I am an anglophile, and I'm not ashamed of it.
Every day, I wish that the glorious british empire had conquered and anglicized my shitty inferior nation. My life as a non-anglo is barely worth living except for the fact that there are still so many achievements of the ANGLO man left to marvel at that I couldn't ever hope to experience them all in one hundred years.
My nation is landlocked but I dream of the wide open sea, and of the mighty British ships that conquered her. I imagine myself at the side of Lord Horatio Nelson (possibly one of the greatest military commanders of all time) on an 80 cannon ship of the line. Our broadsides are tearing through filthy fr*ch scum when a cowardly frog shoots him. I look into his dying eyes and suddenly I'm in Africa, the heart of darkness, on a paddle steamer. My expedition is making it's way upstream of a river when the thick foliage suddenly clears out, making way for a seemingly endless body of water. We did it. We discovered Lake Victoria. Then, I'm in a factory where powerful beasts of steel powered by steam and fire are working tamely for the ANGLO man. The steam turns into gunpowder smoke. I'm in a line battle. We're moving down hordes of Zulus, Frenchmen, Germans, Americans, Russians, Turks and Chinese but they just keep coming, for Britain's enemies are many but equals are few. They are about to overrun us when I find myself in the seat of a Supermarine Spitfire, the best multirole propeller fighter ever built. I know I must defend our skies from the invading huns. I fire a salvo into the side of a g*rmanic bomber. It catches fire and falls out of the sky, a victim of superior ANGLO engineering. Now, we take our fight to the invaders. Lancaster bombers are raining fire on g*rman cities. I look up into the night sky and see Bomber Harris himself smiling down at me. Finally, I arrive at the falklands. My SAS squad is surrounded on all sides by argie scum, without escape. I'm out of ammo, ready to die for the Queen.