Risky Business

When people ask me whether I am willing to take a risk, I tell them that I am very risk averse. I am one of those annoying people who spend ages making decisions in order to minimise risk (that's according to Mrs PM anyway).

Recently, however, I read an article that may have changed my opinion of myself.

The article states that the average Briton takes ten risks a week. As I read the headline, I wondered who these amazing people were. Logically, because I am so risk averse and rarely take any risks at all, there must be thousands of my fellow countrymen who hurl themselves into risk filled situations every single day of the week.

I wanted to know what these people did. I imagined that some of them threw themselves out of aircraft, climbed mountains without the aid of a safety net or asked a policeman if his head was shaped like his helmet.

I wanted to know these people.

And then I read the article.

Foreigners may think that British people are boring stuffy people who keep a stiff upper lip and tut loudly when somebody pushes to the front of a queue. If this article is true then the boring description is also true.

Of the 40 typical “risks” that Britons take, I take 35 of them on a regular basis.

35!!

You may now consider me to be some kind of daredevil, a man who laughs in the face of fear, messes up the hair of terror and pulls down the trousers of danger.

You may think I am Superman on steroids!

You are wrong.

Here are just five of the so-called “risks” in the list.

Turning up at the cinema without a ticket.

Staying up until after 11pm on a work night.

Leaving the house without an umbrella or coat.

Leaving the house with wet hair.

Pressing the snooze button on the alarm.

Are these risks?

Really?

Now I think the opposite. If I am risk averse (and I am) then there must be people living in the United Kingdom who do absolutely nothing, people who always leave the house with a coat no matter how warm it is outside.

“I don’t care whether the weatherman said it will be hot and sunny all day; this is Britain – it’s bound to rain.”

I have to ask myself how these so-called experts came to this conclusion. I don’t recall being phoned up by a mad market researcher and asked a bunch of stupid questions to determine what kind of weirdo I am. I can only imagine the conversation:

PM: Hello.

Market Researcher: Do you go outside without a coat at least once a week?

PM: What?

Market Researcher: Do you go outside without a coat once a week? Or maybe you go out with wet hair?

PM: WHAT??

Market Researcher: I’m sorry. I just want to find out how risk averse you are.

PM: I’m very risk averse. Who are you again?

Market Researcher: A market research assistant. How do you feel about going to a restaurant without booking a table first? 

PM: I do all of those things.

Market Researcher: Wow! I’ve called Superman. And I’ll bet you drink coffee just before you go to bed.

PM: Sometimes, why?

Market Researcher: (muffled) This is GREAT! Hey chaps – I’ve got a great one here. What? No – I’ll bet he doesn’t do that.

PM: Do what? Who are you taking to? 

Market Researcher: Just my colleagues. Can I just ask (gulp) have you ever (I’m a bit scared to ask this) sat in reserved seat on a train to London?

PM: Yes.

Market Researcher: A seat that was reserved for somebody else? 

PM: Yes – I just move when they come.

Market Researcher: What a BADASS you are.

PM: This phone call is over.

Market Researcher: Such a BADASS! Nobody would dare slam the phone on me. We’re British – we are …

PM: (slams down the phone).

It makes me wonder whether all the junk cold calls we receive are just dumb market researchers ringing us to find out how boring we all are. And how risky is it to actually answer those calls? It must be because sometimes I do and I tell them to stop phoning me about an accident I never had, or mis-sold insurance for my mortgage.

Anyway, having read the article I now know that I am a risk seeker. It is official. I take more risks every week than your average Brit.

I am a TOTAL BADASS! I use American slang in my blog posts! I just don’t care!

I listen to heavy metal in my car and, sometimes, I sing out loud.

I sometimes decide, on the spur of the moment, to have a sandwich for lunch instead of a salad. Do you know anyone like that?

I even, sometimes, actually spend money on things I want rather than things I need. How risky is that?

To quote the late great Rik Mayall: “I am a rider at the Gates of Oblivion and I am on the last freedom moped out of Nowhere City!”

Are you impressed with the new me?

How To Speak British

English is a language that is widely used across the globe in Canada, the United States, Australia and many other places. However, I personally think that in the United Kingdom, where English originated, we have a kind of weird monopoly on crazy sounding words and phrases.

I have been to many English speaking countries on my travels and often been looked at strangely – not because I am a weird looking fella but because sometimes I forget that I am in a foreign country.

For example, in America I used the word “bloke” and received a rather strange look from the person I was talking to. I had to translate the word into American – I used the word “guy” instead. Had I been in Australia or New Zealand I would have been understood because “bloke” is used there too.

Nevertheless, there are some words that are quintessentially British or at least widely used in the United Kingdom and not generally in the rest of the English speaking world.

I thought I would compile a list of some  of these words, so that if you are ever unfortunate enough to meet me, you might actually understand what on Earth I am talking about.

I imagine that some of these words have made it across the pond or traversed the globe to Australia, New Zealand or South Africa – so some of them may sound familiar.

Arse – The equivalent in America is “ass” but in the UK it is used in a slightly different way. For example “I really can’t be arsed” means “I really can’t be bothered”. Also, if you describe somebody as “arseholed” or “rat-arsed” it means they are drunk.

Barmy – Foolish – but in a good way, I think. For example, if somebody I knew was about to go skydiving I would tell him to his face that he was “barmy” and he would laugh. It is also heard at football matches when fans of a team unite in a chant based around the manager of the team  - “Gareth Southgate’s Barmy Army!”

Blimey – An expression of surprise or alarm. “You’re going skydiving? Blimey!”

Bollocks (Dog’s bollocks) – This really refers to a man’s testicles but has become an expression of anger. “Bollocks! I’ve dropped my dinner!”. It is also used as a way of ridiculing something that somebody has said, for example “You are talking utter bollocks!” Conversely, if something is great it becomes “The Dog’s Bollocks!”. I’ve never figured that one out.

Chav – This is the equivalent of “white trash” in America. Chavs are typically lower class and behave badly, swearing all the time and causing trouble whenever they can.

Chin Wag – A conversation. “I’ve just been having a chin wag with my wife!”

Chuffed – Very happy or delighted. “I was really chuffed to have won the lottery!”

Cock Up – A massive mistake. “We lost the bid. What a complete cock up!”

Codswallop – Meaningless nonsense. “Piers Morgan’s speech was a load of old codswallop!”

Dishy – Strangely, this means attractive. “Morena Baccarin is really dishy!”

Faff – A phrase that really means to waste time. “Stop faffing around!”

