This Ain't Mrs. Miniver's England

Mark Steyn describes a harrowing encounter with a couple of delicate blossoms, exemplars of British womanhood:

Recently, I dined in what, on my last visit some years back, had been a genteel English spa town. I bid farewell to my companions outside the restaurant and walked the short distance to my rental car, whereupon I was accosted by two underdressed young ladies in their late teens giggling and wobbling unsteadily in high heels. They wanted me to give them a lift to a nearby club. I regretted that I was heading in the opposite direction – whatever that was and wherever it led. They then demanded £20 so that they could call a minicab. I demurred. They offered in return to show me their breasts. I declined the offer, so they lifted up their tops and showed me them anyway. I was getting into the car by this point and the girls had seized the door. An elderly couple of near parodic Englishness – tweedy buffer with horsey missus – hurried by, scowling at me as if it were my fault the streets were now choked with topless trollops. Having gotten out the merchandise, the ladies were insisting I pay for it. And, when I showed no inclination to, they accused me of being of a non-heterosexual persuasion.

I started the engine. It was a manual, and, being distracted by the flying curses and jiggling knockers, I stalled the thing. And for a moment I had a horrible vision of the two chavs (in Britspeak) falling on me, glassing me, driving their stiletto heels into my skull, and making off with the car, leaving me to turn up on page 17 of the local paper under the headline “Has-Been Writer Found Dead In Two-Girl Special Gone Tragically Wrong.” I cast around for a copper, but as is traditional none were in sight. Obviously they don’t show up for public drunkenness or aggravated toplessness, but the ladies’ homophobic remarks would surely have led to an ASBO (Anti-Social Behavior Order) for Section Five hate speech and six months of sensitivity training. As I drove off, one of them banged on the hood while the other yelled, “You’re everything that’s wrong with this country!” Which seemed a bit unfair considering I was only on British soil for a mere 72 hours.

Steyn concludes re the U.K.'s remorseless slide into decadence: 

Today, an entire nation is downwardly mobile. If (Alan Jay) Lerner were still around I’d advise him to forget My Fair Lady and try Clockwork Orange – The Musical.

I'm no Alan Jay, but I'm happy to oblige. Here's my suggestion for the title number (to the tune of: California Here I Come):

Vulgar Britain, down it goes.
Full of skanks and sluts and hos.
Where dollops
Of trollops
Flash you their boobs.
So sunken
And drunken
Can't see things go down the tubes,
And it's a P.C. Shangri La.
See its elites hem and haw.
Need some of that sha-ree-ah,
Vulgar Britain, down it goes.