Posts Tagged ‘the brits’

Coz I'm British, innit

Wednesday, March 12th, 2008


A posh bloke appointed by the government has announced his ideas about ways for us to celebrate our Britishness.

 

The general idea is for it to ‘make it clearer what it means to be a citizen.’

 

Among his plans is a national holiday. I’m all for that. Hell, any chance to get a day off work, I’m on board. I’m not sure I’ll be reflecting on what it means to be a British citizen on that day or thinking about how it ‘may help enhance a sense of shared belonging’, but it will probably provide me with some good discounts, as stores will inevitably be having ‘British Day Sales’. (Forget the fact that I now live in Canada for a moment. I’ll be taking the day off regardless and declaring my Britishness all over town (forcing people to give me discounts) As Canada is part of the commonwealth, it’ll understand.)

 

Other plans include; giving council tax deductions to people who volunteer in the community (what does this say about Britishness? That people are only nice if there’s a monetary reward for them in the end?), free english lessons for new immigrants (can these be extended to people from say, Liverpool and Newcastle whose accents are very difficult to understand?), ‘citizen education’ (anyone want to venture a guess at what the hell that actually is?).

 

All of these things are intended to ‘entrench the notion of Britishness in British society.’ I’m still a bit lost as to what ‘Britishness’ is supposed to be and no one seems to have addressed it either. I’m envisioning some kind of Chav parade with a big fake Burberry flag – someone set me straight and give me answers.

 

The ceremonies may or may not include a pledge of allegiance to the Queen. OK, this is where I draw the line. I’m obviously slightly biased here because I’m fiercely anti-royal, but considering some of our taxes go towards keeping her in the lifestyle she’s accustomed to, I think, if anything, she should be pledging allegiance to us. In the words of Janet Jackson; what have you done for me lately?

 

The most offensive part of that whole idea is that while it’s supposed to be all about showing our commitment to our Britishness, they jacked the idea straight from the Americans. Doesn’t the whole idea sound like pledging allegiance to the flag? No offense to the yanks that read this, but I’ve always found that ritual thoroughly ridiculous and cringe inducing.

 

Anyway – if someone could just fast track the national holiday idea, it’d be much appreciated.

 

Madonna saves the world


Madonna was inducted into the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame the other night. In his incredibly corny speech, introducing her, Justin Timberlake said; ‘her new single is called ‘four minutes to save the world’ and in a way that’s exactly what she’s done; saved the world, one four minute song at a time.’

 

BITCH PLEASE!!

 

Madonna has maybe saved one life – that kid she adopted. And have you noticed, he never exactly looks thrilled about it. Plus, she’s only adopted one, meanwhile Angelina’s clocked up like what? 25 kids now?

 

Dear Hillary


Please remove your head from your ass, pronto. You are currently trailing in second place in this race sweetheart. You do not offer Obama the Vice Presidency. That is all.

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And the Earth Moved

Thursday, February 28th, 2008


Yesterday morn, I awoke to the news that England had an earthquake overnight. A little bit of panic stirred in me. I got on all the UK news sites to get the scoop. As I waded through the shocking headlines and read the stories, I found that it had lasted about 20 seconds, one person had been injured and it had left ‘a trail of destruction’ (read: a few tiles fell off a roof somewhere).

 

Bitch, please! Talk about an overreaction.

 

I went on Facebook and nearly all my friends in the UK had a status along the lines of ‘So and so felt the earth move last night!’ or ‘So and so was woken up by the shaking!’ Some had even made a crafty joke about how their significant other hadn’t rocked their world, but the earthquake had. Oh, how they slay me.

 

Now, having lived in Japan, where earthquakes are commonplace, I consider myself well versed in the art of the tremor. So, maybe for me, earthquakes are just passé at this point. Don’t get me wrong, the one in England Tuesday night was a 5.2, which is no baby quake, but it ain’t the mother of all quakes either. And obviously, if you’ve never experienced one before, it is quite a strange sensation, so I can understand the hysteria, up to a point. But the more I read, the more I laughed.

 

On The Guardian website, Jon Jenken from Bourne in Lincolnshire was quoted as saying: ‘I was woken up. It was hell.’

 

Really Jon? It was hell? Everyone has different versions of hell I guess. Mine is a big American Apparel store filled with people in leggings, Crocs and Uggs and Jimmy Saville is there, playing bagpipes and an army of Chavs in fake burberry terrorize the ‘posh twats’ and there’s no internet access and all my ex boyfriends are there and there’s all that fire and stuff. But being woken up from my slumber? Annoying – yes. Hellish – not quite.