Fag –I realise that this is a derogatory term for gay people in America but over here it is simply a slang word for a cigarette. Going for a smoke is known as “having a fag”

Gagging – I guess the closest  translation for this word is “desperate” as in “I am gagging for a beer.”

Gobshite – Basically this is a person who “talks bollocks” (see above).  “Piers Morgan is a gobshite!”

Gobsmacked – Astounded or surprised. “I was gobsmacked when the Americans elected Donald Trump”.

Kip – Sleep. “I’m going for a kip! Wake me up in an hour.”

Knackered – Tired. “I’ve just been to the gym and I’m bloody knackered!”

Lurgy – Any illness. “I think I’m coming down with a lurgy.”

Mug – A gullible person. “He conned me out of £10. I’m a right mug.”

Nosh – Food. “Where shall we go for some nosh?”

Numpty – A fool. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a numpty.”

Nutter – A mad person. I’ve mentioned that I am a nutter-magnet before – I seem to attract them. I’m talk about the kind of person who will hurl himself into a weird or dangerous situation without thinking of the consequences or somebody who simply talks gibberish.

On the piss – Getting drunk. “Where’s Dave? Oh – he went out on the piss with his mates. Don’t wait up for him; he’ll be rat-arsed.”

Quid – A pound sterling, our currency. “Can you lend me ten quid?”

Plonker – A clumsy idiot. “How did you manage to fall down the step you plonker?”

Scrump – Steal apples. “The farmer caught me scrumping from his orchard.”

Slapper – A promiscuous young lady. “She’s a right slapper. She’ll sleep with anyone.”

Tara – Goodbye. “See you tomorrow. Tara!”

Thingamajig - Something that you can’t think of the name of. “Pass me the thingamajig!”

Toff – A well-off person. Most members of our Conservative party and the Royal family are toffs.

Wobbler – This is really used to express a temper tantrum. “I told him he was wrong and he threw a wobbler!”

You may have heard of some of these words watching British TV programmes and movies and I recall hearing a couple of them on my visit to Australia. Hopefully, next time you meet a British person and think he’s speaking codswallop you will recall this post and be able to translate his words.

See you for the next post.

Tara!

Only In Britain

The National Environment Research Council (NERC) funds environmental scientific research in the United Kingdom and is about to build a state-of-the-art polar research ship here in the North West of England. The boat is backed by government funding and will launch in 2019.

NERC have launched a public campaign to name the ship, opening a web site for the British public to suggest a suitably apt name for what will be a magnificent vessel.

In other parts of the world, I think that the suggested names would reflect the excitement of the ship’s purpose, perhaps naming it after a science or a famous historical person. 

But what is currently leading the pack BY FAR in names suggested by the great British public?

Boaty McBoatface

I am not kidding you. A state-of-the-art ship, with a serious purpose will sail to the Polar Regions with the name RRS Boaty McBoatface etched on its hull.

There are some serious suggestions but also some equally silly names such as:

RRS Its Bloody Cold Here

RRS Usain Boat

RRS Boatimus Prime

RRS I Like Big Boats and I Cannot Lie

RRS What Iceberg?

RRS Notthetitanic

RRE Big Metal Floaty Thingy-Thing

This is a typical British quirk that stems from our ability to laugh in the face of adversity and make a mockery of things labelled as serious.

Don’t get me wrong; there are British people who are probably howling in outrage at this but the good news is that the majority of votes are for silly names.

This is why I love being British. We can, as a nation, see humour in everything and often use that humour to make people laugh in serious or stuffy situations. 

There are millions of examples of things we find funny that perhaps other nations will either raise their eyebrows at or simply tut and shake their heads in disgust. 

Here’s another example of the kind of thing I mean. A friend of mine was on his own in a pub, waiting for another friend, when he needed to go to the toilet. He had a full pint in front of him and decided that the best way to stop somebody stealing his pint or taking his seat was to put a note on top of his glass saying:

“I have spat in this beer”

When he came back, somebody had added:

“And I have put my winkie in it”

I love this.

Regular readers will also know that I am a sucker for clickbait, where I click links to read meaningless nonsense instead of doing something more constructive. However, some of these sites are full of “Things that only British people will find funny”.

For example – a letter from a disgruntled customer which finished:

“I have enclosed your letter and you will notice that I have taken the liberty of rolling it up very tightly which should make it easier for you to stick up your arse.”

Or this answer to a Health and Safety Question:

If an accidental fire started in a building with employees inside, what steps would you take?

Answer: Fucking BIG ONES!!

Some people have even named their businesses or shops with a hint of humour such as:

A lift company called Schindler’s Lifts

A wine shop called Planet of the Grapes

A flower shop called Florist Gump

A painter and decorator called Luther Van Gloss

A pet nanny called Hairy Pop-Ins

A Caribbean restaurant called Jamaican Me Hungry

A removal company called Jean-Claude Van Man

A male hairdresser called Barber Black Sheep

I have been told by some foreigners that they simply do not understand some British humour. 

For example, do you find the following funny?

There are a gazillion examples of British humour knocking about on the internet, as well as lots of British silliness.

Oh – and finally, not to be outdone by a polar research ship, a train driver pulled into Waterloo Station in London and gave his train a name:

Only in Britain – unless you know something different, dear reader.

Mr Polite

I’m running out of ways to say “I’m sorry!”

I’m also running out of ways to say “Thank you!”

You see, as a British person, I am cursed with over-politeness, an ailment that has conditioned me to say “Thank you!” even when no thanks are normally necessary and “I’m sorry!” when I do not need to apologise.

My condition is so far gone that I end up looking for the translations of “Thank you” and “I’m sorry” into the native language of any country I visit.

I can say “I’m sorry” and “Thank you” in 352 different languages.

Just last week, I was in Nice and I found myself saying “Je suis désolé” to an absolutely clumsy bonehead who walked out of a shop without looking and barged straight into me, stamping on my foot in the process.
I wanted to say:

“You clumsy blind dickhead! Why don’t you watch where you’re bloody well going?”

But my brain forced me to say:

“Excusez-moi, monsieur. Je suis désolé!”

as if the entire episode had been my fault. I was the injured party having had my big toe crushed by a whopping great hoof clad I a brightly coloured French designer shoe, while having an elbow rammed into my midriff.

The man simply ignored me.

My worst fear is following a person down a really long corridor with approximately one hundred closed doors. If he is just a couple of yards in front of me, he will end up holding each door open for me and I will have to say “Thank you” in a variety of ways, so as not to appear to have a limited vocabulary as well as being impolite. And of course, living in Britain there is a very high chance that the person concerned will be British too, which means that he has to think of numerous ways to say “That’s OK!”.

