Christmas Passed
Let’s Face It
I Can See My House From Here
Attack of the Killer Swans
Swimming to Banbury
That’s Not Cricket
The Nadir of My Existence
Appropriate Attire
Under the Wire
Little Things II
Little Things
Welcome Home
Advice to Americans: Save Your Money; Stay Home
High Street Hussies
Happy Anniversary
Odds and Ends
Return
Christmas Passed
29 December 2007
What happened to Christmas? The last thing I remember it was Thanksgiving, and now I’m eating Boxing Day leftovers and staring Hogmanay in the face. I do recall a few, fleeting, flashes of light a while back; was that it?
Gosh, but didn’t time fly this year? It’s strange; usually I am so sick of being pummelled by sappy carols, crappy ‘Christmas Specials’ TV, and seizure-inducing light displays that I can’t wait to put the holidays behind me. But this year, I only heard Slade three times (I counted) and ended up voluntarily subjecting myself to a dose of holiday television viewing because it just didn’t seem like Christmas without watching some really rubbish telly (The Top of the Pops Christmas Review, re-runs of Dad’s Army, Ken Dodd’s Christmas Special, The Most Shocking Celebrity Moments, you know, crap like that).
For all we complain about it (c’mon, you know you did), Christmas, and all the peripheral festivities, serves a very important function: it distracts us from the climate. This, actually, was its original purpose back when it was a pagan celebration, set at the time the time of year when the days were darkest and gloomiest and the weather sucked; what better to do than throw a party? So I’m disappointed at how quickly the days are speeding by. Once January arrives and the fallout from the New Year’s Eve parties is cleaned up, it’s simply winter, and the only thing you can do about it is complain about the weather and look forward to spring.
The other problem is, unless there are small children involved, Christmas loses some of it’s magic. There’s nothing like watching a three-year-old squealing with glee while tearing the wrapping off of a plastic fire engine that cost you all of $5, and then happily playing with the box until mid-February. These days, my sons e-mail me their Christmas list, I buy it all on line and have it mailed directly to their home. Call me an old Scrooge but I don’t get quite the same satisfaction out of that.
On the other hand, it’s no easier for them, or anyone else for that matter, to buy for me. Whenever I’m asked what I want for Christmas, I tell the unvarnished truth: “I’m an adult, I have a credit card—for me, every day is Christmas.” This is why there is an upsurge in sales of mood clocks, chocolate fountains, and Oxfam goats this time of year—what else can you get people who already have everything and, if they don’t, can jolly well go out and buy it themselves? So you have to resort to things no sane person would ever voluntarily purchase, or you and the wife decide to buy a new bookcase and agree to call it a mutual Christmas gift.
As I said, the magic diminishes somewhat.
But that shouldn’t put us off Christmas. Indeed, it can make it that much more challenging to think up and hunt down just the right gift. If, after your 17th birthday, the Joy of Giving hasn’t blossomed in your bosom, Christmas is going to be something of a disappointment, but for most of us, that is what keeps Christmas Christmas. And, although I can’t claim to have made anyone squeal with glee for some time, I do get a certain amount of satisfaction from giving a gift I know will be appreciated – like a nice new frying pan, or a steam iron with dual-spray action. (I kid, of course, as evidenced by the fact that I am sitting upright and in possession of all my digits. Even though my father once bought my mother a cookie jar for Christmas – what was he thinking?!? – that particular gene has not been passed my way and I am fully aware that any item which regards the kitchen as its natural habitat is off limits in the gift arena.)
With Christmas now rapidly receding into the past (and let’s face it, by the time you read this, it’s probably 2008 and you’re already back at work wondering where your next day off is coming from) it’s time to pack away the bounty of gifts and move on. I hope Santa was good to you. As for myself: thanks to a post I did last summer wherein I noted the dearth of pencil sharpeners on this island, friends, family and fans sent me enough pencil sharpeners to open my own specialty shop.
Have I mentioned that I haven’t seen any of those £50 notes I keep hearing about?
Let’s Face It
05 December 2007
A few months ago, I did something I’m not very proud of. My only excuse was, everybody else was doing it, but that doesn’t make it right. And now, having done it, I feel foolish, chagrined and a little bit embarrassed.
That’s right, I opened a MySpace account.
It wasn’t my fault, really. Maintaining a web-presence is a tough business, and I’m already falling behind the curve by not having a blog, so jumping onto this bandwagon was something I felt I had to do.
I wanted MySpace to be useful, I really did, but the only good thing I can say about it is, if you need to get over the idea that you are young and hip and have friends, opening a MySpace account is the way to do it. Everywhere I looked I saw people younger than my children, with active social networks in the triple digits, having an apparently grand time interfacing with one another while I tried in vain to make some sense out of the place and watched my IN box flood over with “Friend Invitations” from scantily clad young ladies named Candi or Tanya offering untold titillation if I called their 1-900 numbers.
Naturally, I bolted. But, undaunted, or perhaps slow to learn, I opened a FaceBook account.
FaceBook appeared less of a virtual meat-market and was populated by a broader representation of age groupings, though I can’t understand why. While I feel significantly less harassed in FaceBook, I still don’t find it remotely useful.
Without actually meaning to, I have acquired a dozen or so ‘friends,’ yet my feelings of virtual social inadequacy continue unabated due to the fact that over half of them are total strangers. Call me old fashioned, but I still prefer the type of communication that allows eye-contact. All these virtual social networks, ostensibly aimed at bringing us closer together, are really only driving us further apart. And it’s not as if we need their help.
Just look around you—on a train, sitting in the park, at a restaurant or just walking down the street—and you will see people immersed in their iPods, talking on their mobile phones, checking their e-mails on their CrackBerries, thumbing text messages or generally, desperately, seeking to communicate with someone, anyone, so long as it isn’t the person standing next to them.
I think that’s sad, not only because it has spawned a generation that believes “How R U? I M G8, C U L8R” constitutes a meaningful conversation, but also due to the inescapable fact that it is highly annoying.
I don’t know how this technology has played out in The States, but in Britain, no matter where you are, you can count on being serenaded by bleeps, blips and bells, as well as the countdown of the latest heavy metal hits, as various items of electronic gadgetry announce to their servants that it is time to pick them up and engage in loud and meaningless conversations with them.
Clearly I sound like the original grumpy old man, miffed about this confusing, new-fangled technology, but trust me, it isn’t that: it’s not about where our ability to be ‘connected’ 24/7 is taking us, it’s about what it’s leaving behind.
While on the train home from Birmingham the other day, surrounded by the requisite beeps and buzzes, I struggled to work out a particular plot point in my current novel. It concerned an obscure fact about World War II, which I needed to satisfy before I could move on. This left me a choice: wait until I got home so I could look it up on Wikipedia, or ask the gentleman in the flat-cap and tweed coat sitting next to me.