 

But, let us not forget, there was one person injured in this mega quake that shook the nation. The poor guy broke his pelvis. I say to him; stick a pack of frozen peas on it. You’ll be fine in a couple of days.

 

Hopefully everything will get back to normal now. Maybe they could put Jimmy Saville to work clearing up the ‘trail of destruction’ on his way back to hell.

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I'll Take Some Outrageous Allegations with a Side of Crazy, to go Please

Tuesday, February 26th, 2008


Mohammed Al Fayed has really been upping the ante in the crazy stakes recently.

 

For those of you unfamiliar Al Fayed’s work, he is the owner of Harrod’s, father of Dodi (who was killed with Princess Diana in that car crash) and a budding conspiracy theorist.

 

Pretty much since the day his son died, Mohammed has been crying ‘cover up’ and ‘conspiracy’ to anyone who’ll listen. He was a pretty hated character before all this (you know, because the Brits can’t stand anyone who’s obscenely wealthy and successful), but he hasn’t done himself any favors bad-mouthing the royal family repeatedly, any opportunity he gets.

 

Rather than let them rest in peace, Al Fayed has been on a crusade since 1997 to bring someone to justice for Diana and Dodi’s deaths. Inquiry after inquiry has ruled it was a tragic accident, but Mohammed’s not having it.

 

Right now, there is yet another inquiry going on into their deaths and Al Fayed gave some rather explosive testimony. The man’s got some things on his mind and he sure didn’t hold back.

 

After calling Prince Phillip a ‘Nazi’ and a ‘racist’, he went on to list those he felt were involved in the crash, which included:

 

“Princess Diana’s sister and her husband, two former London police chiefs, the British ambassador to France, driver Henri Paul, two French toxicologists, members of the French medical service, three body guards and several of the Princess’s closest friends.” After some questions, he then added Tony Blair to the list.

 

As much as everyone jokes about him, the man lost his son. Thats the kind of pain you have to have lived through to understand. So, while some of the things he’s saying may be completely bat shit crazy, ask yourself, if you had a child die in those kind of circumstances, wouldn’t you want some answers?

 

I kind of admire Al Fayed at this point. The man has some huge balls! I don’t think anyone has talked as much shit about the royal family in public as he has. Sadly, he can kick up as much as a fuss as he wants, but this will never go anywhere, because he’s taking on the royals. Kudos for the effort though. And an ‘A’ for entertainment.

 

Things which must stop – a desperate plea


 

Oh how I need these hoodies to stop. Everytime I see someone wearing one of these, I feel like I just got drop kicked in my retina. There are so many varieties of colors and print in these things and they all make me equally queasy.

 

A special message for men over the age of 30 wearing these things: Exactly where do you think you’re going? I get that you feel you need to be down with the hip hop movement and all, but be a good boy and go throw on some chinos and a V neck.

 

I guess I should mention The Brit Awards


So, a couple of people emailed me last week asking why I hadn’t mentioned The Brits. Well. This is me. Mentioning The Brits. I didn’t mention it before because...it’s The Brits. They had Ozzy and Sharon Osbourne presenting the thing for Christ’s sake. They couldn’t find anyone more relevant? Apparently, Ozzy collapsed a couple of times in rehearsal so they had to scale his part way down. And Take That won something. That says it all really. Did I miss something? Did the awards take place last week or were we all somehow magically transported back to 1994. Bitch, please! How the frik does Take That win something in 2008? Nothing even remotely exciting has happened at The Brits since Jarvis Cocker jumped on stage during Michael Jackson’s performance – and that was 1996! And I swear to God, if I hear Mika and his painful falsetto one more time, I’m putting my head through a brick wall.

 

Umm, so that pretty much sums up my feelings on The Brits. They should totally have me work the red carpet next year.

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The Confessional

Wednesday, February 20th, 2008


Even though I’m going through a crisis of faith right now, I had some things I had to get off my chest, so decided to go to confession.

Me: Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It’s been….well, it’s been a really frikkin’ long time since my last confession.

Father McBangs: Please don’t curse.

Me: Oops. My bad. So, can I just jump right into this?

Father McBangs: Yes, my child. What would you like to confess?

Me: Well, I gotta tell ya Father, it’s pretty bad. I…I…I like Phil Collins.

