I love your country. It's full of beauty, and charm, and everyone has been so lovely. I'm enchanted by your compatriot's accents and feel like saying "Jolly Good Man!!" and "Cheers!", and hanging out on the queen's doorstep making faces at guards who hate me for my unoriginality.
If I weren't put off by it's infamously horrible weather and a gastronomic standard unworthy of a guinea pig, I'd even consider moving there.
There's just one thing I can't understand:
Everything you say.
I honestly tried. I don't think it was the four forty-five a.m. wake up call that was inhibiting my comprehension, either. I doubt even proper British natives could decipher the ridiculous mix of swearwords and claptrap pouring out of your mouth like projectile verbal vomit.
There are only two explanations for such an insane manner of speaking:
1) You hate your job and are the equivalent of French waiters.Your sole source of joy is through the confusion you spread during the painful ten minutes passengers spend trying to translate your incomprehensible drivel.
2) We are most likely pawns in a sick little experiment. A group of men in white coats are watching me on screen from their lab to find out how much provocation it will take to achieve total meltdown status.
My money's on the second option for the simple reason that I'm a paranoid freak, and results are inevitable. I can only say "What???!" so many times before feeling like I've entered another dimension where everything is the same, except cab drivers speak another language.
I am the rat, and you dear driver, are the stimulus.
Fear not, I will foil their diabolical scheme. Now if I can just get a schizophrenic Frenchman on the Eurostar to translate your gibberish, we'd be in business.