So I asked the man. He knew the answer, and filled me in on this bit of historical trivia. Then we talked about where he was during that time (in Burma, as it turns out, fighting the Japanese) and about driving steam trains, which he did after the war was over.
It was a diverting half hour, and a conversation I am not likely to forget.
None of this would have happened if I had allowed technology to intrude. Certainly I could have found the information on the Internet but pulling a cold fact out of cyber-space would have imbued it with the feeling my elderly acquaintance reported having when he drove one of the new electric locomotive engines: “It lacked life,” he told me, just as, I suspect, does much of today’s social interaction.
So it looks as if I’m stuck in this particular rest stop on the information highway; I may be a computer professional, but since I admittedly fail to comprehend the virtual fun of an Internet snowball fight, I guess I just don’t ‘get it.’ I am, it seems, doomed to be the only person on the planet who continues to post a web journal to a web page instead of BlogIt and who counts as friends only those people he can make eye contact with.
You can visit me at FaceBook if you like, as long as you’re prepared for “Ozzie and Harriet” and not expecting “Friends” (the older episodes, when they were younger, hipper and hadn’t started shagging each other).
Don’t bother looking for me on MySpace, however. I only venture there about once a month to evict the porn-queen wanabees from my IN box.
I Can See My House From Here
26 October 2007
For all of my potential stalkers, there is a new tool out in the inter-ether that will be a big help—Virtual Horsham.
Granted, on-line maps and satellite photographs have been around for some time, but not like this. The level of detail on this set of aerial maps is extraordinary, and, get this, we may well be the only location on the globe featuring this type of up-close-and-personal clarity. That’s right, once again I find myself sitting at the razors edge of progress as Horsham racks up another first. (Other firsts include being the first town in Sussex with road signs, and we were, of course, the first and only town in the known universe to attempt to ban bronze swans.)
The brain behind this achievement (the maps, not the swans) is Gavin Hewins of DotNetWebs who, at his own expense, modified Virtual Earth so thousands of people can fill those awkward hours during which they are supposed to be working by taking virtual strolls around Horsham.
Gavin qualifies his achievement with these words:
“Regarding the ‘first,’ we are the first town to customise Virtual Earth with our own high resolution images. Note this does not necessarily mean we are the first town to have images of this high resolution. What we have done is ADD our own (higher resolution) images to a Virtual Earth application. It may be that there are some areas of Virtual Earth that already have high resolution images as default.”
Whatever. Just look at the results; you could plan a bank robbery with this thing!
You may have, by now, ascertained that I am an anorak about maps, but even if you’re not, there may still be something of interest here, especially if you are an American.
Looking over these images reminds me of when I first proposed to move to England (and remember, that was quite a flash decision) and decided to have a look at a street-level map to see what the place was like. As a typical American, I was surprised to find A) there were other countries in the world, B) they had maps, and C) they were different.
The graphics I pulled up on MapInfo back then showed me a land of curved roads and tightly packed houses. (There didn’t seem to be many straight roads in Britain and now that I live here I can attest to that fact. The Romans were the only inhabitants who built straight roads; the British just laid down tarmac on the cow paths). Marvelling over those English towns, so curiously curvy and cunningly compact, was an amazement, as well as a tantalizing glimpse into a far-away world.
I would expect that, like me, unless you are planning to up sticks and move abroad, you’re not likely to scour the web for aerial views of a Dutch town or an English country village, but I invite you to do so now. It’s interesting, honest.
And, if you care to, have a look at Virtual Horsham and the world I inhabit; you never know what this photographic clarity might reveal.
For instance, if you look closely at the flowerbed outside of flat 46 in Pelham Court, you might see a pair of orthopedic crutches. They’ve been there for a few weeks and cause me no end of curiosity. These aren’t the sort of accessories you casually mislay, even after your fifth pint of cider. And, having misplaced them, you’d think the owner would notice their absence. I can easily conjure a scenario where an inebriate with a gimpy knee decides to sleep it off in the flowerbed before continuing home to Broadbridge Heath, but when he woke up to continue his journey, wouldn’t it become quickly apparent he’d left his crutches behind, no matter how groggy he was?
Maybe he was picked up for public intoxication by some unobservant police, or, perhaps, is an unhappy participant in a cruel variation of Hide-and-Seek.
And speaking of police, you might, depending upon the date and time these photos were taken, see our local New York State Troop walking her beat around Shelly’s Fountain. That’s right, a NYS Trooper. I had to do a double take myself, as it seemed so natural when I first saw her.
There was little remarkable about her, just the fact that she happened to be a female trooper, but they aren’t unusual these days. She had the full gear: jacket with official insignias, trousers, cop shoes, hat and a well-appointed utility belt complete with the requisite 15″ Mag flashlight popularly used to convince unruly suspects to come along quietly.
“Hmm, a female State Trooper,” I thought when I saw her. Then I realize I was in England. My wife saw her, too, and we’ve seen her several times since. She has not been around lately, however, so maybe her beat has been switched to Southwater or, more likely, they have rescinded her weekend pass privileges.
Another item of interest (and one you might really be able to find) is the shot of my flat. The angle makes it impossible to see my balcony, but if you look carefully along the roofline you’ll see what I believe to be the tip of my flag. I realize no one else in the world could possibly recognize this bit of shadow for what it is, but I can take pride in the fact that, in this ground-breaking Internet experiment, the United States of America is, however minutely, being represented.
28 August 2007
Attack of the Killer Swans
Hold the Press!!!
The hilarious postings about our holiday in Dorset will have to wait a while, as I bring you news of national, nay, international, importance. Never mind global warming, oil shortages or wacko extremists, the real danger, it seems, comes in the form of imitation swans.
No, it’s true; read on:
Our town has a pleasingly diminutive shopping mall in its center. This mall is named Swan Walk Mall to commemorate The Swan Pub that was destroyed to make way for it, just as the pub, one must assume, was named for the swans it displaced. In 1990 a fetching bronze sculpture was placed in the central atrium, depicting three swans gliding in for a landing on a smooth plane of water, with tiny fountains squirting against the webbed feet and tail of the lead swan to give the illusion of movement.
It is a soothing and appropriate addition to the mall and for sixteen years people have been admiring it, milling around it or even standing next to it without once being killed, maimed or even happy-slapped by these placid figures. But lack of danger isn’t enough to fool the Health and Safety Enforcers; they have deemed the statue unsafe and it must go.
As a final act of lunacy, they have walled the statue off to keep the public away from the danger until they find a secure place to dump it.
Has anyone given a thought as to what this is going to mean to the mall? “Empty Space in the Central Atrium Mall” just doesn’t have the same ring as “Swan Walk Mall,” and if these stationary swans are such a danger, what about the real ones in Horsham park? Surely they should be rounded up and incarcerated, as well.
