Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Episode 6: My Own Little Britain

I. Mind The Gap & Your Manners

Say what you will about the Brits, but I thought they were great. They are better than you and they know it, therefore it's pointless to argue with the buggers. So what if they are responsible for countless imperialist evils, plundering and pillaging country after country, leaving behind their nonsense driving directions, unintelligible accent and silly Queen? I forgive them for all of that (except that nonsense driving...seriously, making a left turn in the UK is more complicated than brain surgery). Traitorous American? Never. I can't help it if I'm drawn to that sexy accent and the kinda-probably-most-likely-fake politeness. They are responsible for creating almost 99.99% of all the world's best music, after all. For that reason alone, I love the Brits. But there's so much more.

First, the politeness. We all know that the exaggerated manners and decorum are just a front, but who cares?! Average Americans and the whole of China could learn a thing or two from the British. Emotions are stifled to such an extent that they even jog with reservation: daily, at lunch time, check out the slew of runners along the Thames, all scowling faces and frowns. We even saw one guy stressing so diligently to maintain composure that he looked like he was constipated, with kidney stones, and about to cry. They may be so uptight that a shilling would find it hard to penetrate a British asscrack, but it is far better than being surrounded by uncouth oafs without common decency.

It took me a few days to acclimate to the insane amount of energy applied to just being polite. I had to second guess my every move to make sure I wasn't stepping on anyone's toes, both literally and figuratively. At points, the diabolical effect that China has had on me would seep forth... jumping to the head of a queue, forgetting to use my indoor voice, pushing to board the subway... I had to self-flagellate nightly, like that Da Vinci Code monk, to try and control those demonic mainland urges. Absolutely frightening what China can unconsciously do to a person's habits.

Everyone around you, no matter who, is in a constant state of "sorry" (not "pardon" or "excuse me", those are for common folk) or "cheers" (not like "drink up, bitches!" but more like "thanks"). If you're a foreigner planning on moving to the UK for work (see: Polish, Russian or eastern European), those are really the only words you need to learn. And maybe learn how to flip the British finger:

Two Fingers Are Better Than One

On my trip, there were two instances of most egregious overdone British politeness, which you really need to experience in person to understand. I'll try my best to transcribe...

Scene 1 - In London, at a charming street fair in Marylebone, my friend was queuing for the loo (US translation: "waiting in line for the bathroom"). The lady behind her had a daughter who apparently couldn't hold her pee any further. Tapping my friend on the shoulder, she said something along the lines of:

"I'm terribly sorry, but do you strongly resent the fact that my little girl really must use the toilet?"

The "terribly sorry" is commonplace, so there's nothing wrong there. But "strongly resent"? Ha! I don't think anyone has ever been that polite to me, much less in a public bathroom with an annoying brat who can't observe proper adult protocol and just hold her damn piss. How can you say no to someone so polite? Those Brits are clever indeed.

Scene 2 - In Bath, on our hunt for King Bladud's pigs (I'll get to this later, but for now, note that they are art statues, not real swine), I happened upon a pair of piggies near the university dorms. As I ran over to snap some shots (almost getting run over by not looking the proper direction as I crossed the street), a woman and her young daughter beat me to them. She lifted her baby girl to sit atop one of the porkers, at which point we had the following exchange:

Woman, smiling at me: "Oh, she [her daughter] simply must ride each one!"

Me, smiling and attempting to be clever: "And I simply must take pictures of each one!"

Woman, panicking: "Oh dear! I'm terribly sorry! Are we disturbing you? Shall I take her off?!"

Me, putting out my hands to stop this crazy woman: "No, no, no, I already took pictures, please, let your daughter ride!"

Woman, looking frantic: "Are you sure!?"

Me: "Yes."

Woman: "Really?!?!"

Me: "Yes."

Woman: "You sure!?!"

Me: "YES!"

My back already covered in cold sweat, I quickly backed away before her head exploded in a glorious brain-matter fireworks display brought on by that overwhelming show of manners. After the exchange, my hands were shaking in an adrenaline rush that I've only experienced whilst riding roller coasters or visiting haunted houses at a theme park. It's terrifying how polite these folk are.

