Budget Day in the UK, and it's traditional for Britons to mark the occasion by mounting their high-horses to bemoan their personal victimhood even more forcefully than usual.
"This government doesn't care about single men/hard-working families/small businesses/smokers/transvestite cab-drivers!" we lament in unison, cursing the perfidy of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Wee Gordon Broon.
The Chancellor's a slippery little toad and no mistake, but he could've given us each a hot air balloon full of high-class prostitutes and we'd still have called him a cad and an fuckfaced oaf. Complaining is the national pastime, and on such days the average Briton spends an average of six hours whining like a fork scraped across a plate.
When I consider the financial persecution that I personally suffer, I start shaking and swearing incoherently at my hamster, although it doesn't seem to mind - if anything, it seems more interested in its nuts than added tax on a pint of Guinness. I suppose it's got the right idea.
Sitting about feeling sorry for myself isn't going to put food on the table, after all. Hard work and prudence is the key.
So I've been quietly tipping off the FBI as to the whereabouts of Osama Bin Laden, in the hope of claiming the $25 million bounty*.
Armed only with a copy of the Waziristan telephone directory, I've got as far as the Bijirani's. I reckon I've grassed up 143,000 Pakistanis for sheltering OBL so far - at this rate, I'll stumble across the right address before 2031.
That's what made Britain great - a bit of enterprise and risk-taking, not self-pity and grovelling for hand-outs.
*That's about fourteen hundred pounds in proper money.