I’ve wandered by these stationary bronze swans hundreds of times and they have never done so much as tease me. The fact that there is no real threat is so achingly obvious that I can’t even ask, “Why?” What I want to know is, “Who are these people, these mysterious H&S Enforcers?”
It’s easy to blame a government agency; somehow, saying, “the Liberals made me do it,” or, “it’s the fault of the Conservatives,” absolves the average person of responsibility, but at some time, an actual, living, breathing and, ostensibly, thinking human being stood in front of that statue and told the Swan Walk Mall Manager that it was a danger and had to go.
Why didn’t the manager laugh in his face and tell him to piss off? Do these people have the ability to make your family disappear if you don’t agree with them? They must, for there is no other rational explanation as to why everyone keeps going along with their lunatic judgments.
For sixteen years it sat there not harming anyone but suddenly, because some bureaucrat snaps his fingers, the danger is so real and present that walls have to be immediately erected to keep the public safe. And everyone trips over each other in the rush to obey.
And that’s where the problem is, not in the weasely little bureaucrat–there will always be people who use public service to bolster their shattered self-esteem–but the people who unquestioningly go along with them.
For their part, H&S provided no real explanation (one would assume they don’t feel the need) outside of “environmental factors” and “to cut down on water usage.” These are smoke screens, not reasons; “environmental factors” doesn’t even mean anything, and as for water, we’re drowning in it at the moment; if that little trickle was really such a water waster they would have shut it off last year when we were being strangled by drought.
Clearly Armageddon is upon us, for common sense has been outlawed and the people who are in a position to exorcise it merely do what the H&S Enforcers tell them to do, then look into our slaw-jawed-with-disbelief faces and tell us they were only following orders when they should be taking a stand, or at lease posing some real questions.
But, it must be as I have surmised; that the H&S Enforcers can make life . . . difficult. Maybe people who don’t go along with them are find that their businesses are suddenly subject to unfortunate accidents, or maybe they are told about others who have disagreed and then disappeared. It actually gives me comfort to believe that, because the alternative is to admit that we are living among morons.
I prefer to think people are just spineless; spinelessness can be cured.
Addendum ( 1 Oct) :
The swans are gone.
I find myself strangely saddened and disappointed by this, more so than I would have anticipated. I suppose I allowed myself to believe that if enough people stood up to bureaucratic lunacy and said, “Stop the madness,” the voice of reason might slip through.
Well, we stood up in droves and screamed blue murder but the swans still came down. This is a sad day, not only for Horsham, but for all of us.
Ask not for whom the swans honk . . .
Addendum ( 2 Oct) :
The swans are back!!
Unbelievable as it seems, after an emergency meeting with the town council, the managers of Swan Walk Mall have agreed to reinstate the swans as part of the ongoing renovations.
Could this mean that the voice of reason actually won the day?
Quick Thinking by Health and Safety Enforcers Save Horsham Residents From Certain Death.
These sculptured swans, sitting in the middle of Swan Walk Mall for the past 16 years, may seem harmless, but Health and Safety Enforcers were not fooled one bit. They heroically ordered the obviously dangerous swans off of the premises, much to the relief of local residents.
Swimming to Banbury
21 July 2001
The last time I spent seven hours in a car travelling home from Birmingham it was due to wind. This time, it was rain.
For those of you who haven’t been paying attention, July has been a bit of a disappointment here in Britain. While last summer ushered in relentless sun, unprecedented 80-degree heat waves, water restrictions and an upsurge in doom-and-gloom predictions, this summer (which is more like an endless and unusually wet March) has brought with it relentless rain, unprecedented flooding and an upsurge in doom-and-gloom predictions. The only silver lining is, we haven’t been subject to water rationing yet.
This alerts us to two important truths: no mater what the weather, the British will complain about it; and travel in Britain, unless it is 60 degrees (15C), partly sunny with a light breeze, is going to be an ordeal.
During this particular day, the rain had been spectacularly copious, enthusiastic and tenacious. By the time we left, however, the downpour had dulled to a steady drizzle, so we harbored hopes of making it home by dinnertime.
We crawled out of the city and onto the motorway. After an hour, we had gone only one exit and made the decision to try our luck on the secondary roads, which were at least moving. In retrospect, this turned out to be a good idea; if we had crept past that exit, we would have ended up sitting stock still on the motorway for, well, I can’t really say, as this morning I am listening to news reports that some people are still there.
Having narrowly avoided being helplessly trapped on the motorway, we found ourselves hopelessly trapped on a network of unfamiliar country roads. Phone calls to loved ones and constant monitoring of the traffic line assured us that, if we could escape the midlands and make it as far south as Banbury, we might actually be home before morning. Problem was, every road was under water. We would drive along, our hopes soaring as we reached speeds of up to forty miles an hour, only to come up against a solid block of cars and the unwelcome sight of tarmac disappearing beneath murky water, leaving us no choice but to turn around and try our luck elsewhere.
This strategy eventually found us traversing roads no wider than a garden path in an area where meaningful signs were few and correlations with our map non-existent. In addition to seeing some fabulous scenery, we ended up driving in circles and occasionally up farm tracks. At the end of another hour, we were no closer to our objective.
Now, you might think this would sour me on England, but in fact, it endears the place to me even more. This wasn’t an exercise in futility so much as it was a challenge, a battle between man and nature, pitting wit and a Vauxhall Estate Car against the rising flood water. And we weren’t the only ones playing. As we meandered our way from Warwick to Southam to Daventry, making U-turns at washed out roads and at the end of lanes that turned out to be driveways, we began to recognize other cars bearing bewildered yet determined drivers who grimly inched by us toward the farmstead we had just turned around at, or had pulled to the side of the road to consult maps and plan their next angle of attack. I felt a kinship with these people; we were a brotherhood, a happy few not content to sit on the motorway accepting our fate. We would not go quietly into that good night but rage, rage against the rising of the water.
True, we weren’t getting anywhere, but at least we were moving.
Eventually there came that giddy moment when we found ourselves on a road that would lead us into Banbury. The way seemed clear and, as we were actually heading south, we felt we had left the worst of it behind us. Naturally, we came to yet another traffic jam.
By now, upon seeing backed-up traffic, people were immediately turning around, like rats trapped in an endless maze. But we knew we had checked every other possible route and, if we couldn’t get through here, we would be spending the night. So we pressed onward and chatted with a few people at the water’s edge. They were of the same mind we were; this was our last chance. So we dove in.
We weren’t actually crossing a river, mind you, just passing by a largish field that had filled up with water and was passing it to another largish, but slightly lower, field on the other side of the road. The result was a huge swath of road covered in up to two feet of muddy, rushing water. Fortunately, we were in a formidable vehicle; my little Daewoo would have been swept away.
