Life in London: so many issues. Our inquisitive editor-at-large addresses the ones that nobody dares (or cares) to. This week: the rubbishness of our unofficial ‘national’ days.
Was anyone else a bit disappointed by last week’s National Burger Day? Don’t get me wrong. Twenty-four hours dedicated to putting delicious meat in my mouth is just the kind of national day I can get behind. If you ask me, the reason those ‘Let’s make St George’s Day a national holiday!’ campaigns fail is that their pitch to the government isn’t ‘Burgers, guys! Fuckloads of burgers!’
But it was a bit of a washout, no? After all, get a few restaurants offering 20 percent off burgers and you know what day that actually makes it? National Queue Twice as Long to Get into a Decent Burger Joint Day. Surely we can pull off a better homage to beef in a bun than that? I mean, it’s not like I’m expecting David Cameron to open Parliament by capering about in Ronald McDonald fancy dress while Nick Clegg squeaks ‘I’m lovin’ it!’ It’d be nice, though.
Still, National Burger Day wasn’t the final word on special ‘days’ last week. I trust we all had a good National Dog Day last Tuesday? No? Well, what about International Bat Night on Saturday? Left Handers’ Day on August 13? No? Jeez, next you’ll be telling me that no one swooshed their computer cursor around the screen for Race Your Mouse Around the Icons Day. Oh, no one did? Right.
You know what we need to do? We need to take a leaf out of Russia’s book. In the Eastern Region of Ulyanovsk, they have – I shit you not – a day when their regional government encourages them to have sex. In order to boost the area’s dwindling population, the governor even urges employers to treat the Day of Conception as an unofficial bank holiday. So people can go home. To have sex. I am not making this up.
Every year, there’s a prize draw for couples who pop out a sprog nine months after the holiday. TVs, fridges, washing-machines and video cameras are all up for grabs. And if you win the grand prize? Your local authority gives you a jeep for having a baby. Again, I am not making this up.
Now, I have a question: why can’t we shag instead of doing spreadsheets? Think how happy we’d be if we spent a day humping instead of hmphing. Orgasming instead of organising. Boning instead of phoning. Even writing the word ‘boning’ is fun. Boning.
I’m not suggesting some kind of jeeps-for-babies exchange scheme. That would be a tad insensitive. After all, I can’t imagine many women lie there in agony, bodies being torn asunder, merrily announcing ‘Sod the epidural! I’m getting me a Cherokee!’ But there would be advantages to incentivised bumping of uglies. Everyone would be so busy boning that crime rates would plummet. The roads would be nigh-on empty. Bars would become fun singleton parties from midday onwards. For one day, London would be a safer, happier, funner place. Still not convinced? Well, look at it this way. If you timed it to coincide with National Burger Day, at least it would be easy to get into a fast-food restaurant.
For another of Alexi’s comical ponderings have a read of: How can we stop pedestrians pissing us off?