There is a game called “Mornington Crescent”. Yes, it relates to the Underground station of the same name. No, I’m not going to tell you the rules of the game. But if you “get” it, and can find out what the rules are - you’re British, by jove.
There are a thousand reasons why the Celts (Welsh, Irish and Scottish to you) will never think of themselves as English. The first time you discover the Celtic antipathy for all things English; and when you finally comprehend their truly tribal nature - you’re British, by gum.
Great Britain publishes numerous newspapers, each one representing a particular political viewpoint that reveals you as a stereotype of one kind or another. Are you a Guardian reader (as I am)? A Times reader? Or, god forbid - a Sun reader? The first time you’re able to buttonhole the person behind the paper and peg them as a particular type – you’re British.
And then there’s tea. Aaaaaah, tea! Afternoon Tea at the Ritz, at R700 a head, and then a bottle of champers perhaps, at R180 a glass. Or Earl Grey, for heaven’s sake – no milk or sugar, you philistine. In fact, no sugar in anything. We’re British, don’t you know, and we haven’t forgotten the rationing, by God.
Then there’s the Americans. Don’t get me started on Americans ... they’re the bane of our lives; we hold them individually in affectionate regard, but dislike them as a collective; indulge them as colleagues, but disdain them as tourists. Americans. Tut!
The British are subversive; eccentric to a man. Stubborn, obnoxious and stoic. After all, look how well we cope with our floods and our bombings, compared with the Americans. We just got on with it, didn’t we?
When you know what it is to be “an Essex Gal” or a “Surrey Gel”, when you understand the difference between public and private schooling, when you’ve understood why the British will never, never, never surrender the Pound for the Euro. When you’ve learned why we will always see ourselves as welcoming all creeds and cultures from the Commonwealth, passionately defending their inalienable right to access our shores, trash our cities and pillage our benefits systems, yet remain inherently insular, xenophobic and shy, unspeaking to new colleagues across the desk for literally months before venturing more than a mumbled “good morning”. THEN, my friend, and only then, will you truly know what it is to be British.
And then of course, there’s Mornington Croissant …
:)
There are a thousand reasons why the Celts (Welsh, Irish and Scottish to you) will never think of themselves as English. The first time you discover the Celtic antipathy for all things English; and when you finally comprehend their truly tribal nature - you’re British, by gum.
Great Britain publishes numerous newspapers, each one representing a particular political viewpoint that reveals you as a stereotype of one kind or another. Are you a Guardian reader (as I am)? A Times reader? Or, god forbid - a Sun reader? The first time you’re able to buttonhole the person behind the paper and peg them as a particular type – you’re British.
And then there’s tea. Aaaaaah, tea! Afternoon Tea at the Ritz, at R700 a head, and then a bottle of champers perhaps, at R180 a glass. Or Earl Grey, for heaven’s sake – no milk or sugar, you philistine. In fact, no sugar in anything. We’re British, don’t you know, and we haven’t forgotten the rationing, by God.
Then there’s the Americans. Don’t get me started on Americans ... they’re the bane of our lives; we hold them individually in affectionate regard, but dislike them as a collective; indulge them as colleagues, but disdain them as tourists. Americans. Tut!
The British are subversive; eccentric to a man. Stubborn, obnoxious and stoic. After all, look how well we cope with our floods and our bombings, compared with the Americans. We just got on with it, didn’t we?
When you know what it is to be “an Essex Gal” or a “Surrey Gel”, when you understand the difference between public and private schooling, when you’ve understood why the British will never, never, never surrender the Pound for the Euro. When you’ve learned why we will always see ourselves as welcoming all creeds and cultures from the Commonwealth, passionately defending their inalienable right to access our shores, trash our cities and pillage our benefits systems, yet remain inherently insular, xenophobic and shy, unspeaking to new colleagues across the desk for literally months before venturing more than a mumbled “good morning”. THEN, my friend, and only then, will you truly know what it is to be British.
And then of course, there’s Mornington Croissant …
:)
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