I put my window down so I could snap some photos, but when water started splashing over the gunwales I was forced to batten down the hatches. The water stretched on a lot further than we thought it would but, luckily for us, the land rose instead of dipping and we made it safely to the far shore.
From there we achieved Banbury and the M40, which was, as promised, free from flooding and massive traffic jams. It was now eight thirty; we still had two hours to go and had driven a total of 41 miles in five hours. We were tired, hungry and mentally exhausted.
But we weren’t beaten.
That’s Not Cricket
14 July 2007
Global warming my ass! It’s the 6th of July, I’m sitting in the sun watching my first game of cricket (how very English) and the only thing I can think is, “I wish I brought my scarf and gloves.” At least the rain, which has been constant since the middle of May, has stopped long enough to keep this from being a thoroughly miserable experience.
And quite an experience it is; I’m surrounded by cricket aficionados and have learned more about cricket in the past hour than in the previous 52 years. The two main truths this belated enlightenment has enabled me to comprehend are these: cricket is nothing like baseball, and what I’m watching really isn’t cricket.
Let’s start with the easy one: American’s tend to think of cricket as British baseball because it’s their national sport and involves a bat, but that’s as far as it goes (and even that’s a stretch, as anyone who has seen a cricket bat will attest to). For you Americans–and the substantial number of Brits who could give a toss about cricket–allow me to throw out a few confusing facts:
— In cricket, one person bats but two people run
— They don’t actually have to run when the ball is hit
— They can run if the ball isn’t hit
— The ball isn’t pitched, it’s bowled
— A strike means the ball has been hit, not missed
— The object is not to strike out the batter but to knock a few bits of wood off of some sticks
So, as you can see, cricket resembles baseball in the same way a squirrel resembles a rat; four paws and a tail doesn’t always guarantee you’ll be hand-fed in the park. And that being said, what I’m watching now is to real cricket what Arena Football is to the NFL.
Real cricket games take, literally, days. The “20/20” game currently taking place is, sad to say, another American-influenced perversion of the traditional British way of life. It’s fast-paced, exciting and devoid of all the stodgy trappings and strategic nuances that make cricket such an acquired taste. Real cricket, I am told, involves picnicking on the lawn on a summer’s day, drinking Pimms, reading the newspaper, and chatting with your friends while the cricket goes on pointlessly in the background.
Here, it’s almost like watching an American baseball game, except it’s more exciting. The pitching and batting — excuse me, bowling and striking — is practically non-stop and anytime anything remotely interesting happens, rock music blares from the speakers and everyone cheers. All we need is a Wurlitzer playing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” and I’d feel right at home.
Another disappointment is, these games don’t feature players wearing the traditional whites. Instead, they have home and away colors, like an American football team, and merchandising is playing a larger role. It’s sad, and oddly enough, I am feeling a tug of nostalgia for a game I have never seen and a tradition I have never experienced; maybe it’s the beer.
One has to hope that, somewhere in Britain, staid conservatism will prevail and … hold on, here comes a Mexican wave … now, where was I? Oh yes, conservative values, being true to the English way of life, and all that.
What’s this? Cheerleaders! They are putting cheerleaders out on the field during half time? Actually, they look more like a color-coordinated pack of bewildered teenagers, and there’s only four of them. How are they supposed to make a pyramid? Good God, they’re dancing with a guy dressed up as a Shark to a Scissors Sister’s song. It’s like they’re trying to pretend to be Americans but can’t quite figure out how.
Now I am depressed. In the States, these girls would be laughed off the field; here, everyone just seems to be ignoring them, the way they would politely ignore a guest at a dinner party who is making a spectacle of himself.
Cheerleaders in Britain? That’s just not cricket.
The Nadir of My Existence
03 July 2007
Let me preface this by saying I’m in Wales, but that’s not the reason tonight is the low point in my existence. Wales may have unpredictable weather and sketchy phone and TV reception, but it’s not really their fault that I have just had the saddest conversation of my entire life. In fact, I’m in Llandrindod Wells, a town I truly love to visit and in which I have had some memorable times.
Take, for example, the night two summers ago when a colleague and I were guests of the local police at 12:30 in the morning.
My colleague, (let’s call him Paul, because, well, that’s his name), and I were sampling the ambiance of the pubs on the other side of the railroad tracks when a bit of a barny occurred. A rowdy patron was being encouraged to leave and he wasn’t having it at all, so we thought it was high time to sneak out the side door. In the parking lot, Rowdy Patron had been ejected via the front door and was now hammering on the window with his fists, screaming that he wanted his beer.
Well, the window broke and the glass did what glass has a habit of doing but it didn’t slow him down a bit. In fact, he turned to us, bellowed, “What the hell are you looking at?” and came loping in our direction, leaking copious amounts of blood from each arm.
Now, Paul is over six feet tall and, while I’m only five foot five, I’m in good shape. This guy wasn’t big and, in addition to being grievously wounded, was so drunk a three-year-old could have knocked him over. So we did the only thing two brave men could do–we ran like a couple of school girls.
Rowdy Patron came shambling after us like Frankenstein’s Monster but eventually crumpled into a heap on the sidewalk, still leaking and cursing and flailing. Unfortunately, his girlfriend, who was much more scary than he was, inserted herself into the equation. Fortunately, so did the police, the ambulance, fire department and a bevy of curious customers from the pub. Incredibly, Rowdy Patron continued to wrestle with the authorities until his girlfriend sat on him to subdue him.
Being good citizens, Paul and I approached the police and told them we had witnessed the entire event and would be happy to give a statement. They said they’d be happy to hear our stories and would be in touch. Then, without telling them how to find us, we wandered away
Several bars later, after we had nearly forgotten about the event, the police came in and sat next to us. We had just ordered pints and immediately set them aside and made ready to go with the officers.
“Don’t rush,” they told us, “finish your pints.”
You have to love a country that officially acknowledges the priority of a beer.
While we drank and chatted I asked how they had located us.
“It wasn’t hard,” they said, “we asked around for an American bloke who smoked cigars. You weren’t difficult to find.”
When we finished our pints we were treated to a ride in the squad car to the police station where we taken to separate rooms to give our statements. In true eyewitness fashion, we completely contradicted each other and our testimony was practically useless, but the senior officer and I spent a diverting half hour discussing fingerprinting techniques and admiring the station’s identification paraphernalia.
Now, you might think that was the saddest conversation I could have ever had, but tonight’s was worse. Tonight, you see, is the season finale of CSI, and I’m missing it.
It surprises even me that I care so much, but I do. I’ve been following the story arc for three seasons and tonight is the big climax. When I found I was going to be in Wales, I made sure I booked a hotel that got channel 5. But when I turned on the TV in my room, all I got was snow.
