Mysteries of Britain, Part I

Even though I've lived in MOE for more than 3 years now, there are still some things about the culture I just don't understand. I encountered one today: It's raining out, and no one has an umbrella. Some people (mostly old men trying to cover their bald patches) were wearing hats, one or two had hoodies up, but no one I saw had a brolly.

Why? Do people here like getting wet? Are they genetically altered to have skin and hair on which the raindrops bead? Mr. W says it's about "toughness." Brits are tougher than we Yanks are. I say they're just wetter than we are. Anyone care to enlighten me on when it's appropriate to use protection when it's raining out?

Thanks in advance,
Ignorant in Islington

More Things I Like, Things I Don't Like

Things I like: Trains.

These past two weekends, I've ridden my bicycle to Cambridge and ridden a train back, and taken a train to Stevenage for a running race and come back. In both cases, my wait for a train was minimal and travel time was tolerable. Train service is frequent and more often reliable than unreliable. You can get to more than 2,500 destinations by train. Now if you ask a Briton, it's gone downhill since Margaret Thatcher reorganized it. And having been on Swiss trains recently, I can say that they appear to make more allowances for bicycles than British trains do. But still, the rail service makes car ownership optional for a larger share of the population than the United States.

Things I don't like: Northern accents.

I shouldn't make fun of the way people talk, but there is something in the northern English accent that rubs me wrong. I love a broad Scottish brogue and a Welsh lilt, but strong Yorkshire and Liverpudlian accents are at times almost incomprehensible to me. The TV serial Hollyoaks best exemplifies the accents I hate. See if you don't want to punch your computer screen when you click through to this Hollyoaks clip for which embedding has been disabled.

Death Of An English Folk Tradition

Without comment, I'll note this following article about the feared demise of Morris Dancing:

The numbers of people participating in the traditional British folk dance are dwindling whilst the age of the dancers is increasing, according to the Morris Ring, an association representing over 200 Morris troupes across Britain.
It is warning that "unless younger blood is recruited during the coming winter months, Morris dancing will soon become extinct".
Charlie Corcoran, Bagman of the Morris Ring, said: "There's a distinct possibility that in 20 years' time there will be nobody left.
"It worries me a great deal. Young people are just too embarrassed to take part.

Embarassing? I'll let the reader be the judge:

That's Pants

Yes, a British English expression for something that's really bad, or your underwear. Annie Mole, as usual, has spotlighted the Pants Day, a version of the No Pants days on mass transit in several American cities. As Annie notes, going without "pants" in Britain can get you arrested, hence the name variation.

Some Truths About Football

Since I had an earlier cranky post about football, I couldn't help but be blown away by the accuracy of the best-ever cultural analysis about the relative popularity of "soccer football" in Britain and "American football" in America over at The Septic's Companion, formerly known as the English2American dictionary.

Go buy his book, or at least a beer for him. Without knowing it, he's been a great contributor to our blog. Go Web2.0!

Gonna Lay Down My Sword And Shield

The United States has Veterans Day. Britain has Remembrance Day. Unlike the U.S. holiday, Remembrance Day is not a government holiday--everybody goes to work if it's a weekday. But it's in your face nonetheless in the form of plastic poppies growing like weeds on lapels and collars, purchased for the price of a chugger contribution to the Royal British Legion.

While watching football over the weekend, I noticed that no less than 100 percent of the studio commentators for one match were wearing plastic poppies. As an experiment, I just turned on BBC News 24 this moment, and both of the on-screen anchors were wearing plastic poppies. If you walk down a given city street this time of year, you will notice that at least half of the people you see are wearing the poppies. (The always clever Time Out London, in its "Lies To Tell Tourists" column a couple of years ago, urged Londoners to tell tourists that any person wearing a plastic poppy had actually killed a German in combat.)

But I won't.

I have the greatest respect for veterans and their sacrifices. I do like to know that people who come back from war with physical, psychological or emotional wounds are taken care of. I will give money to the cause. And I'm aware of the cultural significance of the Flandrian poppy in reference to the horror of World War I. But I won't wear the poppy. I guess I resent the overtones of it--the suggestion that if I don't wear the poppy I'm somehow disrespectful of veterans. And to me, the poppy remains a symbol of war, rather than the peace we should hope for. Give me a Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament peace symbol any day.

Top Five Lies About Soccer, er, Football

I love the beautiful game. I'll sit down and watch the British football equivalent of a Single-A baseball game if it's on, just because. But there are some things that you'll hear about the game that are just not true.

1. English people never call it soccer. This is just a flat-out lie. On Britain's leading sports channel, I just finished watching a show called "Soccer AM." I am now watching a show called "Soccer Saturday." English people can stuff it if they sneer at me for call it soccer. Get your story straight. It's either "football" always, or it's not.

2. Soccer is a non-contact sport. This is a lie that many American soccerphiles will tell you to promote the sport among kids. Hossam Ghaly's teeth will disagree. So will Petr Cech's head.

