Oh, I had to take issue with a bolshie Indian bird the other day who was blathering on about my colonial privilege and how it was only right that 'white men' be made to pay for the sins of empire. I pointed out that my ancestors were starved and oppressed by the Brits quite as much as hers and you don't hear me moaning about it. She said that was because, as a white man, I was still benefitting from imperialism. I pointed out that, as the child of a rich, English-speaking Indian family who was earning a very nice living in England by writing stuff in English, so was she.
After about an hour of back-and-forth, we agreed to differ.
Eh? What utter fúcktardery is this now? We're not talking about Croydon now, old chap. India is a more 'exotic' locale. Things are different. That's not to say that there aren't shítholes to be seen; I've been in duty, shítty burgs all over the third world thinking 'what the fúck am I doing here?' but scratching the surface of such environments inevitably (often?) broadens the mind, brings one closer to a true comprehension of the universe and soothes the aching chakras.
That, in fact, is your issue. Your chakras are fúcked.
Yes, but I do wonder if our somewhat mystical, exoticised view of the place means we let Johnny Indian off the hook a bit for the utter fücking state of the place. Oughtn't we to be saying that perhaps he ought to think a bit less about his chakras and a bit more about not taking a dump in the street?