Naturally, I panicked. I told the front desk and they checked out my TV but could do nothing with it. They even checked other empty rooms for me in case one got channel 5 and they could transfer me there. Alas, it was all for naught. When all avenues had been pursued to dead ends I lamented to the desk clerk:
“I’m in the middle of Wales, I’m all by myself with nothing to keep me company except CSI and you’re telling me that you usually get it, but tonight, for some reason, it won’t come in.”
She shrugged. This is Wales; it happens sometimes. Then the other clerk perked up.
“Do you think they’re really going to kill Sarah off? They can’t do that, can they?”
“I’d don’t know,” I said, “They’re not really into happy endings these days.”
“That’s right, they killed off Kate in NCIS. I couldn’t believe it. And the new girl they got to replace her isn’t nearly as good.”
“Oh, and did you see the last episode? Gibbs left!”
“Yes,” she said, “but he’s back this season.”
“No!”
“Yes. I have Sky TV. I’ve seen it.”
It was then I realized that, without sinking to a lower form of life, it would be impossible for me to engage in a more inane conversation. So I’m now at the hotel bar (the only bar I have ever been in that doesn’t have a TV), surrounded by people speaking every language but English and wondering how I ended up in such a sorry state.
Maybe I’ll take a walk down to the police station and see if they want to chat about forensic identification again.
Appropriate Attire
28 June 2007
No, this posting isn’t about the scantily clad teenagers on the High Street, it’s from an oft-repeated saying (“There’s no such thing as bad weather, just inappropriate attire”) that has taken on new depths of meaning recently.
Firstly, the weather has been miserable lately; the rain has been coming down like a cow pissing on a flat rock, and it’s colder than the look my mom gave my dad the year he bought her an electric carving knife for Christmas. Secondly, more of us are spending additional quality time with the weather these days as the new smoking ban kicks in.
I’ve already expressed my views concerning the government’s role in telling people how to live their lives so I’m not going to do it again. What I would like to point out, however, is the impact this new law is having on non-smokers.
In California, New York and elsewhere, these laws have come into effect and smokers have grumbled and eventually gotten on with their lives while the non-smokers beamed sanctimoniously and unsuccessfully hid their self-congratulatory smirks beneath their nicotine-free hands. (But I digress.) What I mean to say is, the laws were passed and it was agreed that after a set time no one would be allowed to smoke in specified places. There were some introductory bumps but mostly everything went relatively smoothly and without a lot of fuss. You’d think, with smoking bans being so tres chic, it would be a snap to impose one.
Think again.
There are places here that have never allowed smoking, places that have had “No Smoking” signs up for ages, places where it has been illegal to smoke since anyone can remember; you’d think these places wouldn’t have to give the opening date of The Ban a thought except to know when to organize their parties. But unless they all have the official “No Smoking” signs up in the correct location, as outlined in the official government-issue “No Smoking” regulations, on the first of July, they will be subject to hefty fines.
This means that you can be a non-smoker, who is not smoking a cigarette, standing in a non-smoking building where smoking has never been allowed and which has a No Smoking sign hanging on the wall and still be found in violation of the Non-Smoking laws. And if you happen to own that building, you’ll be subject to a £1,000 fine. If someone wanders in holding a lit fag, you’ll be facing £2,500 in penalties.
When I mentioned to my wife about how much bother instituting a smoking ban in England seems to be in comparison to other places she said, “We used to run an Empire; we know bureaucracy.”
And that they do. There’s enough misinformation about the smoking laws floating around that I’ve already witnessed several pub arguments over nuisances in the legislation. And this was between non-smokers.
How a country can take something as simple as saying, “Sorry, you can’t smoke here” and make such a hash of it that it is upsetting the people it’s supposed to be benefiting is beyond me. But at least this might keep them from crowing too loudly.
After all, I don’t want people snickering at me just because I have to smoke outside.
Under The Wire
16 June 2007
Some time ago I read a Bill Bryson book where he recounts his entry into, and decision to remain in, Britain. This was around the time I was graduating from high school and back then, unless there is more to his story than he is telling, it seems you could decide to live in the UK simply because you happened to like it here.
I wonder, in the years that followed, as the walls went up and the bouncers appeared at the gates, if Mr. Bryson didn’t thank his lucky stars that he made it in before they pulled up the ladder.
By the time I arrived, this welcome to the UK had turned into a grudging admission, but at least they let me in. And at this point, I am thanking my own lucky stars that I got here before they slammed the door and threw the latch.
When I arrive, just five years ago, you didn’t need a fiancée visa, although they were strongly recommended. I simply arrived, got married, applied for my “Further Leave to Remain” and then, a year later, was granted my “Indefinite Leave to Remain.” And that was it. I must have had to pay a fee for these visas but it couldn’t have been much because I don’t remember how much it was, and if it had been a significant amount, you can bet I’d remember it.
These days, if you attempt to sneak into the country without a fiancée visa, they’ll deport you, and the fee for that visa is currently £500 (that’s $1,000 to you Americans). “Leave to Remain” has gone up to £395 and “Indefinite Leave to Remain” is at £750. In addition to this, you have to take the Life In The UK test (£40, not counting the books). While I don’t necessarily object to the test—and I have to admire the naked disclosure of the Home Office that the primary reason for it is to make sure you can speak English—what they are essentially saying is that they only want well-heeled English speakers coming to Britain.
I’m not suggesting I wouldn’t have moved here if they had demanded $3,400 for the privilege (my wife, after all, is worth every penny) but I’m just as glad I got here on the cheap.
The next thing they are considering is mandatory community service. That’s right, if you want to settle here, you’ll have to do a set number of hours of neighbourhood charity work first. I think, coupled with the rise in entry fees and the “How Well Can You Speak English” test, there might be a backlash against this particular idea. Wealthy people are not fond of donning orange jumpsuits and picking up candy wrappers and dog poop in the local park. Community service smacks too much of the penal system for their taste and the type of people they are apparently trying to attract to Britain won’t be very good at it unless they’ve had a chance to practice while doing time on an embezzlement rap in their home country.
Personally, I used to be opposed to the Community Service requirement, but now that I’m a citizen I realize the advantage of a free workforce and how important it is to keep our standards up. If you want to live here so badly, you won’t mind getting up close and personal with the local landfill.
Besides, the place could do with a bit of tidying up.
Where else can you walk into town to buy a latch for your bathroom door and spontaneously run across this calibre of entertainment?
Little Things II
08 June 2007
After last week’s article, I thought it only fair to give the US equal time before getting back to our regularly scheduled posts.
I must confess that most of my writings over these past few years have favored the UK. Having arrived in a shiny, new country, it’s easy to spot all the things that are better than what you left behind and, as the UK was sort of like a foster child, it was prudent to behave as if I loved it best. Now that the foster child has been officially adopted (a more apt analogy of my taking up citizenship here might be the marrying a long-time mistress, but that would make me a Mormon) I can safely point out that, in addition to being seen by many as a big, mean ogre run by a war-mongering lunatic, the US has many fine qualities.