Father McBangs: [silence]

Me: Yo, Father, you there?

Father McBangs: Are we talking ‘Genesis’ Phil Collins or the solo Phil Collins?

Me: Solo, of course.

Father McBangs: Good, ‘cause no amount of repenting can forgive ‘I Can’t Dance.’

Me: I hear ya homie.

Father McBangs: So, how long has this been going on?

Me: I’d say roughly a year. I’m completely overcome with the power of Sussudio. I don’t know how it happened. I’d obviously heard the song many times before, but one day, I heard it on the radio in the car and my foot started tapping uncontrollably. That night, under cover of darkness, I downloaded it from Limewire, wait – will I have to do extra penance for illegal downloading?

Father McBangs: I’ll try to overlook it.

Me: Good looking out. So anyway, since then, I listen to it all the time, but only on my iPod, with my headphones on, because I don’t want anyone else to know. But recently, I just don’t want to hide it anymore. I mean, I listen to the song and like Phil says, ‘it feels so good, if you just say the word…Sussudio.’ Try it Father.

Father McBangs: No

Me: Go on, say it.

Father McBangs: Absolutely not.

Me: Just say the word!

Father McBangs: Su, Su, Sussudio!

Me: See?

Father McBangs: You’re right. That does feel good.

Me: And now it’s progressed to other songs. ‘In the Air’ and ‘Easy Lover’ in particular, move me.

Father McBangs: Are you an Easy Lover?

Me: I don’t see what my loving habits have to do with any of this.

Father McBangs: You’re in a church.

Me: Bygones. Can we just stay on topic here? So what should I do? It’s getting hard to keep this under wraps. I’ve started humming along really loud when Phil plays on my iPod. I think people might be onto me.

Father McBangs: Well, things could be worse. You could be a fan of Akon. So, I’ll talk this over with the Big Man but I don’t see why I couldn’t talk it down to 10 Hail Marys and an Our Father for you. So, in the name of the Father, the Son and…

Me: Yeah, yeah. Cheers, Big Ears. Peace out. Sussudio!

 

Shame on you, Guardian


Oh boy, did the shit ever hit the fan over at The Guardian last week. On their website, they decided to give a travel blog to a 19 year old kid about to embark on his first big adventure to India, of all places, It’s so cliché it hurts. Read the kid’s first article here.

 

Now, to those of you unfamiliar with the British media system, let me explain a few things: 19 years olds getting their own columns in, what is probably, the best national newspaper in the country, NEVER happens! This is England: home of cynicism, the school of hard knocks, the creator of ‘working your way up the ladder’. You are basically expected to work for free, making the tea and doing the editors dry cleaning till you’re roughly, 35. Then, they might pay you marginally more than a Chinese sweatshop worker.

 

But getting your own column, at 19, to document a trip that thousands before you have made? Not bloody likely.

 

You’ve got to love British readers. They could smell the shit a mile off. The kid’s article got over 940,000 comments, most of them bashing him and the editors for printing such tripe. (Personally, I couldn’t even finish reading the article, I was cringing so much.)

 

All the backlash prompted the editor to write this post the following day, justifying his hiring choices.

 

I don’t care what they say. Either this kid is related to an editor, or he’s blowing one. Plain and simple.

 

(Thanks Tam, for the heads up!)

 

Dear Readers,


I’ve been at this blogging thing a couple of months now. There are a whole lot of people stopping by here to read everyday and I’m feeling the love, my babies, I am. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. This is really a learning process for me and I want this blog to be the best it can be – so if you’re reading this, please be sure to leave comments. Let me know what you like, dislike, what you want to see more of, less of, things you’d like to know my opinion on etc. I want to know that I’m taking this in the right direction and I really appreciate your feedback. And seriously, if you are stopping by here to read regularly, I can’t thank you enough. With that said, get commenting!

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I Spy

Thursday, February 14th, 2008


So, guess which country invades the privacy of its citizens the most. North Korea? Nope. China? No. The United States? Don’t be silly.

 

It’s good ol’ Blighty, the United Kingdom.

 

Since 9/11, but more so since the London bombings in ’05, the government has kicked up its public surveillance to a frightening degree.

