It is disturbing to imagine a figure of apparent dignity and autonomy, one who achieved such mastery in her field, as weak enough to indulge this sor… - Megan Nolan

Part of what I find depressing about England is that, rather than being upset with the wider forces that make your life horrible, you're encouraged to look at your neighbour like, 'He's making £10 too much a week on his benefits, and I'm going to report that f***er'.
When I read a tabloid occasionally, I feel that being stoked — you're supposed to hate someone who has a tiny bit more than you to avoid having to look at why you don't have enough for yourself.

Though there is more I could say on this – details that would both elicit sympathy and make me look like a spoiled little shit – that was all there really was to it. The slow, boring poison of drink and secret-keeping, spread out into every part of my life, so that nothing was safe or good any more. Until I woke up one day and realised I could not remember the last time I had read a book.

In the midst of all this, I've noticed a tonal shift in the way I and other Irish people speak about the English. Our anger is more sincere. We are more ready to call them out on all those centuries of excess, more likely to object to those pink-trousered, pink-faced dinosaurs who still perceive us as their inferiors.