When I was asked to give a short talk about living in England, I immediately thought I would mention all the little differences that make life here so interesting. But as I thought about it, I kept running into to the same clichés and stereotypes we all know so well. Marmite, the weather, grandiose Americans, mild-mannered Brits, cheerio, what what and so forth (by the way, on the Marmite question I come down on the side of loving it).  So instead I thought I’d just share with you somethings I’ve learned and enjoyed here in old Blighty.

This may surprise you, but my first job in England was actually teaching English. I can’t tell you how many times when, upon mentioning that, I would get as a response: “But you don’t speak English.” And it’s true, I drink water not woh-tah, use a computer not a compu-tah, and I probably say ‘cool’  and ‘man’ way too much. But I am learning.

Over the years I’ve learned a lot about English language, and culture. I now know that food, not just people, can be ‘lovely’ and ‘gorgeous’. I now know the difference between a ‘chav’ and a ‘yob’, I know when I feel ‘a bit miffed’ or ‘well chuffed’, I know a crumpet from a scone, and I can tell Prince Charles from Prince William.

I’ve learned to drive on left (passed my first time), and know how to say ‘excuse me’ and ‘cheers’ from behind the wheel.

I can even explain how the devolution of powers from Westminster to the Scottish Parliament and Welsh Assembly has lead to the West Lothian problem.  Although I couldn’t tell you how to solve it.

I know people from abroad love to put down the food here, but have they tried a good balti? I’m still amazed that not only can you easily find such a complex and delicious a dish, but you can actually have it delivered to your doorstep on a Friday night.

 And what would life be without a good Sunday roast dinner, gathered round the table with family and friends?

I love England’s natural beauty. I feel lucky to have seen the bluebells in Clapham woods, to have cleared my mind with a walk round Cissbury Ring, to have seen the shimmering cliffs at Seven Sisters, and of course, to have stopped in a village pub, after a good walk through the South Downs Way , and ordered a fresh pint of Harvey’s.

I am fascinated by the history that surrounds us. Walking through Arundel castle, I can feel the centuries human endeavour come to life. Standing below deck on the  truly awesome HMS Victory fills me with the sense of adventure, ambition and danger that drove sailors, capitans, soldiers, priests, and merchants to distant lands, including my own, so many years ago.

I am intrigued that the country of pantomimes and ‘Flog It!’ is also a country of great mystery. The Legends of Arthur,  the Long Man, Stonehenge, and the crop circles that are still appearing, make me wonder just what secret lies behind this island, and it gives a sense of what the Bard might’ve meant when he wrote:

“This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, this earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, this other Eden, demi-paradise, this fortress built by Nature for herself, against infection and the hand of war, this happy breed of men, this little world, this precious stone set in the silver sea, which serves it in the office of a wall, or as a moat defensive to a house, against the envy of less happier lands, this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.”

Well, that’s about all from me. Thanks folks.

    As I headed up the bridge, I walked pass a chavvy lad chatting up two chavvy birds in a zippy hatchback, and ever-so-briefly met his eyes. He in response insulted me with obvious and crass homophobic slander. I, as a married, annoyed dude, turned about face to confront him.

     “What you sayin now?” said he.

      “What was that about, man?” said I.

       “What you eyein’ me for, MAAAAAAN?” said he.

        Sensing futility and  the possibility of multiple stab wounds, I turn to walk away. As I do so, I hear:

       “Go back to F—ing America. This is England!”

         I face him again.

       “What you sayin now?!” I hear.  

         I turn around and walk away. 

         Have I encountered the trusted heart of the BNP? Do chavs have a rising national identity? Could chavs be England’s strongest political voice? Are they the dormant proletarian army, awaiting a leader to unite them, and lead them to victory? They certainly dominate towns in their ever-growing throngs, through a combination of irreverence and intimidation. Chavs have their own brands, their own styles, their own images, their own hierarchy of respect and power. They are scorned, and feared and perhaps some of them understand their role in a society based largely on economic means.

    In light of tonight’s brief altercation, I  fear only slightly for myself as a foreigner in England; I fear far more for the concrete consequences of England’s growing problem of internal social alienation.

A distortion free representation of Earth

    Then, as I gave her a fiver, she said it again, in two notes- a high ‘Thank’ and a ‘you’ about a tritone down. I said nothing, believing that the exchange of money is a necessary element  in any economic transaction, and hardly a call for showing gratitude.

     Now, as she’s giving me my change, out of nowhere, she does it again. “Thank you.” Same tone. At this point I’m starting to lose faith in humanity, but still go for a decent close, the classic ‘Take care’, hoping to get the common British reply ‘and you’. No joy. As I start to turn, it hear a faint, pointless “Thank you”. And with that I walk through the automatic doors, head hung in disappointment, a pang of sadness in my heart.

    Four thank yous over buying an egg mayonnaise. Four. Some might call that polite. Some might say I’m being unreasonable. But what I heard that day was inane and alienating and it must be stopped.

     If you’re working at the cashier, and I give you a sandwich, there’s no need to give thanks. I’m not giving you a gift. It’s not yours. It’s mine. I want it. I want to buy it, walk away, and eat it. Please don’t thank me.

When I give you some money, don’t thank me. It’s not yours; you won’t benefit from the one pound going into ASDA’s account. Don’t thank me, and I won’t thank you when you give me change. Deal?

All this thanking, it pushes away chances for human exchange. Don’t get me wrong- I don’t expect a mystical union with every cashier  meet. But a decent greeting can remind us that yeah, I’m here buying this ridiculous food product, and that yeah, you’re stuck behind this counter pushing the herd through, but hey, that’s not all we are, we are subjects after all, right? We’ve got some kind of conscioussness, puny and distracted though it may be, right? So forget the mindless thank yous, look at the folks in the eye, and take a chance…

…Ah hell, there I go a-rambulatin again. Well, just somethin that gets stuck in my craw sometimes, is all. And if you kindly folks out there on them interwebs read this, and mayhap can just about suss the point I’m gettin at, well then hey…Thanks.