Can you picture that scene, dear reader?

1st door

“Thank you!”  “You’re welcome!”

2nd door

“Thanks!”    “That’s okay!”

3rd door

“Cheers!”   “No problem!”

4th door

“Ta mate!”   “No worries!”

. . .
. . .

85th door …

(OH MY GOD - NOT ANOTHER DOOR!!) “You’re so kind!”
(FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!)  “Any time!”

By the time we both reach door 100 we will inwardly want to kill each other while at the same time smiling politely and rifling through our mental thesauruses desperate to find yet another way to continue this pathetic charade.

It seems to me that when you are born in Britain, you suddenly lose all common sense when it comes to politeness.

Why is that?

Surely, politeness needs to be meant, and British people are so good at portraying a front of courtesy that I don’t trust any of them – myself included.

I know for a fact that inwardly each person is churning when they apologise for something – especially out of politeness when it was not even their fault.

BRIT1: I’m sorry!

BRIT 2: No, I must insist that it is my fault.

BRIT1: You are so kind but I have to apologise for it.

BRIT2: You are so gracious – and that’s wonderful but it truly is my                  fault.

What is truly meant is:

BRIT1: You clumsy great oaf! What do you think you are doing?

BRIT2: If I weren’t in a public place I would punch you in the face for                that you dickhead!

We are even polite when it comes to paying for meals – as illustrated in this clip:

While we are sometimes genuinely sincere, there are occasions when we may not actually mean what we say. Here are a few examples. You can generally judge by listening to what we say and looking at our faces for tell-tale signs that we may be disguising our true feelings behind a façade of courtesy:

What we say:
Yes, the wine is fine!
What we probably mean: 
This wine is horse piss!

What we say:                     
With all due respect …
What we probably mean: 
You’re a bloody idiot …

What we say:                     
Keep in touch!
What we probably mean:  
Don’t keep in touch!

What we say:                    
Call any time
What we probably mean: 
For God’s sake ring me before you call!

What we say:                    
It’s all my fault!
What we probably mean:  
It’s your fault you absolute arse!

What we say:                     
Oh are you sure you’ll get this round of beers? I don’t mind getting it.
What we probably mean:   
Get your hand in your pocket and BUY THE BEERS! IT'S YOUR BLOODY ROUND YOU TIGHT-FISTED GIT!

What we say:                     
That sounds like a good idea.
What we probably mean:  
Are you insane? It’s a bloody stupid idea.

What we say:                       
I’m so sorry!
What we probably mean:  
I'm not sorry at all!! You’re a clumsy great oaf!

Actually, I’ve just realised that if you are not British, you may read this post and no longer trust me or any other Englishman ever again when he is genuinely being sincere and polite. What you need to do, as suggested above, is to judge the situation from body language.

For example, when Monsieur Oaf did his best to merge his elbow with my chest while at the same time trying to flatten my foot, my voice (through gritted teeth) said “I’m sorry, that was totally my fault” while my entire body screamed said “I ought to punch your lights out for trying to kill me and not even acknowledging my presence you totally ignorant arse.”

If he had apologised I would, of course, have bought him a glass of wine and smiled sincerely.

I will conclude by saying:

Thank you so much, dear reader, for taking the time to read this post.

I am genuinely sorry if I caused any offence.

And you can tell from my body language that I am telling the truth.

Britain - Your Questions Answered

Regular readers will know that I am British – or maybe just a weirdo from Britain.

The year 2012 has actually been quite a year for our little islands and I’m sure that the world has noticed us a little bit more than usual.

The Diamond Jubilee, the Olympics and the Paralympics have all helped to put us on the map (we have always been there anyway – just off the North West coast of France) but perhaps more people have taken notice of us this year.

On my travels, people have asked me quite a lot of questions about my home country and in order to educate you, if you are from outside our islands, I thought I would share some of those questions – and, indeed, answer them.

I have genuinely been asked some of the questions below – others are just a few I stole from the internet with the aid of my good friend Mr Google.

The answers are all genuinely true – well mostly – possibly.

Do you live in London?

All people in the UK live in London – that’s 62 million of us. There is no other city or town in England, Northern Ireland, Scotland or Wales. 

We were all born there too. 

When the Romans invaded Britain in AD 43, led by Emperor Londinium, he was so enamoured with the River Thames that he decreed it to be the site of the greatest city outside Rome. 

Why do American films always have a British bad guy?

The answer is simple; we are all evil megalomaniacs who want to take over the world – all 62 million of us – even James Bond. 

It started with the Beatles in the 1960’s and since then we have conquered most of the known world, in a subtle way, of course.

Recently they were questions about Barack Obama when Donald Trump accused him of being born in Kenya. This is of course wrong. I can now reveal that Barack Obama was born in London, in the same street as me.

Furthermore, Vladimir Putin’s real name is Vince Putin and he was also born in London. 

Have you met the Queen of England?

Liz and I are the best of friends. We have afternoon tea every day. In fact, she has contributed several posts to this blog. Can you guess which?

How can you be British AND English?

England, Scotland, Northern Ireland and Wales are all aliases for Britain, which is an alias for London and also the United Kingdom. Since we all come from the UK we are also Ukrainian.

Why do you all drink tea?

At 4pm in Britain, everything stops for tea. We down tools, go to a tea room where we are served lashings of tea served by men with silver trays, snooty faces and whose name is Jeeves or Perkins. Accompanying the tea are scones, tea cakes and a stiff upper lip.

It is tea that gives us all rotten teeth and stiff upper lips (due to grimacing when we drink an extremely strong brew).

Why is your beer warm?

Our beer is not warm – it is served at room temperature, which in Britain averages -10°C.

Does everyone in Britain sound like the Queen?

Yes. This young man from Scotland has a perfect British accent… 

As does this guy from Birmingham (I used to talk a bit like him - really!):

Why do you spell words incorrectly?

Nobody in the United Kingdom can spell. Those guys across the pond have got it right.

I have been taking lessons to improve my spelling, actually.

I now know that:

Colour should be Color

Tap should be Faucet

Nappy should be Diaper

British should be Limey

Are you impressed?

What is a bloke?

The official definition of bloke in the Oxford English Dictionary is “not a woman”.

What language do they speak in England?

We all speak Latin.

How do you play cricket?