So, here is a list of some of the little things I no longer see, hear or experience during my daily routine due to my emigration from America, and which, if I still had them, would make my life here just a little bit better:
– Boston Market: God’s perfect food.
– Chipmunks: Smaller, cuter and less obnoxious than the ubiquitous grey squirrel.
– Thunderstorms: No, I mean real thunderstorms, with torrential rain, hail the size of marbles and cracks of lightening so close by you can smell the ozone.
– Rueben sandwiches: Granted, I had to go to NYC for a good one, but since no one’s heard of them here, I still have to go to NYC to get one.
– Monarch Butterflies: No milkweed equals no monarch caterpillars equals an island bereft of these beautiful creatures.
– Manned Space Flight: Where do all your astronauts live? Oh, sorry, I forgot; you don’t have any. (I had to be careful with the wording here because there actually is a British Space Agency, but it is EU-based, its budget is less than 3% of NASA’s and they don’t send up people.)
– Cheap Cigars: £12 ($24) for a Vegas Robaina! I want to smoke it, not frame it.
– Humming Birds: The only bird that can hover and fly backwards and the British don’t have any.
– All-You-Can-Eat Chinese Buffet: Sure, there’s a Chinese Take-Away on every corner (right next to the Kebab shop) but it doesn’t compare to sitting down to a plate piled high with a dozen or so personally selected Chinese/American delicacies and then going back for more.
– The Weather Channel: It remains a mystery how a nation so obsessed with weather has failed to provide a 24-hour weather channel.
– Pencil Sharpeners: Every time I mention this, I am assured by those around me that the United Kingdom is teeming with all manner of pencil sharpeners, but I have yet to see one; maybe the badgers have them all. I recently asked a co-worker if we had any pencil sharpeners in the office and he replied, “No; when a pencil gets dull I just thrown it away.” I’m still not sure if he was joking. (NOTE: This situation is sure to turn around soon as my wife, upon reading this, remarked she now knows what to get me for Christmas.)
– The Big Gulp: Like the revolver in your night stand, you know you’re never likely to need it, but it’s a comfort knowing it’s there if you do.
– My Balcony: In the US, my balcony comfortably held a small storage unit, my bicycle, a barbecue, a round picnic table with four chairs and a chaise longue; in the UK it holds a folding chair.
– Front Porches: Granted, the place I lived in when I left the States did not have a porch, but I had lived in places that had them and hoped to again. The front porch is an American Icon, and there is nothing quite like a porch for lounging on during hot afternoons in the company of good friends and a case of ice-cold beer.
– Koozies: Sort of a foam rubber condom for a beer bottle to keep your beer cold. They aren’t needed in the UK but I was never without one in the States.
– Parking: In the US, when I drove somewhere, anywhere, there was always a place to put my car once I arrived. Mostly for free.
– A Decent Bagel: Reputedly, there are (or were) good bagels in north London, but that has yet to be proven. Good bagels in the US used to be limited to NYC but thanks to the seasonal influx of JAPs (Jewish-American Princess) to the SUNY-Albany campus, NYC bagels eventually became commonplace in Upstate NY. The ones they sell in Waitrose are crap.
– Doorknobs: They have latches and handles here, but no doorknobs. No one knows why.
– 110 Current: The plugs they have on the electric wires coming out of your coffee pot, laptop computer, table lamp or what-have-you look like the ones we have in the US for plugging in our electric stoves. Give me a compact, easy to store plug any day.
We have now achieved balance, and both my adopted country and the land of my birth have come away looking fairly attractive, if I do say so myself. And it’s nice to discover that all I really need to be happy is a koozie, a Reuben sandwich and a reasonably priced cigar.
Little Things
03 June 2007
Considering the number of times people ask me, “What do you find different about living in England?” you’d think I might have formulated some sort of intelligent answer by now, a mini-comedy routine, perhaps, that I could launch into anytime the question arose. But in fact, I am always taken by surprise, and left fumbling for an answer that isn’t screamingly obvious, such as driving on the wrong side of the road, better weather or listening to Natasha Kaplinsky read the evening news instead of Katie Couric.
I used to respond to that question with, “Everything,” which is perhaps the most accurate answer, but when pressed for details I always came up short. The problem is, the big differences—like the accents and the remarkable and welcomed absence of billboards—blend into the scenery after a time, and the little things—such as diminutive teaspoons, huge plugs on electric appliances and Costa Coffee franchises—become lost amid the minutiae of everyday life.
To counter this, I thought I’d list some of the little things that I see, hear or experience during my daily routine that would not be there if I still lived in America:
– Thatched cottages: yes, they are as quaint as you think
– Canal boats: there are more canals in Birmingham than in Venice (yeah, me too)
– Radio theatre and game shows on BBC radio: after five years, I still have not gotten the hang of British radio, I only listen to it when my wife turns it on
– The Daily Mail: as mentioned in the Beatles’ song, “Paperback Writer”
– Actually being in Banbury Cross: you know, that place you ride the Cock horse to
– Likewise, Drury lane: though sad to say, the muffin man no longer lives there
– Hedgerows: right up there with thatched cottages in terms of traditional, English countryside quaintness
– Electric kettles: an oddity in American, a basic necessity here
– Holly bushes: I never saw one in the States, but here they grow like weeds
– Celsius: just try to get an intelligible temperature reading, or explain to someone what 75 degrees Fahrenheit means
– Round tea bags with no strings: the Brits are pros when it comes to tea, strings are for wimps
– Wellington Boots: what would you do without your wellies?
– Pedestrian paths: the first thing about Britain that I fell in love with, they have special places for pedestrians to walk where cars can’t go
– Right of way: pedestrian paths that run through other people’s back yards and they can’t do a thing about it
– Soccer balls: they’re everywhere, and even young girls can manoeuvre them around better than I ever could
– Gum on the sidewalks, roads, pedestrian areas, bus station floors . . .: the young people here chew gum on an Olympic level, and have never been told what a trash can is for.
– Bureau de Change: there’s one on every corner here; I’ve never seen one in the US, but then, why would you need one?
– Radio Times: in order to find out what’s showing on the telly, you have to look in The Radio Times—don’t ask me, it’s a British thing.
– Train Spotters: They’re the guys standing at the end of the train platforms with a notebook, camera, thermos of tea and a marked lack of social skills
So there you have it; England at a glance. I still won’t be able to list any next time someone asks me, but at least I’ll be able to point them toward this website.
Welcome Home
12 May 2007
Having returned from our stay in Edinburgh, I immediately began experiencing holiday flashbacks.
