hit the road” (hit the road will be said ironically and in a bad accent.
If someone has the audacity to put on their jumper or coat, take their phone off the table and look for their keys, pat their pockets absentmindedly as part of their subconscious ritual for imminent departure, or glance at a clock and then stretch their back, or even take a slightly bigger breath than usual, before they have uttered the word “Right.” Well, that person (friend) will be assailed with sarcastic remarks like “see you later then, pal” “are you off then?” “we boring you mate?” “You still here?” “Go on then, fuck off” etc.
Any city or town that is not your city or town is a shithole and will normally be referred to thus: “Coventry? Fucking shithole, mate!” But will sound more like: “Covsafaaakinshitttole, mate! we all say it so often about other places the words just bleed together.
The closer another town or city is to yours, the more of a shithole it is. I blame football for this trait. Rival teams are closer together and this feeds the animosity. Then you get cities that have two or more football teams in them, who hate each other with venom, but can’t call the other teams city shit as it’s the same city. So they hate Manchester United instead. And when they play each other they beat the shit out of themselves in the streets afterwards. Because men.
The cities and towns that get a pass on being shitholes are: anything in the coteswolds, Bath, and Leamington Spa, because I live there and it’s awesome. Seriously.
You will state the obvious. This includes: you’ve had your hair cut, you’re soaked/drenched, you’re late, you’ve lost weight.
The correct replies to which are: sarcastically clutching your head and saying “noooo, Really?” “It’s fucking pissing it down out there/it’s that fine rain. Soaks you through!” “Sorry, traffic/the Mrs/He, was a nightmare” “Oh thanks, I’ve been doing Joe Wicks/juice cleanse/crystal meth etc.”
You will hold a door for anyone. You will both say “after you” at least twice until one of you is dominated enough to go through. That person will hurry, to not waste your time, even though you spent thirty seconds trying to out-polite each other through the door.
The door rule is so powerful that even in a long corridor you will approach a door, look behind you, see one other person thirty feet away and feel inclined to hold that door for them. They will then run to get through that door. In Britain you can make anyone run insanely impractical distances by holding a door. They will then thank you.
If there are many doors on this corridor, this person is now level with you, the rule dictates that you will be the door opener for all these doors, they must match your pace between doors, you will not talk to each other apart from when the doors are opened. Then the person receiving the opening will thank the opener who will tell them they’re welcome. But the real unwritten rule here is that the thanking must be different every time, as must the reply. So you get a string of: “thanks, cheers, ta, so kind, thank you, bless you etc etc.” Which is met with “no worries, my pleasure, you’re welcome, don’t mention it etc etc.”
You have a noun to describe a small, round, loaf of bread, no bigger than a clenched fist. The name you have for this particular bread is the correct name and you will glass any cunt that dares call it a cob in your presence, and then spit on the graves of their ancestors. Everyone knows it’s a Roll! Or any combination thereof.
Although shouting, especially whilst sober, in a public place is frowned upon most grievously, if the words “ALAN” “DAN” or “NICE ONE BRUVVAAAA” are shouted. You will shout it back. Louder. It’s the law.
You will ask taxi drivers if they’ve been busy and what time they’re on till. Fifteen years ago we used to ask normally, in our own accents. Now we say it ironically and in a Bolton accent thanks to Peter Kay. Who used it as a joke that was so funny because it was true. He knew the rules.
You will quote “Snatch” to any new potential friend. If they quote it back, then they’re worthy. If they haven’t seen it then they’re a garbage person.
You will, generally, know how to order drinks and ask directions to the library in either French or Spanish. Some maniacs will have a smattering of German, normally limited to counting to four and saying something is a pencil. They will say it in the style of Hitler at a rally. You will expect everyone to speak English.
If you decorate the outside of your house with anything other than simple, non flickering, white fairy lights in either your windows or your eaves, you are definitely living in a council house and have seven children of dubious parentage. It sounds ridiculous and horrendously snobby, but I double dare you to prove me wrong.
Depending on your age, your understanding of inflation and capitalism is based on three things in age order from oldest to youngest:
“When we came off rationing we bought sausages for the first time in seven years for thruppence ha’penny that mother had saved over the winter”
“I bought my first house, a lovely cottage in Surrey, for £14,000 and the mini went on sale that year for £400”
“Fucking hell mate! Fucking Freddo’s are twenty fucking pee! What a liberty! Even Chomps have crept up to fifteen. And they’re smaller!”
Every two years, at the Euros and the World Cup, we will sing “it’s coming home.” And without fail, it does not come home. We even sing the line “thirty years of hurt” despite it now being fifty two years of hurt.
British, includes: England, Scotland, Wales and, although not British we will include Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. The gold standard of inter-national hatred is: Half of Northern Ireland hates Ireland and the other half hate England. Ireland, is generally amiable and kind of likes everyone, England the least though. Wales is cool with most nations, except England. They insisted on keeping their own language, cost us millions in road signs that still have English on them because their kids can’t be arsed to learn welsh. They built a massive fuck off bridge and only charged a toll to get from England to wales and not get out again. England lovingly calls them sheep shaggers and taffs. The Scottish fucking hate everybody, including themselves, but mainly the English. With a deep, violent passion. The English take the piss out of them, their history and their accents. So everybody hates the English, and the English pretty much don’t care, because we’ve beaten them all many times. So to stop the bloodshed, instead of having pitched battles, we have a rugby tournament called the six nations every year to see who’s the boss. We included France and Italy as well, seeing as we’ve beaten the fuck out of them in the past as well.