You have two sides, one out in the field and one in. Each man that's in the side that's in goes out, and when he's out he comes in and the next man goes in until he's out. When they are all out, the side that's out comes in and the side that’s been in goes out and tries to get those coming in, out. Sometimes you get men still in and not out. When a man goes out to go in, the men who are out try to get him out, and when he is out he goes in and the next man in goes out and goes in. There are two men called umpires who stay out all the time and they decide when the men who are in are out. When both sides have been in and all the men have out, and both sides have been out twice after all the men have been in, including those who are not out, that is the end of the game!

Why is Monty Python funny?

I don’t know – you tell me.




I have a friend in London called John Smith. Do you know him?

There are 30,000 people in London called John Smith – and I know them ALL!

Who feeds the Loch Ness Monster?

There’s a little Scottish fellow who lives in London, who travels 560 miles to Loch Ness every week, with a lorry full of fish and spends three days throwing them into the Loch before setting off back to London to fill up his lorry for the following week.

Why are British people so grumpy?

Because we are constantly asked stupid questions.

And finally …

If you have any genuine and serious questions about life in Britain, please feel free to ask me and I will try to give you some serious answers (instead of flippant and facetious answers like those above).

An Englishman On Holiday

I am a proud Englishman and I am a proud Briton. I love my country and I love my island. I love the Welsh and Scots who share the island with me and I love the Irish who live on the neighbouring island.

However, there are times when I try my best to avoid other British people, something you may think is difficult considering the fact that there are 60 million of us crammed into an area of roughly 81,000 square miles (that’s 750 people per square mile).

It’s not the British people on the island that I worry about; it is a minority of my fellow countrymen who travel abroad.

A lot of Brits are perfectly sane people until they arrive at the airport to go abroad. Once they pass through customs and find themselves airside, a switch flips inside the brains of a few and they mutate into something that can be quite embarrassing - the British tourist.

Most people in the world let their hair down a little bit when they go on holiday (I have been known to once or twice). The only problem is that there are a few British people do so with added gusto. Of the remaining sensible British tourists, there is another bunch that are either naïve or live in a bubble of Britishness, making them behave like obnoxious arses.

For some people, common sense is tossed aside; our normal reserved nature is discarded in favour of a rampant drunken beast. Others simply forget that there is a massive difference between Britain and the rest of the world and approach other cultures in the same way as Godzilla would approach a city on a day he was feeling particularly destructive. To them, the rest of the world should be like Britain.

I have travelled to many countries and I am humbled by the differences between cultures. I embrace them and I respect them. I try to become part of them. If I travel to France, I try to speak French; if I travel to a European country where I do not speak their language, I use a phrase book to get my message across. I have travelled to many diverse countries, including many European countries, Thailand, Russia, Australia, South Africa, Canada, United States and China. In each country I have welcomed our cultural differences and tried my best to be an ambassador for my country.

Sadly, a few of my fellow countrymen are not willing to try to blend in and, worse, others contribute to the ever increasing bad reputation of “Brits abroad”.

The worst offenders I have seen have typically been in Europe. Great Britain is part of Europe, whether we like it or not (personally I love it) and in my humble opinion we should be thankful that we can pop over the sea and find ourselves in fabulous countries like France, Belgium, Holland, Spain, Portugal, Sweden and Norway. Travel a little further and we can enjoy Greece, Italy, Switzerland, Germany, Denmark and many others. They are quite literally on our doorstep.

So why do we have such a problem? Let me give you one or two examples of what I’ve seen and perhaps all will become clear.

I travelled with a group of friends to Palma on the beautiful island of Majorca, in order to celebrate a friend’s 40th birthday. We had a few beers, we had a few meals and we visited some of the lovely places in and around the capital city. One day, we opted to go to Magaluf, mainly out of morbid curiosity. For those who have never heard of Magaluf, it is a seaside resort in Majorca that basically becomes little Britain during the summer months. Throughout that period, fleets of charter flights full of young nutters descend on this small resort with one aim: to drink as much alcohol as they can for as long as they can and cop off with as many members of the opposite sex as they can.. Young men and women mutate into the worst kind of party animals and turn the place into a throbbing drunken cesspit of debauchery. Those who avoid the place call it Shagaluf.

Our party took a couple of cabs to Magaluf after breakfast at the hotel and as we approached I was horrified to see a fish and chip shop with the bold claim “Fish imported from Britain”. I was stunned and remarked on this to one of my friends. The cab driver, with a look of sadness on his face, said “Magaluf is an English colony in Majorca. It is horrible.”

I was disturbed by this. We arrived there and found the place almost deserted, which amazed me. It was 11 o’clock and there were only a few people around. “Where is everybody?” I asked. And then it became clear; if you had been up all night partying then you would be in bed. Fair enough, I thought. You can lie in on holiday. But then I noticed the number of clubs and bars; and they weren’t Spanish bars – they were pubs – English and Irish pubs.

And even worse there were pubs boasting that people could watch their favourite soap operas there, beamed in on satellite dishes especially for those who have no desire to become part of a foreign culture, preferring instead to create a pocket of Britain.

“Don’t miss Eastenders or Coronation Street”, it claimed and there were people there watching TV. There was another bar that beamed episodes of “Only Fools And Horses” on an endless loop. People were actually sitting in there laughing at a British comedy show in a bar on a Spanish island.

At lunchtime, we decided to have a beer; we searched around the place for an authentic Spanish bar; we failed and opted to pop into a pub. I marched up to the bar and was greeted by a dark haired tanned barmaid, who I assumed was Spanish. The beers in front of me were all British. I scanned the taps and discovered a Spanish one.

“Cinco cervezas y una coke, por favour” I said in very bad Spanish.

“Which beer do you want?” came the reply is a Cockney accent. I pointed to the Spanish beer, disappointed that I hadn’t had the chance to converse with a Spaniard. The pub was owned and run by British people.

After beer and food we wandered around Magaluf and I saw very few Spaniards. All we saw were British people; if it wasn’t for the sun I would have sworn that we were in Brighton or Margate. I saw cafes and restaurants serving English food; fish and chips were everywhere and people were sitting in pubs watching their favourite TV programmes beamed in from Britain.

The plan had been to spend the day in Magaluf and visit a couple of bars in the evening. By 5 o’clock the party animals had risen and were preparing for another night out. We had had enough so we caught cabs back to Palma to seek out Spanish bars and restaurants ans immerse ourselves in Spanish culture once more.

As we travelled back I thought to myself; if you are going to come to Spain why the hell would you eat fish and chips? Can’t you live without crap TV for a week? What is the point of coming to Spain and demanding all the comforts of home? Why bother travelling all the way to Majorca just to sit in an English pub all day watching endless repeats of a British comedy show? You could stay at home and do that and it would cost you absolutely nothing.

