We British love to moan. We assert that right as often as possible. When we are unhappy about something we want the world to know. We seek out friends that we know will listen to our woes. Misery loves company.
We share our misery. Wear it like a badge of honour. When we feel slighted, wronged, cheated in some way. Or when we seem deluged with problems, the world is out to get us. We become angry, frustrated, vexed, needing to vent. To find others of a similar countenance. Not happy with their current predicament. A friend in a dark place. An ear wishing to listen, half-heartedly in return for the same in return.
Misery loves company.