 

They invade your personal privacy more than any country on earth. I mean, all governments keep records on their citizens, but Gordon Brown & Co are recording every minute detail of Brits lives. And all this from a government that loses information easier than car keys, as was demonstrated last year when the personal information of 25 million Britons was literally, lost in the mail. Banking information, National Insurance numbers, addresses, dates of birth – basically all the ingredients needed for a nice bit of identity theft were left out there flapping in the breeze.

 

Meanwhile, the government thrashed it out in the House of Commons about introducing the most elaborate biometric ID cards in the world, which would infringe on your civil liberties even more. What the hell is this? Nazi Germany?

 

How ironic that the show Big Brother is so popular in the UK. If you live there, your daily life makes you a permanent Big Brother contestant and you don’t even win shit!

 

England, yes, little old England, has over 4 million CCTV cameras. That’s one for every 14 citizens. Each person in England is caught on camera over 300 times a day. Re-read that and try to absorb how ridiculous it is.

 

The London bombers were caught on camera on pretty much every leg of their journey (not to mention all that information The Man has been gathering on every detail of everyone’s lives) and yet nobody stopped them before they blew themselves up, killed 52 people and injured 700 more.

 

My parents live in Leeds (the north of England) and told me recently that new, talking CCTV cameras have been introduced. So, if the camera spots you littering, it’ll tell you to pick it up, when you get out of your car, it’ll remind you to lock your door.

 

And guess who the voice of these talking lampposts is? Motherf**king Jimmy Saville! My loathing of Jimmy Saville is well documented. This is supposed to be the latest tool in crime prevention? Nothing is more likely to drive me to a life of crime than a Jimmy Saville CCTV camera barking orders and stalking me.

 

Oh – the country that protects the privacy of its citizens the most? Canada. Giving those southern states even more reason to hate us.

 

I Miss London

Despite all of that above, I miss London.

This is why.

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Some Winehouse, a Canuck and Some Very Nice Shoes

Tuesday, February 12th, 2008


Winehouse Does the Grammys


When I saw Amy Winehouse’s Grammy performance, I damn near gave her a standing ovation in my bedroom.

 

I interviewed Amy in 2003 while working for a music mag in London. We were profiling her as an up-and-coming artist. I remember meeting her at a little spot next to the Jazz Café in Camden. I don’t remember much of the interview, other than it being a refreshing conversation. She was a fresh voice, in every sense. New on the scene, she’d clearly had no media training. She spoke her mind on any and everything and she was hilarious.

 

Her first album didn’t do much. When the second one came out and started to build steam, it was sad to see she had to become a complete train wreck before getting the recognition she deserves.

 

Her personal life, played out daily in the brutal British tabloids, seemed to go from bad to worse last year. Professionally, she didn’t seem to show up to any gigs without being intoxicated and it was a miracle if she actually finished a show.

 

So her performance at the Grammys Sunday night, was a milestone. She looked sober. She smiled. She performed. She danced (not very well, but she did, nonetheless), She had all her teeth and she even appeared to have brushed that rats nest of a beehive.

 

Probably the best moment was when she won Record of the Year and gave the oh-so-classy shout out; “For my Blake, incarcerated.”

 

But even if she hadn’t done any of that, there’s no arguing with that voice.

 

*Quick side bar: For all the shit they’ve had to put up with, her backing singers should totally get their own gig. C’mon, scale of 1-10, how adorable are they?!

 

(Sorry, couldn’t find the video to link here).

 

‘Canadian’ is the new N word


I read this interesting piece about how in some of the southern states, ‘Canadian’ is the new racial slur, which I found pretty hilarious.

 

On the up side, I guess they finally figured out that saying the N word is a pretty sure fire way to get your ass kicked/get a personal visit from Al Sharpton. But why replace it with ‘Canadian’ of all things?

 

In the article they use the example of black people being bad tippers at a restaurant, so the staff will say they have a table of ‘Canadians’. If we’re talking about bad tipping, shouldn’t the racial slur be ‘Brits’? But as I have dual British/Canadian citizenship, I guess I’d be offended either way.

 

Click here to read the whole article

 

A Sign From On High


Maybe I was wrong. Maybe there is a God. I went into my favorite shoe shop the other day and saw that some shoes I’d been stalking had (much to my delight) made their way into the 50% off section. And they had my size.

 

If that isn’t the big JC looking down from heaven saying ‘treat yourself, bitch’, I don’t know what is.

 

These Betsy Johnson numbers have a 4 1/2 inch heel, plaid uppers, fushia pink soles and black patent toes and heels. (That description makes them sound hideous, but I assure you, they are the very definition of fabulous).