On another occasion, I was working in Amsterdam with a Belgian colleague called Eric. We had selected a traditional Dutch restaurant for our evening meal and sat down prepared to enjoy some Dutch cuisine. As I read the menu and chatted with my Belgian friend, I heard a loud English voice from the other side of the restaurant and cringed.

“Excuse me! EXCUSE ME! Do you have any Worcester Sauce?”

My Belgian friend stared at me in shock. I shook my head in shame. The loudmouth hadn’t finished.

The restaurant was packed and we had been lucky to get a seat. Consequently the waitresses were very busy and couldn’t attend people as quickly as they wanted. However, this vociferous English goon continued.

“I SAID EXCUSE ME!!! CAN I HAVE SOME WORCESTER SAUCE?????”

I looked over and saw a middle aged man, now standing up, and waving his hands in the air like a demented windmill.

“He’s English isn’t he? Are all English people like him?” remarked Eric.

I watched the reaction of the other diners; some laughed at him; others shook their head in disgust; most were shocked and appalled.

Mr Loudmouth hadn’t finished. Clearly he thought he was being ignored so he walked over to the nearest waitress and, tapping her on the shoulder, butted in as she was taking an order.

“Do you have any Worcester Sauce?” he asked rudely, ignoring the couple at the table, his voice still annoyingly loud.

I was totally embarrassed; I was sorely tempted to stand up and say:

“Sit down and have some patience you obnoxious arsehole. You’re giving British tourists a bad name.”

I resisted, mainly because it would have made me look bad and possibly made him worse.

“I’m really sorry,” I said to Eric. “We’re not all like that!”

The waitress, clearly eager to get rid of this muppet, walked over to the kitchen area and rattled a few bottles looking for Worcester Sauce. She found one and handed it to him. Mr Loudmouth must have noticed that he now had a captive audience. Instead of slinking back to his table in shame he held up the bottle of Worcester Sauce in triumph.

“Lea and Perrin’s", he shouted. “The pride of England – guaranteed to add a touch of class to any meal.”

What an utter arse! He failed to realise that most Dutch people speak perfect English and that he had insulted their cuisine by insisting that it required an English sauce to make it worthy to eat. The same waitress returned to her customers and said something in Dutch; the people laughed and stared at the goon.

She then wondered over to our table. Mr Loudmouth had made me so ashamed that I was barely able to place my order for fear of being associated with the obnoxious idiot. I spoke very quietly and then added: “We’re not all like that you know!”

Eric laughed and the waitress smiled kindly.

My final example was again in Spain, this time on a trip to Madrid with Mrs PM. We were sitting at a restaurant and a man walked up and said to the waiter: “Do you sell fags?”

Now then, dear American readers, “fag” is English slang for cigarettes (I realise that it means something completely different in the States), so please don’t imagine that I am going to steer the post in a bizarre direction.

The waiter looked puzzled and said “Que?”

“DO YOU SELL FAGS?” he shouted. “YOU KNOW FAGS! DO YOU KNOW WHAT A FAG IS?”

I stared at Mrs PM and she began to giggle. I was mortified.

“CAN I HAVE SOME FAGS?” his voice was getting louder as if the volume of his voice would somehow make the Spanish waiter somehow, miraculously, be able to speak English.

“FAGS!!!!!” he yelled, miming the act of smoking.

In the end, the waiter asked somebody who spoke English and the man walked away with a packet of cigarettes, muttering something about “bloody foreigners”.

As I said earlier, I travel to foreign places and embrace the culture; I am usually armed with a phrase book; I sample the local cuisine; I imbibe the local beer and wine; I visit places of interest and respect my foreign friends.

It’s a crying shame that a few British people adopt a superior attitude and simply refuse to mingle with interesting foreign cultures. Worse are the young thugs who go on holiday to get drunk and create mayhem.

One of my favourite bands, Thunder, wrote a song inspired by this last group called An Englishman On Holiday. I’ll leave you with the lyrics to that song, which, as funny as the lyrics are, sadly, do ring true.

Laying down in this Spanish bar; that last slammer hit me like a car
I've got the 6 a.m. Balearic blues, can't even focus on my own tattoos
I had a fight with this German guy, I saw him give my little girl the eye
While he was trying hard to be so cool, I hit him with a stool
Oh yes, alright, I'll be going all night
Gonna drink 'til they take me away, I'm an Englishman on holiday
Every year I get to do the same, I meet the boys and get on the plane
We like to sing and shout out "here we go"
'Cos they're the only words that we all know
We've got the loudest shirts you've ever seen
We're gonna take the beaches like a team
We've got so much duty free to drink, enough to float a ship
Oh yeah alright, I'll be going all night
So light the paper, get out of the way, I'm an Englishman on holiday
We never look for trouble at the start, but it always comes our way
We've got our pride and we just can't walk away
This morning I woke up inside a cell
They dragged me screaming out of my hotel
I don't remember what it was I did
But I've got this drummer banging in my head
I've got to get out 'fore I miss the plane, next summer I'll be back again
I'll be fighting for the Union Jack, if they let me back
Oh yes, alright, I'll be going all night
Gonna drink 'til they take me away,
I'm an Englishman on holiday...

Australian English

In Australia, I would probably be called “The Plastic Pom”, although maybe such a title would better serve an Australian living in England.

For those of you who don’t know, Pom is a term of endearment that our Australian cousins like to call people from Britain. It’s a bit of a weird name to be called and, from what I’ve read, nobody really knows where the name originates from. Some say it comes from POHM, meaning “Prisoners Of His Majesty”; others say that it is short for pomegranate, derived from the colour that pale English skins became when exposed to the sun down under.

Either way, I like the word, though I’m not sure that I like being called a Pom to be perfectly honest. As far as our Australian brethren are concerned, we simply call them Aussies.

All this shows that there is healthy banter between our two nations. We are fiercely competitive but to be honest I think we like each other, probably because we share the same sense of humour; I certainly haven’t met a bad Australian.

When it comes to sport, Aussies are insanely jealous of us because we beat them repeatedly at most sports. Well, sometimes anyway. Well – rarely if I’m perfectly honest. Nothing is sweeter than kicking Australian arse at cricket or rugby. Recently Britain inflicted a fabulous Australian bum kicking in the last Olympics, causing outrage down under. We won a magnificent 19 gold medals, compared to a pathetic 14 by team Australia. Of course, the Australians claim victory because, of the 19 British medals, 6 were won by Scottish and Welsh athletes making the real result: Australia 14 England 13. This is quite clearly a desperate and pathetic argument – we kicked your arses my Aussie friends.

