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Ah, Cornwall! Owned almost entirely (and most profitably) by the Prince of Wales, it's very hard not to hear the strains of Britten's Peter Grimes as one watches the waves crashing against the jagged rocks of the wild Cornish coast.

Anyhow... Cornwall - or should I say Kernow: smugglers' coves; winding, dripping, darkened lanes; creepy pockets of stunted, dark-looking, pikeyesque trolls who sound like pirates and smoke Golden Virginia from Belgium.

The Cornish are an odd, interbred lot with Celtic blood - which makes them loathe anything English (sort of understandable after what happened during the revolt of 1497 and the battle of Deptford Bridge). This can be quite problematic when one considers Cornwall's geographic location. However, anyone with a bit of a fondness for post-Union Street high jinks should go undo the chains on the Torpoint ferry that separates Cornwall from Devon. This will set Cornwall adrift. With a bit of luck, Jamie Oliver and his mongoloid-size tongue will be visiting one of his nice little DWP-subsidised earners (aka washing-up job training schemes), and will go bobbing off along with the rest. Reckon on him making it for only as long as the White Lightening lasts before he gets eaten by his grateful employees.

Now that the tin mining industry is extinct and the clay digging industry just about so, the average Cornwall dweller - who is usually from Surbiton with a second home - spends his (or her) time either:

  • Surfing
  • Drinking cider and taking poor quality heroin for £20 a go
  • Hating 'Emmet' outsiders
  • Printing little Cornish flags and sticking them on the arse of their Rover Metro's.
  • Eating Cornish Pasties (Not Ginsters if you please).

Ye Olde Historical Pasty Fact: you aren't supposed to eat the thick pastry on the side of a cornish pasty ... its the bit you hold with your dirty hands and throw away if you are a tin miner and cant find anywhere to washup before lunch OR if you are from Surbiton and just a manky git. 'andsome!