According to an email I got earlier this week, D.H. Lawrence once said this about his fellow Englishmen:

Curse the blasted, jelly-boned swines, the slimy, the belly-wriggling invertebrates, the miserable sodding rotters, the flaming sods, the snivelling, dribbling, dithering palsied pulse-less lot that make up England today.  ... God, how I hate them! God curse them, funkers. God blast them, wishwash. Exterminate them, slime.

Actually, the author of Lady Chatterley's Lover and other books of renown walked the walk. He spent most of his life as an expat, dying in 1930 at age 45.