Sadly, in rugby and cricket, we have limited success against them, and apart from beating Australia in their own back yard to win the Rugby World Cup in 2003, we don’t have much to shout about.

Anyway, the point of this post is not to gloat about sport; it is to differentiate between the way English is spoken in Britain and Australia. And boy do Australians have some strange words

Here are a few examples:

Ankle biter - a small child
Arvo - afternoon
Barbie - barbecue
Bathers - swimming costume
Billy - teapot
Bingle - car accident
Blue - fight (“he was having a blue with his wife”)
Bonzer - great
Cactus - dead (“this bloody machine is cactus”)
Chook - chicken
Cobber - friend
Daks - trousers
Digger - soldier
Dinkum - true, great
Docket - bill
Drongo - stupid person
Dunny - outside toilet
Franger - condom
G’day - hello
Grog - booze
Hoon - hooligan
Jumbuck - sheep
Liquid laugh - vomit
Matilda - sleeping roll
Moolah - money
Mystery bag - sausage
Ocker - oaf
Pommy - Englishman
Porky - lie
Rip snorter - fantastic (“It was a rip snorter of a party”)
Roo - kangaroo
Ripper - great, fantastic
Rotten - drunk
Sanger - sandwich
Seppo - an American
Sheila - woman
Shonky - dubious
Skite - boast
Spewin - angry
Sticky beak - nosey person
Strides - trousers
Swaggie - tramp
Tinny - can of beer
Tucker - food
Whacka - idiot
Wowser - a prude

Another one of my favourite phrases is a pommy shower, yet another reference to Brits but good nonetheless. What does it mean? Well, imagine that you’ve been out boozing all night and then have to go to work the next day. Obviously you still stink of booze so you try to mask the smell by drowning yourself in deodorant; hence a pommy shower.

Some other good phrases:

All over the place like a mad woman’s breakfast – in a state of chaos.

Park a tiger on the rug – vomit

I could kick the arse off an emu – I am very healthy

He’s got a head like a robber’s dog – He’s ugly

I was very surprised to see that a lot of British and Australian slang is very similar; the words may vary slightly but in essence they are the same.

One final word that has me a bit stumped is Manchester which apparently means household linen; it brings a whole new meaning to the Plastic Mancunian. I’d love to know the origin of that one.

Finally, have you ever watched Australian rules football? I swear it is the most violent and crazy game I have ever seen. If anybody can explain the rules to me feel free. I recall watching it for the first time in the 80’s and to me it looked like a bunch of Australian thugs running around on an oval pitch and kicking seven colours of crap out of each other. In the game I saw, one guy was sent off for excessive violence and, when heckled from the crowd, launched himself at the guy before being dragged off to the dressing room. The commentators shrugged it off as a normal event saying “Boy – he must’ve been pissed off!”

Yet in England, when Eric Cantona, having been sent off in a game of football, leapt into the crowd and karate kicked a fan, there was universal outrage with the commentators, pundits and newspapers condemning him in the most vehement fashion. I’ll bet the Aussie guy’s antics went unnoticed and he had a tinny in the dunny before he went home.

I’m looking forward to my next trip to Australia, which unfortunately won’t be in the near future. It gives me plenty of time to practice Australian English thankfully, though a Pom impersonating an Aussie in his own back yard may precipitate a fight rather quickly.

By the way, Aussies, if you are reading this post, I hope you’re looking forward to having your arses kicked in the Ashes this summer. Of course, if the results go your way, I will make an excuse, just like you did when we battered you in the Olympics.

Another British Post

Napoleon once famously said of England:

England is a nation of shopkeepers

Presumably the French dwarf was annoyed because we kicked his bottom at the battle of Waterloo in 1815.

Well, I think its time to tell you all a little more about Britain and I will start by categorically denying Napoleon’s claim – I am not definitely not a shopkeeper. To counter this, I’ve decided to relate a few more facts about my home country.

Monarchy

Britain has a monarchy; we are ruled by Queen Delia of Norwich, a woman who writes books about food. When she barks we all jump – this is known as the “Delia effect”. She once wrote a book called “How To Cook” and in that tome, she suggested that we all go and buy eggs. I still recall the fateful day when Mrs PM read the book – I returned home from work to find the fridge full of eggs.

“What’s for tea?” I said.

“Eggs,” she replied. “Delia says so.”

Now I have to say that I cannot say anything bad about Queen Delia. She loves her people. Here she is giving encouragement to her subjects:



Now, apparently she wasn't drunk; royalty don't get drunk do they?

Government

The government of Britain is an example of a unique form of politics: idiocracy.

Our most recent Prime Ministers have been:

Margaret Thatcher – also know as “Atilla the Hen”. She was also called “The Iron Lady”, because she liked to iron clothes. She frequently did this in the House of Commons while insulting the opposition. Mrs Thatcher (or “Thatch” as she was affectionately known) single-handedly destroyed industry in England, because she didn’t like seeing pictures of dirty miners on her television screen. Such was her ego that she considered herself to be two people. When her first grand child was born, she wobbled up to the camera and said: We are a grandmother.” Now I’m sure that Atilla considered this to be a profound statement, but in reality it was because she was in fact a man - here is proof:



Following her years of dictatorship, Atilla was replaced by a robot called John Major, otherwise known as “The Grey Man”. This man was so dull that he quite literally sent everybody to sleep as soon as he opened his mouth. John Major should actually have been an accountant; how he managed to accidentally become Prime Minister is anybody’s guess. I would post a link showing a typical John Major speech but I fear you would immediately fall asleep. Here he is:

After Major bored us all to coma, we were subjected to His Royal Tonyness, Tony Blair, also known as “Tony Bliar”. Unlike his predecessor, Tony has a smile so huge that crows often get stuck in his teeth. In fact, Tony’s teeth are bigger than his head (and that is big enough):

Tony was great; Tony was cool; Tony was in a rock band. Tony can sing. He even did a duet with George W Bush:

After His Royal Tonyness came the dour Gordon Brown, our current Prime Minister, a man who has more lives than a cat. Gordon the Gopher has led the UK into recession. He has a fake smile that can scare even the bravest warrior. When I first saw him smile, I fled from the room, screaming for my Mum. Those of a nervous disposition, please DO NOT click the following (no matter how tempted you are):

He is famous for saying “No more boom and bust”. I presume he wasn’t talking about the economy when he blurted out these ill-chosen words; I guess he was talking about his expanding waistline.