One of King Bladud's Swine: DINOPIG!

Next, queues. What's a queue? A line. As in, an orderly row of people slowly waiting to reach a common point of interest. As in, something that does not exist in China. Boy, these people love a good queue like normal folk enjoy ice cream or sex. Whether you're queuing for a coffee, the bathroom, a train or a theatre ticket, it's always peaceful, eerily quiet and evenly spread out so that no one's bubble space is invaded. They make queuing a science.

In addition to the standard queue, the Brits also engage in a hilarious phenomenon of the one-person line. It's hard to spot, but once you get the hang of it, you'll notice it all over the place. Most obviously at traffic lights:

After pressing the pedestrian "walk" button at any zebra crossing, the lone Londoner will stand aside, upright, out of the way of foot traffic, and wait patiently for the light to turn. Lining up in a crowd of one, prim and proper.

Preemptive strike time! Naysayers, hold your horses before you get all huffy: yes, of course there are jaywalkers and pedestrians who pace anxiously on the side of the road, waiting for the light to change. But that doesn't take away from the humor of seeing someone create a queue out of thin air and observe established rules simply out of habitual politeness.

Unfortunately, China has totally killed my queue-ability. On the first day, when we stopped into Pret for breakfast, I casually walked directly to the open space at the front of the queue. Before realizing what I had done, the look of horror sweeping over the faces of the people behind me was enough to snap me back to reality. I could have been in mid-coitus with a dog and a syringe hanging out of my arm and no one would have noticed if I had just lined up like everyone else. I sheepishly smiled at them all, pretended I was just getting a better look at the menu, then carefully backtracked to the end of the line. Crisis averted, I wouldn't make that mistake again.

However, while I didn't repeat that flub from the food queue, I did have to be reeducated in other areas. Namely, whilst using the Tube.

All Aboard The Underground

We all know that subway riding in China is on par with Roman gladiator matches and mosh pits at death metal concerts. There is no way to describe the mess of humanity, organized breakdown of proper protocol and lack of basic common sense. You just have to experience the horror for yourself. Especially in the summer, when there's the added factor of sweat and B.O. Being conditioned for this type of unholy scrum, I unwittingly brought the same game-time attitude to the Tube.

The Nightmare That Is The Shanghai Metro (courtesy of TheShanghaiEye)

As the train pulled in, the doors opened and I stormed forth, prepared to push and force my way in like a batter ram at the gates of Minas Tirith. But that wasn't necessary, for the Tube is a lovely microcosm of British manners. When the subway car comes to a stop, the crowds remain composed. Doors open, people take their time exiting the car, then people take their time boarding. Sometimes you sit there for a minute or two, waiting for the track ahead to clear. If you got on the wrong train, there's even enough time to catch your mistake and alight before departure. It's so relaxed and organized that you forget what you were late for.

No Rush. (South Kensington Station)

There's usually no need to rush anyway: displays in every station list out the incoming train times and destinations clearly and audible delay announcements are made over a working intercom. Trains pass through very frequently during rush hours as well. I can forgive line closures and train traffic, for the Tube is a thing of beauty. China could learn a lesson or two from the Brits.

Paddington Station

Even on the escalators, people are adament about proper observation of the rules, i.e. stand on the right, walk on the left. In China, my experience is usually stand anywhere your lazy ass stops, inconveniencing the person behind, who is in some great rush, leaving them no choice but to push their way through.

So again, first day, I'm just standing on the left, looking at the assortment of advertisements and people around me with a sort of wide-eyed innocence you would have normally seen on immigrants stepping foot onto Ellis Island, when I heard a disapproving "tsk tsk" behind me. Of course, silly me, people needed to get by my inconsiderate ass. Passing by, there were a few head shakes and some looks of sympathy. Maybe they thought I was retarded. Or French. Who knows, but I learned my lesson very quickly. By the end of the trip, the overwhelming aura of politeness became second nature and I had been assimilated without even noticing the change.

Stand on the right, walk on the left!!!!!!!