3. Soccer players run the whole game. Yeah, if they're 5 years old and the game is aimed at getting kids tired out so they'll take a nap on a Saturday afternoon. When players are substituted in certain matches, Britain's leading sports channel likes to pop up with a figure of how much the substituted player has run in that match. I've seen figures as high as 15 kilometers. Memo to Sky Sports: 15 kilometers is 37 and a half laps of the stadium. I'm not buying it, especially when I see guys in the 78th minute doing a lot of standing, walking and slow jogging.

4. There's no more hooliganism in soccer. German authorities might disagree. So might the Manchester police. Football fans have to be separated. Rugby fans don't. 'Nuff said.

5. Soccer songs and chants are sporty and inspirational. I'll let you be the judge of that. It appears that Atletico Madrid fans agree with me.

Rotten Butter

Your eyes don't deceive you: That is John "Johnny Rotten" Lydon, the onetime frontman for the Sex Pistols, doing adverts for butter.

It's probably important to note that Johnny earned his "Rotten" moniker in the '70s because of his personal hygiene.

Oh, wait, here's a video!



(Johnny Rotten and Morris dancers? Heavens!)

That's OK, though: The folks from Madness are also doing food advertisements:



It's no "Baggy Trousers":

Familiarity Breeds Contempt

I know that's the adage, and it's true in my case, at least lately. I've been struggling on occasion in my relations with British people, and it's an attitude problem. I think it's that I've wearied a bit with the "first and best" attitude held by some when it comes to their contact with Americans.

I can trace my attitude change to an incident at a party held by a colleague of Mrs. Werbenmanjensen a month or so ago, when I was about to get the "why-do-you-call-it-the-World-Series-when-it's-only-teams-from-America?" lecture, as if this had never occurred to me nor had anybody ever mentioned it to me. I finally had to ask him if an English cricketer would rather win the World Cup, a contest among all the cricketing nations of the world, or The Ashes, a contest with just one other country (PS: It's The Ashes). He didn't think that a fair comparison, but he did point out in the same vein that the Six Nations is technically only a contest between four nations.

This conversation was the first of several incidents I've found at least a little irritating lately. Perhaps the whole thing was accelerated during the Olympics period when the British press was picking a fight over medal tallies. (No, it wasn't just so Americans look good this Olympiad. We've always done it that way. It's you who choose to denigrate silver and bronze by failing to count them.)

So to any native who might be reading this: I've lived here two and a half years. So please understand:

1. The "British" Open was the first of the major golf championships in the world and should therefore be called "the Open Championship." I know this, so please don't lecture me about it.
1a. No, really, Americans don't take the Ryder Cup that seriously, no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise. Golf ain't a team sport.
2. There are various claims about inventions attributed to Americans that may have been British. History is written by the winners.
2a. We could get into a long debate about who exactly invented the first computer. Suffice it to say: IBM and Apple are not British companies.
2b. You are way ahead of the US when it comes to broadband, digital television innovation and mobile phones. I said it. Leave me alone.
3. You spell honor with a "u", check with a "que" and summarize with an "s". I work for Americans. Therefore it would cause some difficulty if I got in the practise of spelling like you.
4. (Courtesy of Mrs. W) When I say things like "VY-ta-min D" there's no point in you saying back to me "VIT-a-min D." I know we pronounce it differently. I'm not going to change, and neither are you.
5. I'm not saying things like "brilliant" and "bugger all" to make fun of you. It's things I've actually picked up.
6. "High-fives" are not something British people do or are that comfortable with. But I'm going to do them when I'm excited anyway.

A Letter From Steve Guttenberg

Hello Friends,

Here I am trying on my pantomime costume, whilst making the most of the LA sunshine, before I pack my bags and head for Bromley this Christmas. I'm over the moon about making my UK pantomime debut as Baron Hard-up in the magical Cindarella.

Working with rogues during my Police Academy days should, I hope, be a fine workout for my battles with the Ugly Sisters; but I'm sure I can count on your help to boo them off! The song and dance routines will be awesome--something I'm really going to enjoy after taking part on America's top-rated show Dancing With The Stars. I am also delighted to announce that the Absolutely Fabulous Helen Lederer will be joining me as Fairy Godmother to add a sprinkling of comedy magic to the fun.

It's going to be a truly wonderful Chrismas for me in the UK, so make sure you join me for the biggest and funniest traditional pantomime around and book your ticket today.

See you soon!

Steve

Because you want to: Who holds back the elec-tric car? Who made Steve Guttenberg a star?

(Hat tip to Annie Mole, whose Twitter feed alerted me to this show.)

And now ...

"Hey, Smitty, how's come you dowan't come around no mowah? Ever'body was dere: Big Petey, Little Petey, Regular Petey, Joey Bagadonuts, Jimmy the Woman, Irregular Petey, Muscles Marinara ..."

Well, the truth is threefold. One, I'm lazy. Two, I've been getting ready for a rather important event coming up, the preparation for which has consumed more of my time than I care to say. Three, I was watching a lot of Olympics.