Patron Saints

The patron saint of England is St George, who is also the patron saint of binge-drinkers. On one particularly boozy night, St George hallucinated and thought he saw a dragon. He promptly slayed the imaginary beast with his wooden spoon and somehow managed to convince a whole nation that he had done so.

The patron saint of Ireland is St Patrick, who is also the patron saint of Guinness drinkers. Every year, on March 17th, the whole of Great Britain goes out and gets drunk, including Queen Delia of Norwich. The video earlier in the post was filmed on March 17th.

The patron saint of Scotland is St Andrew, who is also the patron saint of monsters. Every St Andrews day, the Loch Ness Monster, or “Nessie” to her friends, crawls out of Loch Ness and shares a haggis and a pint of “heavy” with the locals.

The patron saint of Wales is St David, who is also the patron saint of rugby. Every Saturday thousands of Welshmen sing their hearts out at rugby union games throughout the country and are generally happy (mainly because they don’t have to play English teams).

Major Cities

London is the capital of England. It was discovered by the Romans, who named the place “Londinium” which is Latin for “speakers of cockney-rhyming slang”. Romans found it difficult to understand the language, which hasn’t changed in centuries. I mean, do you know what the following sentence means?

“Would you Adam and Eve it? I was having my barnet cut and I had a butchers through the window when I saw this geezer fall down the apple and pears.”

It means:

“Would you believe it? I was having a haircut and looked out of the window just in time to see a man fall down the stairs.”

People from London are called cockneys and think that Great Britain is contained with the boundaries of Greater London. Everyone else is “from the Norf”. Here's a typical cockney:

Birmingham is the second city in England. It was discovered by the Romans, who named the place “Brummigumus”, which is Latin for “speakers of a poor pseudo Black Country accent”. Again Roman’s found it difficult to understand the language in this city – it is like Black Country accent – only far less classy. Birmingham people think that their city is at the centre of the universe. In reality, the centre of the universe is just a few miles up the road, in the Black Country, at a little place called Walsall.

Manchester is the real capital of England. It was discovered by the Romans, who named the place “Mamucium”, which means “City of Paradise”. Julius Caesar declared “Mamucium” to be the true capital of the Roman Empire and decreed that only the greatest human beings in Britain would be allowed in the city; something that still stands today. Manchester is home to the crème de la crème of British citizenship; only the most intelligent and beautiful people in Great Britain are allowed within the city limits. I sneaked in twenty four years ago, through the sewage system.

In Scotland, there are two major cities; Edinburgh and Glasgow. Edinburgh was discovered by Mel Gibson who promptly went to war with the English and then retreated to Edinburgh castle. Glasgow was discovered by the Romans, who named the place “Glaswegia”, which is Latin for “wearers of kilts”. Nobody outside Glasgow can understand a Glaswegian. Listen to this:



Does it make sense to you? No, it doesn't make sense to me either.

In Wales, we have Cardiff. Cardiff was discovered by the Romans, who named the place “Armus Parkus”, which is Latin for “Home of Welsh Rugby”. Cardiff is a fabulous city and I have always had a magnificent time there. On Saturday nights, the city is full of Welsh people singing in close harmony as they consume Brains Bitter. I was of course instantly recognised as an Englishman because when I sing, cats throw themselves under cars.

In Northern Ireland we have Belfast, which was discovered by the Romans. They named the city “Belfast”, which is Latin for “Home of Georgie Best”. George Best hailed from there and is one of the greatest players ever to grace the English football league. I wish George Best had been English.

Anyway, that’s enough for now. More may follow in later posts. In the meantime, if you have any questions about Great Britain, please fell free to ask me.

I may even tell you the truth next time ...

A Very British Post (Part Two) - British Cuisine

Let’s face facts: British food is not too popular outside Britain, particularly in Europe. I came across an article in the summer in which continental Europeans voted our food the least popular in Europe. Only three percent of our European brethren thought our cuisine was any good.

To be honest, I don’t know why. I love British food (though I have to admit there are some dishes that are a bit of an acquired taste).

Let me take you on a tour of traditional British fare. I have tried most if not all of the offerings below and can in most cases vouch for their quality and taste. So let’s begin:

English breakfast: What better way to start the day than with a plate full of grilled bacon, sausage (not the American sausage but the “Great British Banger”), baked beans, fried mushrooms, fried egg and grilled tomato? Believe me, it sets you up for the day (particularly after too much ale the night before). For added zest, slaughter your bacon and sausage with HP sauce, a thick spicy brown sauce or add some black pudding. I must tell you about black pudding (or “blood sausage” as it is known in some quarters). It is made by cooking pig or cattle blood until it is solid enough to congeal when cooled. In fact, the best black pudding comes from a town called Bury, which is just a few miles north of Manchester. As disgusting as it sounds, black pudding is actually surprisingly tasty. And I tell you what? If you are ever in England and sample a little too much of our warm beer the night before, there is no better hangover cure than a full English breakfast. I speak from experience. Oh - and the picture beneath the English breakfast is black pudding. Doesn't that look fantastic?

Fish and chips: First of all, let me just say that although deep fried, battered cod and chips wrapped in newspaper may not sound too appetising, let me assure you that it can be a divine meal, particularly in the north of England where the best fish and chips are produced. I wouldn’t advise eating it for every meal, simply because if you do you will almost certainly double your weight. However, as a one-off it is a great meal, especially if you add a tub of mushy peas to add a little flavour. When I really can’t be bothered to cook, I often stroll down to my local fish and chip shop (or “chippy”). Unbeatable.




Bangers and mash: As I mentioned above, “bangers” are traditional British sausages. I have travelled to many countries and never have I ever tasted “bangers” as succulent and delicious as the ones you find in the British Isles (including Ireland). And, as the name of this dish suggests, bangers taste divine when firmly embedded in a pile of fluffy mashed potato, with gravy as an option.




Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding: Really this means any roast meat (pork, chicken etc.) served with two vegetables, roast potatoes and Yorkshire pudding smothered in gravy. Yorkshire pudding originated in Yorkshire (of course!) but are eaten just about everywhere. In Yorkshire itself, the pudding is often served before the meal covered in gravy as a sort of starter. Strange lot, these people from Yorkshire. In France, this dish is considered so typically British that the French actually call us "rosbifs". Cheeky buggers! But to be honest it is better than certain Brits call them.




Cottage pie: I love cottage pie. Basically a cottage pie is cooked mince covered in mashed potato, which is grilled to form a crust. For added flavour, I usually grate some cheese on top as well. Truly divine.



