Where are the Brits/Expats?! - w4m - 24 (Denver - LoDo)--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 2010-09-11, 3:25PM MDT
Reply to: pers-q3paa-XXXXXXXXXXXXXX@craigslist.org -------------------------------------------------------
Hello there. Expats are the holy grail. Seeking former UK resident who took up residency in CO for, well, all that Colorado offers. Am still reeling from England's depature from the WC and actually own a replica jersey if that gives you a sense a how committed. Looking forward to hearing from you and seeing where the limits lie. I am an anomaly. Email me and I will be more engaging without the limitations of privacy.
•Location: Denver - LoDo
•it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
RE: Where are the Brits/Expats?!
Colin Heintze to pers-XXXXXXXXXXXXXX.
show details 9:53 PM (3 minutes ago)
Good evening (or whatever time it is on your side of the world), and a pleasure to make your acquaintance.
My name is Nigel Templeton, and I am contacting you from the Republic of Korea, or as my mates around the Commission call it, The land that time forgot.
Egad, man, what a ghastly lot these Koreans are! But, perhaps further introductions are in order. As I said, my name is Nigel Templeton, current consul for for Her Majesty's Diplomatic Service, Incheon, Republic of Korea Office. After newly two years in this bastion of Confucian savagery I have, much to my delight, been given a posting in Denver, CO. Ah, to be among white men once more, and not just those petty sycophants at the Commission that hang on my sleeve begging for indulgences! It's a nasty compulsion of the British bourgeois class, I'm afraid, to intrigue and social-climb. Not that the natives are any better. One gets the feeling that, smile though they might, inwardly they view you with the same piteous contempt they would a pig groveling in the mud.
I wasn't always like this, mind you. Mary, my governess from home and closest childhood friend, said I was a brilliant and happy lad. I suppose it all changed when, fresh out of the academy, I was given my first posting in Ghana. It was two years of abject misery, of sleepless nights dreading the incessant tom-toms drumming in the wind, of mosquitoes and the runs and sun-burns, for the Englishman has neither the complexion for the black's sun nor his cuisine. If it weren't for the consul office's air-conditioner - the only thing able to maintain the white man's presence in Africa - and the occasional whore tucked discreetly into my expense account, I dare say I would have resigned from the service after the first monsoon. Christ, how the gutters stank with the overflowing offal of human refuse during the monsoons. And the dry season, let me assure you, was no better. No amount of baking by the pool, the sixth or seventh glass of gin trembling in my hand, could drown out the sheer surging mass of human odour and noise coming from the street beyond the gates. I mean, there was a corpse lying there, just lying in the street for three whole days before someone even bothered to remove it! How the fuck can these backwards grease-smeared savages hope to build a post-colonial society if even such rudimentary social services are ignored? I had hoped that colonization would have left its mark on them, would have imbued in them some spark of civility, but I know now that would be too much to ask of Africa. Africa, refuse-heap of the world! Africa, where one whiff of the foetid air sent Elizabeth, darling Elizabeth, fleeing back to Leeds, back to the arms of that fucking aristocratic cunt Simon! Simon, how I Ioathe you! How I despise your silly fucking affectations, your idle, simpering chatter! And how I hate you, Elizabeth, for choosing him over me and making me the gin-sodden, misanthropic man I am today. You wait and see, I'll rise through the ranks. I'll make ambassador one day, and soon I'll be serving up Simon's smug head on a platter, his Tudor father be damned!
But, I'm getting a new posting in America, so hopefully things will be better - starting with you. I'm sick of crying tears of impotent rage every night. Sick of the whorish expat widows pestering me for affection. Sick of dust-caked urchins loping at my heels for a discarded trinket. A fresh start, and it begins anew with you. Britannia Universalis!