Now, if you follow the Olympics, you know that London gets the next summer games in 2012. The handover of the games was marked by celebrations throughout London and the sonic boom of the Red Arrows (the British Thunderbirds) screeching directly over our flat. I noticed two cultural trends emerging from the overseas Olympic experience.

First, I get the impression that with the conclusion of the Beijing Games it has become all the more immediate to the London 2012 organizers how big their job is. Obvious trampling on human rights aside, Beijing put on a nearly flawless fortnight. In their defeatist post-Empire way, the British already are despairing that they'll never be able to duplicate it, a theme I started hearing from the moment the Beijing opening ceremony ended. If the organizers share that belief, they won't be able to duplicate Beijing. I think they're up to the job, however.

Second, I learned a bit about British sporting fans from the unexpected medal haul the GB team earned. In victory, British fans can be much like Boston Red Sox fans: insufferability squared. Yeah, I know Americans are the arrogant Yankees fans of world sports. But the British are simply annoying--yes, you're annoying, with your sneering over topping Australia in the medal table, with the way you picked a fight about how the medals are tallied. (PS: Times of London, the IOC doesn't issue a medal tally. It takes the view that the Olympics is a competition between athletes. PPS: I was planning on cheering for England in the next Ashes series, but when you picked a fight over the medal tally and started mocking Australia, I changed my mind.) I expect to have to put up with a month or so of this, I guess--but then the World Cup qualifiers will begin soon, and with luck we'll be back to the same old British sports fans. I could use the peace.

Besides, we all know who the real winner is: Arise, Jamaica! Your tally means you won medals on a weighted basis at a rate of 11.5 per billion dollars gross domestic product.

In Other News

Pet insurance outsells private health insurance in Britain.

Olympics Commentary

I didn't realize there was such a rivalry between the British and the Australians.

More here.

And to think it all stems from a silly little urn.

Famous For Britain

We now bring you part 2 of our continuing series:


This ad confused Mrs. W and me for awhile, although I figured it out at long last. The big bloke with the 'stache is a famous British athlete who actually might be known in other parts of the world. Can you name him?

Queen's Garden Party: Tastes

People seem to be most curious about the menu. Not to disappoint anyone, but I actually didn't consume any of the tea -- it seemed too hot for Twinings, even with lots of milk in it. So I opted for iced coffee -- which was just the right side of sweet -- and lemon barley water. (Someone asked me how the champagne was, but no alcohol was served.)

I sampled one of each sandwich; don't worry, they were almost literally the size of a finger, with no crusts. I hadn't had a crustless lunch since that phase I went through at age 7. Cucumber and mint was nice but not enough mint for my taste. Gammon ham with mustard was the best, and then there was egg mayonnaise and cress. I think it's a law that all teas must serve egg mayonnaise and cress sandwiches. They are certainly in every sandwich shop in town, and while I enjoyed eating that one, it certainly wasn't a unique selection. But you're not really going for unique I suppose -- you're going for tradition!

And last but not least, the cakes: a rich chocolate and toffee with the crown on top (in chocolate, natch); a strawberry custard concoction; a similar one with raspberries; a type of cheescake; and an almond pastry filled with cream. I didn't sample all of these, just the first two and the last one. Finally, smiling servants walked through the throng with silver trays of Loseley ice cream. The choices were strawberries and cream or Madagascar vanilla. The vanilla was great -- the perfect way to end the day.

We'll Be Right Back After This

The Werbenmanjensens will be occupied for a couple of days, so we want to leave you with something a little, well, uplifting:



(Has a couple of naughty words in it.)

Friday Catblogging

Because I'm a bad blogger (bad blogger! post more often!), Friday Catblogging takes place on Sunday this week.


Painted on a wall on Whitecross Street.

A Note About English Customer Service

Customer at electrical shop: Hi, I'd like to buy some shrink tubing to fit this connection.

Electrical shop clerk: Oh, we don't have anything like that. You should go to an electrical shop.

(True story, edited for clarity.)

Still More Things That Are Better Back Home

Body weight measurement.

To start off, however, let me say that the United States did something right: When it rejected the metric system, it rejected everything about it. The British, however, are stuck in this weird in-between zone: Temperature's in degrees celsius, distance is in miles, yards, and feet, but body weight is measured in the rather bizarre, antiquated unit called the stone.

Celsius I can handle. Double it and add 30, in the Bob and Doug McKenzie fashion and you approximate degrees fahrenheit. Pounds to kilogram is divide by 2.2. Miles to kilometers, multiply by 1.6.

But pounds to stone? That requires advanced math. And there's no real reason for it, because I still have to say, "I weigh 11 stone 11 pounds." Why wouldn't I just say, "I weigh 165 pounds"? I'd be just as well off to say how many cubits tall I am, or that I live 40 rods up the hill from the Tube station.

Cultural Exchange, The Final Word

The New York Times had this to say about London's NFL game:

For most of the game, a spritzing drizzle fell through the hole, and with some swirling breezes, it sometimes felt like playing in a sneeze.