Without shame, I admit that Norf FC is one of my favourite memes. With glee akin to Winston Smith throwing off his clothes to chase his beloved, mysterious Julia, I often dive into the deepest lore of the Norf. The sossij. The footy. Ngubu. It's a comfort, a moment of self-understanding; a chance to laugh without malice at my countrymen's vices and innocent virtues (primarily that of extreme violence toward the other).
And - this time with slight slight shame - I also admit to moments when I see shades of myself in the meme.
But how can one truly have a favourite meme? Are memes not by their nature pictographic, captioned translations of ideas? Is it the idea which is then favoured, rather than the translated image? My sentiment, I believe, lies in the symbolism, refined and repeated, throughout the catalogue of Norf FC memes.
The figure of Norf is a sign of the archetypical underclass Briton, a natural reactionary. To reference my previous article, he possesses a conservative sensation of ideas. Unfortunately, he has been waylaid by the imprint of a progressive formed opinion, the stamp of the BBC (or Satan, whichever you think is worse). In turn this imprint wars with his unformed opinion, which mirrors the sensations whence it came.
Hence the iconic line:
Not racist, jus' don' like 'em.
He's not racist, which is to be worse than a Nazi, according to the doctrine of the informed opinion forced upon him, but nor can this propaganda penetrate beyond his innate xenophobia, his unformed opinion. Such is the tragedy and the travesty of the British working class, caught between instinct and indoctrination.
However, it is fair to say that Norf FC is not unique in this regard. All conservative Britons face this tragedy. We want to believe in institutions that hate us; we want to worship the Church of England which lectures us on hom*osexuals, Cambridge University which lectures us on the horrors of colonialism, and the monarchy which stands inert, paralysed by fear of republicanism.
The travesty is unique to the working class and appears in Norf FC himself. He's ugly. It's taken as Gospel on the internet that a certain uneducated fragment of the British population is ugly, and elaborate semi-satirical racial hierarchies have been built around this idea.
Of course, these particular hierarchies do not exist. The Normans left practically no genetic lineage behind, and all the groups involved are not separated by more than a thousand years. The only significant phenotypical differences to be found among the native British population exists in a gradient from North to South and East to West. The further North, until one hits Scotland - and especially the Highlands - the more Germanic, often North Germanic. The further West, the more Celtic, especially as one arrives in Wales. Genetic isolates also exist in Cornwall, the Orkneys, and a few other distant places.
All in all, it does not amount to much, and the amount mounted is little more than a Dutch hill. The Welsh tend toward swarthier skin and darker hair, while the northern English are biased toward blonder hair and lighter skin. Facial features also vary in loose, subtle but notable patterns, and the archetypical portrayals of Englishmen and Welshmen do differ significantly. These differences, nonetheless, remain broadly superficial, and split nationalities rather than classes.
So, why is Norf FC so disfigured, so bloated?
The answer is Hard Work and social decay. Hard Work certainly deserves its capitalisation; it is the defining difference between the middle and working-class, and the root of untold suffering. Sensible moral choices do not enlighten the modern middle class; they are nearly as degenerate as the working class at whom they sneer.
What they are not is exhausted. A hard day in the office may deliver unwanted stress to the salaryman, but his burden does not compare to twelve hours in a factory. I know this first-hand. A bath or a beer might relieve mental strain, but a bath cannot solve the debilitation of thirty-thousand steps. Nor is the factory worker free of tension of the mind; in most jobs, he too must pay attention - and rarely is there time for daydreaming. Certainly, there is no moment to casually browse Facebook when the manager isn't looking.
Thus the working-class Briton arrives home like a zombie, shuffling toward his heart's desire - usually to improve his blood-sugar levels. The easiest method thereof is fast food. 'A cheeky doner', 'a quick Maccy-D's' etcetera etcetera. Filled with energy, often of the worst sort, this fuel many of the workers of this country. It is a dirty fuel, like a car without a catalytic converter. It addicts and fattens, and causes blemishes and marks in once smooth faces.
As men leave the corporate conveyor belt, they arrive on the conveyor belt to NORF FC.
This phenomenon can be observed in other nations, but in Britain, it is most obvious (except perhaps in poorer sections of America). In Italy, a worker may arrive home to his wife's cooking, which he gladly inhales. He is satisfied, watches television and goes to bed. Rarer is this scene in Britain, where social decay is more advanced, where the Devil has dug his claws more firmly.
What can be done? It is a difficult, depressing question. Maybe that's the point - the question itself is depressing. Does Barry, Garry, or whatever stereotypical name you wish to use, sometimes look at himself in the mirror only to see a travesty looking back at him? Probably. Does he think he can do anything about it? Probably not. Therefore, he can choose either to fall into depression or revel in his Norfness. Almost all, not unreasonably, choose the latter.
All we can aim to do is to set a better example; to live fruitfully and gracefully so that others might follow our example.
Simple as'.
(Unfortunately, it isn't simple at all.)
Thanks for reading. I don’t know how often I’ll post and, while this uncertainty continues, I certainly won’t add a paid option.
