On The Sproutside

If you want something that encapsulates Britishness as a concept, you don't have to go much farther than Christmas sprouts. Almost universally despised, and yet tolerated by tradition, appearing unbidden on plates year after year, like some penance we collectively inflict on ourselves, a reminder of all that's been sacrificed throughout history so that we can be free to live on our little wet rock, and perpetually complain about living on our little wet rock.

Your granddad fought at Dunkirk so that you could be forced to eat vegetation you don't like. Eat them, damn you!