Upon arrival in Horsham the first thing I did was leave on a business trip to Birmingham. As I checked into the Travel Inn I found the room startlingly, though perhaps not surprisingly, identical to the Travel Inn I had just left in Edinburgh. I realize these are cookie-cutter motels but the exacting detail gave me a strange feeling of déjà vu.
No sooner did I return home when—while walking through the market square on Saturday morning—we were greeted by the sound of bagpipes. Turns out I hadn’t slipped thorough a time/space fissure but had merely stumbled upon our town’s Annual Day Of Dance.
The Day Of Dance, despite being a yearly occurrence, never fails to take us by surprise, and it’s always an unexpected pleasure to find the town center turned into a colorful jumble of Morris Men, Magogs, cloggers, and various folk dancers, all banging sticks, clacking heels and waving scarves to a cacophony of folksy instruments (as well as the occasional bagpipe).
On this day, you can’t swing a faggot (and before you start scrambling for the Civil Liberties Union’s phone number, that means a bundle of sticks, or a tasty meat ball traditionally made from pig heart, liver and fatty bacon, minced together with herbs and breadcrumbs) without hitting someone dressed in rags, jingle-bells and a funny hat. I don’t know if these festivals take place in any of the surrounding towns, but I know they didn’t happen in Clifton Park, so it’s always a treat to discover that the dancers have arrived.
(NOTE: Currently, human sacrifice is discouraged outside of Wales.)
If you’ve never seen a Morris Dance, it’s impossible to describe. It’s also impossible not to watch them for any length of time and not come to realize that, while the fanciful Irish and Scottish folk dances have their roots in more recent times, the Morris Dances—though admittedly sillier—seem authentically rooted in the pagan past. How or why they were handed down to the present generation I’ll never know, but that’s only because I’m too lazy to bother looking it up; I expect there is a plethora of information out there just waiting to be mined.
But whatever the reason, I’m just grateful they migrate to Horsham once a year, and that I am here to enjoy them, and, most of all, that our local butcher sells faggots.
Advice to Americans: Save your Money; Stay Home
22 April 2007
A little known fact surrounding my serendipitous trip to Ireland (you know, the one that started this whole adventure) is that I was originally planning to visit England. In truth, of all the available unvisited foreign countries, England was top on my list of the ones I wanted to go to. So strong was this desire (I think it had something to do with the land of my fathers calling me home) I convinced the travel agent to book my flight to Shannon via London Heathrow. The agency, naturally, assumed me to be crazy, but a crazy man with money still means a commission so I was granted my forty-seven minute layover in England, giving me just enough time to sprint from one terminal to the next and snap a quick photo out the window of dawn breaking over the runway apron.
The reason I didn’t stay? It was too expensive.
The planning phase of my great adventure saw me side-tracked to Ireland as soon as I realized how much a hotel in London cost. The exchange rate between the dollar and the pound stood at 100-pound notes for 150 US Dollars in those days, which meant a holiday expenditure of around $500 a day. This was more than enough to convince me to vacation elsewhere.
I’m sorry to say, the exchange rate has grown steadily worse since then, to the point where, as of this morning, a US dollar will only buy you 49 pence. The most shocking news of all, however, is that a US dollar will only buy you 73 Euro pennies, so diverting to practically any location in continental Europe isn’t going to gain you any advantage in the monetary exchange department. (You can still get a hell of a deal in Venezuela, however, where 1 dollar will net you 2144.6 Bolivars.)
My advice, then, is to stay home. You’ll find better value for your money at Disney World than Euro Disney, and I hear Mount Rushmore is more impressive than Stonehenge anyway. The only problem you may encounter in vacationing domestically are all the foreigners visiting the States to take advantage of the weakened dollar.
Imagine you and your family sharing a single room at the Motel 6 while, down the road a ways, an Eastern European family has booked into the penthouse at the Hilton exclaiming, “Only 35 Euros for this!” And you’ll have to put up with seeing British tourists dine on sirloin steaks while you’re eating the chicken special, and then watch them pay with $100 bills, telling the waiter, “Keep the change, it’s only worth twelve pounds fifty.”
Economists expect the dollar to recover eventually, and I can only hope they’re right. Never mind what a second-rate America will mean to the economic well-being of the world community and the far-reaching consequences this will have on the balance of power, think of how it’s affecting me. My retirement income is tied up in America. If you people don’t pull your socks up, get off your collective asses and do some productive work, for pity’s sake, I’m going to retire on a pauper’s income. On the other hand, if I liquidate all the assets I’ve acquired here and move back to America, I’ll be a millionaire, so it may not matter either way.
On the other hand, after I can finally give up work, I’d rather spend what time I have left visiting the Louver and the Coliseum, not the New York State Museum of Cheese and the World’s Largest Ball of Twine.
High Street Hussies
15 April 2007
My rule of thumb, when it comes to women’s fashion is: “if you are too young to cross the street without holding your mother’s hand, then you are too young to be dressed as a harlot.”
Maybe this is becoming more prominent, or maybe I’m just turning into an old curmudgeon, but it seems to me more and more parents are happy to tart up their pre-teens as if they are budding streetwalkers. Is it really that difficult to get by on dole payments these days?
I don’t recall things being quite so bad in the US when I was there but I can’t vouch for the way things might be now. You may be ahead of us for all I know, but I tend to doubt it; surely you’d be drawing in more tourism if that were the case.
Nothing good can come from this behavior. For the parents, it means buying overly expensive clothing (and, one must hope, added anxiety about what their single-digit daughters are up to), for the children it means the truncating of their childhood (you youngsters will never agree with me on this but wait until you’re my age, cupcake, then you’ll wish you had another year or two of blissful, childhood innocence) and for us old folks, it means premature heart attacks (not from lust, but from grumbling about it). The only winners here are the shops on the High Street and, 11-year-old boys and, sad to say, paedophiles.
With our summers becoming longer, sunnier and hotter, this trend can only become worse as fewer and fewer body parts are deemed worthy of clothing. You’d think, in this weather, they’d want to cover up to avoid sunstroke.
I realize seeing a child dressed that way gives people no right to assume anything about her, but an American comedian has come up with an appropriate come-back for girls who are insulted by the assumptions made about them:
“Suppose I put on a policeman’s uniform and someone runs up to me and says a guy is being mugged on the next block and I should do something about it. Does that give me to right to be outraged and exclaim, ‘Just because I’m dressed this way what gives you the right to assume I’m a policeman?'”
“You might not be a whore, but you’re wearing a whore’s uniform.”
If you’ll excuse me, I have to go hunt up my blinders; we’re going to sit in the park to enjoy the nice weather and I don’t want to be distracted.
Happy Anniversary
1 March 2007
For some reason, I am keenly aware that this day–1 March–marks the advent of my tenure in the British Isles. In previous years, this anniversary has come and gone unnoticed, but when I saw the date this morning, the idea of today being special entered my mind and refused to leave.