 

I had asked the man upstairs to send me Marc Jacobs flats, but as everyone says, the Lord works in mysterious ways.

 

High five to Jesus!

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The Chav: An Explanation

Monday, February 11th, 2008


When most people think of England, they think of The Queen, tea, Helen Mirren and fantastically fashionable people.

 

Up until recently, The Chav was our dirty little secret.

 

Unfortunately, somehow, someone, somewhere blew the lid of that secret and now Chavs are everywhere.

 

Allow me to elaborate:

 

It would be easy to lump Chavs in with your bog standard white trash, but there’s much more to this intriguing British subculture.

 

A working class people, Chavs have an intense dislike of anyone who finished high school or, God forbid, actually chose to go to university. Education is their enemy. Their time is much better spent getting involved in extreme acts of delinquency; harassing/assaulting ‘posh twats’ (i.e., anyone who doesn’t live on a council estate, shop at JD Sports or holiday in Majorca), public drunkenness, hanging around on street corners ‘protecting’ their turf, that kind of thing. ASBOs (Anti-Social Behavior Orders) were basically invented to control Chavs, keep them out of the public eye. But instead, they pretty much embraced the ASBO as a badge of honor.

 

Chavs are easily identifiable through their unique fashion choices:

 

- Jewelry; mainly multiple chains and sovereign rings, all imitation gold of course.
- Reebok Classics; the Chav trainer of choice.
- Lacoste T shirts; fake again (the unemployment cheque doesn’t stretch far enough for a real one)
- Adidas track pants; the kind that are elasticated at the bottom, so you can see the Reebok Classics better.
- Polyester; any Chav wardrobe is made up of anywhere between 65-90% unnatural fibers.

 

And of course, the Chav Haute Couture; Fake Burberry.

 

Burberry (those poor bastards), were once a reputable British designer label. (And by ‘once’ I mean around the 1970s when they did that fantastic rain Mac – a classic). Around 1999, they started putting their signature printed lining on just about anything they possibly could. The craze grew and grew and then Chavs got hold of it. For a time, Burberry made a cap covered with their stripy-lined print. If the Chavs had a uniform, this would be it. (Naturally, they wear the fake version). Fake Burberry jackets, shirts etc sprung up all over the place and Chavs could be seen donning them while engaging in all their highly offensive Chavery.

 

Burberry ceased production of the caps. Soon after, seeing how their good name was being associated with this extremely negative subculture, they stopped putting the print on everything and relegated it back to its original use as a lining material.

 

But the damage was done. Any Brit with an ounce of taste wouldn’t buy something Burberry now if you paid them, for fear of being associated with the most hated social group in the country.

 

So now, they’re out, they’re proud and they’re not going away any time soon. ASBOs are no match for the force that is, the Chav.

 

As long as there are fake versions of designer duds, alcohol, unemployment and hoodies – Chavs will rock on.

 

ASBO-lutely.

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The Tipping Point

Monday, January 28th, 2008


We Brits have a terrible reputation when it comes to tipping. Though I think we get a bad rap. Really, we just have the right approach to it. Here’s our stance; a tip should be given when someone has gone above and beyond the call of duty or done their job exceptionally well.

 

Living in New York, I came to realize that tipping is expected and you should tip, basically, everyone you come in contact with, outside your circle of friends, on a daily basis.

 

And it’s horse turd!

 

I particularly hate that I’m expected to tip cab drivers. It’s their job to drive people from A to B and soon as they turn the meter on, they’re getting paid to do just that. There’s no special service involved. It’s not like you’re in a stretch limo, chilling in a Jacuzzi while some Adonis sucks on your toes (now that deserves a tip). No, you’re in a New York City cab, which has probably been vomited, defecated and fornicated on more times than you wish to know. Shoot, they should pay you to get in the damn thing.

 

I worked at a popular midtown hotel as the hostess at the restaurant to make some extra cash while freelancing. One night, the barman had a bitch fit when some (British) customers left without leaving a tip.

 

“But I served them all these drinks and talked to them!” he cried.

 

Um, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that your job? You get paid an hourly rate for that, no? You filled out an application knowing the said hourly rate was crappy, didn’t you? Then stop your whining, bitch! You don’t get a tip just for showing up to work.