Ploughman’s lunch: There’s a pub around ten minutes walk from my house that serves an amazing ploughman’s lunch with a wedge of cheddar cheese so colossal that you could ski down it. A ploughman’s lunch consists of chunks of homemade bread, cheese, salad, raw onion, fruit and pickles.



Lancashire hotpot: You can’t beat a good Lancashire hotpot to warm your cockles on a cold winter day. The dish originates in Lancashire, the area just north of Manchester and consists of meat, potatoes and as many vegetables as you can throw in. Throw the whole lot in a pot and leave in the oven for as long as you like (on low heat of course).



Toad in the hole: What do you get if you cross bangers with a massive Yorkshire pudding? The result is “toad in the hole”. Why it is given this weird name I don’t know. Weird ancient British humour perhaps? I am reluctant to speculate, given the oddness of my trains of thought.



Cornish pasty: These originate in Cornwall and are really beef, onion and potato pies. Well not pies exactly; they are semicircular in shape and wonderfully tasty.



Haggis: I’ve eaten haggis – once! I won’t eat it again, that’s for sure, but not for the obvious reason. If you don’t already know, haggis is a traditional Scottish dish consisting of sheep’s innards minced with onions, suet, oatmeal and spices and then stuffed into a sheep’s stomach and boiled for a few hours. It doesn’t sound very appetising does it? To be fair, it wasn’t the taste of it that I disliked; it was dry and stodgy and a real chore to eat. I’m sure that there are loads of people in Britain who love it – it’s just not for me.



Cream tea: Cream tea is a traditional afternoon snack in the county of Devon in the south west of England. If you visit the place, you will see cream teas advertised everywhere. A cream tea is not a cup of tea with cream. It is a cup of tea served with a scone, a dollop of clotted cream and a splodge of jam. Clotted cream and jam are not my cup of tea (if you’ll pardon the pun) but this snack is very popular all the same.



Afternoon tea: We all love our tea in Britain. I prefer it to coffee and drink several cups during the day. Many other countries drink tea too but the problem is that outside Britain it is horrifically weak. The only country I have been to outside the British Isles that serves a decent cup of tea is Australia. Afternoon tea normally involves a good strong cup of tea and a sandwich. Contrary to popular belief, we don’t all eat cucumber sandwiches; it seems to be the required snack for members of the so-called upper classes. Normal people rarely eat them. Personally I love ham and cheddar cheese sandwiches smothered with Branston pickle.



Marmite: When it comes to marmite, people are in two distinct camps: those who love it and those who loathe it. I love it. It is made from yeast extract (left over from brewing beer) and is a thick, brown sticky spread suitable for toast or sandwiches. The Aussies have their own version called vegemite but I prefer good old marmite because it is stronger tasting.



Jellied eels: I am very squeamish about eels, particularly after having eaten a clossal and disgusting eel stew in Hong Kong, which was full of all sorts of very suspect objects that I ate with trepidation and a shaky hand. The chances of me ever trying this traditional East London delicacy are extremely remote because of this experience. As the name suggests, this dish consists of eels, stewed in a spiced jelly and is available almost exclusively in London. I’ve never seen anybody from anywhere else in Britain actually eating them. We all have sense!



Bubble and squeak: I know what you’re thinking – what the hell is bubble and squeak? I have no idea why this particular dish has such a bizarre name. I have eaten it a few times and I can tell you that it doesn’t squeak and there are no bubbles involved (thankfully before AND after it has been eaten). Basically bubble and squeak is a simple concoction made up of cabbage and potatoes and any other vegetable you wish to throw in, all fried in a pan. And mighty fine it is too.



Scotch eggs: I love scotch eggs but I haven’t had one for years. I feel an inner craving for one even as I type. Contrary to popular belief, scotch eggs originate in England so why they are called “Scotch” I do not know. A scotch egg comprises a cold hard boiled egg, wrapped in sausage meat, dipped in breadcrumbs and deep fried. They are unbelievably tasty!



Bread and butter pudding: Only in England would somebody dream up the bizarre notion of baking a plain sandwich and serving it as a dessert. It is of course more than that. Bread and butter pudding is made by baking buttered bread in an oven with raisins, egg and milk. It may sound revolting but is actually quite nice, especially served with piping hot custard.



Spotted dick: This dessert causes smirks amongst those British people who love double entendres. “Have you a spotted dick?” is surely a line that has been included in a “Carry On” film or “Benny Hill” show at some point – I’d stake my reputation on it. As mad as it sounds, spotted dick is a very nice dessert. It is simply a suet pudding containing dried fruit that looks kind of spotty (because of the fruit). Where the “dick” comes from, remains to be seen (and again I don't really want to speculate)



Trifle: I used to love trifle as a child but these days I find it far too sickly. It contains every ingredient a child would crave in a dessert: jelly, sponge cake, custard, whipped cream and fruit.



I have one final traditional British dish to tell you about that I know for a fact any American readers will either be shocked about or will fall off their chairs in hysterical disbelief. I know this because when I was at university, this foodstuff had this affect on an American student I lived with for a few months.

Picture the scene.

I’m cooking in the kitchen and Eric, my American friend, strolls in and sits down.

Eric: Whatcha cookin’?

Me: You don’t want to know.

Eric: What d’ya mean?

Me: Trust me, you don’t want to know.

Eric: Come on. Are you burning something?

Me: No! I’m cooking a traditional English dish that may … well … shock you.

Eric: Come on now. What the hell are you cooking?

Me: OK – I am cooking faggots.

Eric: WHAT??????

Me: I am cooking faggots.

Eric stops breathing temporarily.

Eric: You’re joking, right?

Me: No. Here’s the packaging.

At this point Eric erupted in a cataclysmic explosion of pure uncontrolled hysteria that was so astonishing he fell off his chair, which was so hilarous that I reacted in a similar way. We both laughed so loudly and hysterically that it took us both a full ten minutes to recover our composure and be able to breath again. The conversation continued:

Eric: You do know what a faggot is, don’t you?

Me: Yes. It’s a spiced pork meatball from the Midlands.

Eric: I mean in the States?

Me: Yes – why do you think I didn’t want to tell you what I was cooking?

Eric begged me for the packaging so that he could take it home to show all his friends back in America. I imagine that he has the box to this day and still telle the story.

I hope this post gives you an insight into our culinary tradition. I have to say that in Britain today every cuisine you can dream of is available in supermarkets and restaurants but in a typical British home you will almost certainly find one of the above delicacies being consumed with gusto.

Anyway, I must go because unfortunately it is my turn to cook tonight. I won’t make the obvious joke about what it might be. And in case you don’t believe me about the faggots …


I will return with a post about British icons.