Five years ago yesterday, I was still living in America; today, I’m half a decade in Britain. I don’t know that this has gained me much more than the ability to say things like, “spot on” or “trousers” with impunity and a total lack of irony. Aside from this–and the obvious perk of being happily married–has leaving the land of my birth and taking up residence in a country where Marshmallow Fluff is still a novelty and air conditioning is considered a luxury item provided me with any real advantage?
In general, it’s broadened my worldview, opened me up to new experiences and helped correct many misconceptions I never even knew I had. But more specifically, and, perhaps more beneficially, I can now better comprehend the lyrics of the Kinks song, “Come Dancing.”
I’ve always liked the Kinks, and always regarded “Come Dancing” as a catchy tune with a bittersweet story. Oddly enough, it never occurred to me (mostly because it never occurred to me to think about it) that The Kinks were English. If I had, perhaps the nuances of the song wouldn’t have escaped me so thoroughly.
In my erstwhile world, the young narrator and his older sister were living in upper-middleclass America. She liked to dance and flirt. They had a garden, with a gate, something I imagined only very wealthy people could afford. If I had let my imagination wander, I expect I would have given them a pool boy and gardeners, as well. The sad demise of the dance hall saw it turning into a ‘Car Hop’–a 50’s style burger joint. The sister eventually married a rich man (possibly an architect or State Senator) who took her away to live on an ‘estate.’
But thanks to disrupting my entire existence and moving to another hemisphere (well, almost; it’s only 15 miles away) I now know, not only where the Eastern Hemisphere begins, but that what I thought was ‘Car Hop’ is actually ‘Car Park,’ which means a parking lot. Also, the ‘estate’ the sister moved into was probably inhabited by more than her and her husband and the servants. An ‘estate,’ in American terms, is an apartment complex, traditionally for people on housing benefit (but not always). And a ‘garden’ is simply a lawn, in their case probably a tiny patch of scruffy grass with a gate opening onto the sidewalk.
No rich youngsters playing at a Dance Hall that was subsequently turned into a burger joint, these were working class kids, watching their favorite form of escapism being turned into a parking lot.
This may seem obvious to you, but it took several years of living here before it finally twigged. (You people living in America who got it the first time around, shut it, okay? Just gloat quietly about how much smarter you are than I am, and how much money you saved by not having to do what I did just to understand a few lines from a song.)
So, the answer–to return to my original, self-imposed query–is, I genuinely feel a better person for having been afforded the opportunity of living in another country.
While I don’t recommend this for everybody (expatriation is not for the faint of heart) I do recommend a visit. You should, really; it’s quite lovely here. But I won’t try to convince you; I think Kristy MacColl more eloquently expressed the virtues of vacationing in Sussex or Hampshire over, say, Vermont or Maine, when she sang, “I’m not looking for New England.”
I guess you have to live here to get it.
Odds and Ends
01 January 2007
When, for the 100th time this afternoon, I saw a young woman wearing low-slung jeans, halter-top and a surplus stone and a half flopping over her studded, leather belt, two thoughts simultaneously vied for the attention of my residual, active brain cells.
The first was, this is not appropriate weather for such attire and she was likely to catch her death (from the look of her, a chest cold would certainly be fatal); but this is due more to my age than current fashions and is not the subject of this entry’s discussion.
The other thought was, I first noticed this phenomenon back in 2003, and even wrote it down in my idea file (a rambling document I tote around with me containing helpful observations such as “Americans don’t like the mention of masturbation, probably because it’s such an ugly word; but in the UK it’s referred to as ‘wanking,’ which has a friendlier, more approachable sound,” or the enigmatic “Public Toilets”). Unfortunately, I never got around to using it in an article, and now it has become so universally acknowledged they even have a name for it – ‘Muffin Top.’
So, in an effort to keep my remaining observational nuggets from going stale (or becoming obsolete, as in “Thongs, what do you do when they ride up your butt?” now that thongs are, like, so last year) I thought I’d better roll them out now while I still have the opportunity.
— Do you know they have no Girl Scout Cookies here? They have Girl Scouts but, having worked in the same office for four years and not once having a co-worker approach me with the familiar green and white form to guilt me into ordering several overpriced boxes of mediocre confections (HINT: buy the Thin Mints and the S’mors), it occurs to me that the cookie facet of Girl Scouting is simply not part of the British experience, and leads me to wonder how the Girl Scouts obtain their funding (is there that big a market for crocheted pot holders and bottle-cap place mats?).
— Also, there are no skating rinks here – ice or otherwise (or, at least, none that I’ve found). Last winter, the town erected a temporary ice skating rink and one evening we took a walk to check it out. It turned out to be a small area covered in a special, hard plastic that enabled a throng of squealing children to bump into each other as they pretended to skate around on it. Now, I realize the climate doesn’t exactly lend itself to authentic ice rinks, but surely the British have mastered the science of refrigeration by now.
— Roller rinks I can understand. Land is scarce here and roller rinks would have to charge £1,500 a head to turn a profit on real estate the council could build three blocks of flats, a parade of shops and an off-license on. In America, it’s not hard to justify covering a hectare of land under a corrugated sheet metal box, paving it with polished maple boards and installing a Wurlitzer organ simply for the pleasure of strapping on a pair of quad speed skates and racing around in circles until you’re ready to throw up.
— They do have the ‘Hokey Pokey’ here, but they call it the ‘Hokey Cokey’ and they do it all wrong. They get their left hand in, and their left hand out all right, but after that it’s a whole different song and unfamiliar dance. Be aware of this if you’re ever invited to a British wedding reception.
— Speaking of, they do know the ‘Chicken Dance’ here, but the law of the land does not actually require it to be played at every wedding reception, as in the US. The Brits call it ‘The Birdie Dance’ but beyond that, it is pretty much the same, so when you hear the familiar music, don’t be afraid to get up and join the circle. (Incidentally, the original name of the song was Der Ententanz – The Duck Dance – and it was composed by Werner Thomas, a Swiss accordion player in 1963.)
— Japanese beetles and Monarch Butterflies are also among the missing. I miss the butterflies.
— While living in America, I was introduced to Mimosas, a drink first served to me during a brunch at the Gideon Putnam hotel in Saratoga. This was a very elegant affair and the Mimosa, by association, a sophisticated drink. Here in the UK, a Mimosa – orange juice and champagne – is called Buck’s Fizz; it’s sold, pre-mixed, for five quid a bottle and is considered rather common.
I suppose I’ll end here; I’ve managed to tick a couple of items off of my idea list and can now concentrate on fresher observations.
By the way, they do have ‘Odds and Ends’ here, but they call them ‘Bits and Bobs.’