 

The same goes for the doorman. Bitching every time someone didn’t kick him a couple of bucks for opening the door or carrying their suitcase. I’m perfectly capable of opening the door myself and carrying my own bag. Just because you filled out an application to do it, doesn’t mean I owe you shit.

 

In the restaurant, people would try to tip me for hanging their coats or showing them to their table. I thought it was stupid. One guy tried to tip me $20 for hanging his coat up. I gave it back. I hadn’t hung the coat in a special way or dry cleaned it while he ate, so what exactly warranted giving me $20? (Yeah, I accepted a $100 tip when the mafia dined there, but I earned that!)

 

One thing I think people who work in the service industry in New York fail to understand is that tipping is still, technically, optional.

 

Once, some friends and I went for brunch at a spot downtown. Our waitress was particularly unimpressive; moody, impatient and not that great at her job. I know you can’t bring you’re A-game all the time, but if you want a tip, it’s a good idea that you do. But, because they all assume they’re getting a tip, quality of service doesn’t seem to matter all that much.

 

At the end of the meal, we paid and reluctantly left a tip. As we were leaving, the waitress followed us out and did probably the rudest of rude things ever done; informed us that we had not tipped enough. In what universe is it even acceptable to say that? Especially when you’ve been given crappy service. We pooled a few more pennies together just to get her off our backs and never went back there again.

 

Back in England, people are slowly coming around to the idea that it’s probably a good idea to tip in certain situations and it’s become more of a custom, but we are yet to reach the New York standards of ridiculousness on the tipping front.

 

So, if you’re ever in London and a cabby takes you from one end of the city to the other, via Wales and expects a tip, British custom dictates that you should laugh in his face.

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A Guide to Englishism

Sunday, December 9th, 2007


As an English person living in North America, one thing that never fails to amaze me is the fascination Yanks and Canucks have with my accent. When I first moved here, the attention it garnered (not to mention the play from the fellas) was quite flattering. But now, it’s just annoying. Every time I open my mouth, people want to know my life story. I might just have to run to the store for some milk but if people catch even a hint of my accent, they want to engage me in a 10-minute conversation.

 

I appreciate the interest, but sometimes, I have places to go and things to do, so can’t indulge you in the lengthy ‘ask a British person’ interview you had prepared.

 

And so here, I have put together a helpful guide for North Americans of things you should steer clear of doing/saying when you meet an English rose such as myself. (What can I say? I’m a giver)

 

1. It’s fine to ask where I’m from, but when you get the answer, must you tell me that your second cousin twice removed’s husband’s next door neighbor’s babysitter went there two years ago? Seriously, people actually do this. What is my response supposed to be? I’m smiling on the outside, but completely baffled on the inside.

 

2. Never ever ask if we’re Australian. The two accents sound completely different. The key difference is that when Australians talk, everything sounds like a question.

 

3. I’m sorry to be the one to break this news but no, we don’t all eat cucumber sandwiches.

 

4. We’re not tourist information. We don’t all have an infinite knowledge of our country. I’m a city chick. Telling me you’re going to the Cotswolds on your next vacation means pretty much nothing to me. That’s like you telling me you’re from New York and me saying I once went camping in the back woods of Mississippi. Where’s the relevance?

 

5. Please do not try to use the word ‘bloody’. It’s a very British thing. We appreciate the effort but you never use it in the right context and it’s kind of cringe worthy.

 

6. The same goes for ‘wanker’ and ‘bollocks’. You have your curse words. We have ours. Let it go. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve tried to explain ‘bollocks’ to people only to get completely lost while pointing out that if something is ‘the dog’s bollocks’ it’s good whereas if something is just ‘bollocks’ it’s nonsense. Why would a dog’s testicles be considered a good thing? I don’t know! It’s just an expression OK?

 

7. Not everything stops at four o’clock for tea. We drink it all the time, not to a set schedule.

 

8. With reference to the above; if you’re trying to have this conversation with us while we’re buying milk, that usually means we have the kettle on and are dying for a cuppa. You should know better than to disturb a British person at a time like that.

 

9. Please don’t call our accent ‘cute.’ Puppies are cute. Accents? Not so much.

 

10. Please do not mimic our accents. It’s embarrassing. And you sound nothing like us. We don’t all sound like the Queen.

 

So there you have it. Now when you meet an English person, you can bypass all that bollocks you were going to waste 20-minutes talking about and get down to the more important issues of the day like where to go for a cuppa and what the hell happened on that camping trip in the back woods of Mississippi.

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