II. People Are People

On any trip to a foreign land, people-watching is a required activity if you want to get a real feel of the place. That and visiting a supermarket. I'm serious, think about it. Normal folk don't spend their days visiting tourist sites or eating expensive meals: they go about their business, work hard, run errands, and try to avoid visitors like you and I. So in my best attempts at blending in, I made a few observations.

As I may have mentioned a couple hundred times, the majority of people in London are painfully stylish. I've been getting a lot of shit from the haters for that generalization, so I'll quickly clarify. I don't mean EVERYONE in the city looks like a model (go to Italy for that, am I right, people?). It's just that most folk - like 1 out of 3 maybe - know how to properly choose their attire and structure a decent outfit. Hairstyles are creative (and not in the way that local Chinese interpret "creative" to mean "hair abortion"). Footwear is impeccable. So on an average day, most of the people around you dress in ways that can hopefully inspire you to try harder. Simple as that.

Indeed, it is a curious phenomenon, this so-called British style. By all accounts, a dude with messy hair, clothes that look like they've seen war, and a healthy amount of stubble would be mistaken for a homeless bum in another country. Or maybe a foreigner studying Mandarin in China whilst on the prowl for easy, impressionable local birds. Yet here in London, the aura of the Brit transforms this formerly filthy vagrant into a catwalk sex bomb. Like Derelict in the flesh. It's as if by being so casually whatever with their messy coifs and layered bohemian hobo-dress, they transcend normalcy and exude even more cool.

On the other end of the spectrum, we have the birds (i.e. "the ladies"). Not all of them are as fit as I'm making them seem, but they are significantly hotter than the average white American chick. There are still loads of ho-hum British broads that'd be indistinguishable from their US counterparts across the pond, IF they too were decked out in American Eagle or Forever 21.

Therein lies the difference.

With a little thought and style, that formerly bland American duckling can be magically transformed into a hot London swan, too. I was quite perturbed to spot an overabundance of Abercrombie wear on the more casual pedestrians, but I'm hoping those were just Americans on holiday. McDonalds and Starbucks have already standardized the world with American cookie-cutter mediocrity; it'd be a pity for A&F to do the same.

For now, all remains relatively safe. Guys can dress like dandies without being labeled gay or metro by homophobic idiots and girls know how to flatter their figures rather than allow fat rolls and buttcracks to seep forth from tight T's and low-rise jeans. The majority, anyway. And that makes a world of difference.

Rewinding a generation, we take a step back from the general populous that I've been raving on about (i.e. the twentysomethings, young professionals, my peers) and peek at the young'uns.

As I get on in my years, I've grown increasingly fearful of teenagers. I just hate them, especially large packs of dangerous looking white ones. In the UK, it's no different. In fact, these youth seem worse than the American ones because they don't seem to give a fuck. Rabble-rousing on the street with open containers of alcohol. Hootin' and hollerin' in the Tube, menacing echoes bouncing off the subterranean walls. Suspicious and discomforting gazes on the subway. Baggy pants. Just take a look at this recent news footage for proof (kidding, it's just a badass Justice video)! I may be a paranoid old man, so if you really don't believe me, pick up a local London newspaper to see the urban crime and violence rates perpetuated by teens. It's shocking. No wonder Pete Doherty and Amy Winehouse were voted youth heroes in a recent poll. Shameful.

If you care enough about the aged and decrepit of Britain, join me in this quick activity. Close your eyes and visualize a bunch of well-mannered and proper old hags with curly white hair, miles of wrinkles, flabby facial skin, squinty eyes hidden behind huge glasses, lots of "love" and "darling," terrifyingly bad teeth... Now imagine their male counterparts: tweed jackets, those cute little hats, liver spots, hunchbacks and that curious stink of nursing home. Just like the Queen and that old guy she spends time with. There was nothing particularly surprising about this demographic, so if you desire further investigation, take a trip to Bath. That place is filled with geriatrics.

Welcome To Bath, Where People Party Like It's 230 BC

Enough about age. Mulling about the land, I also noticed a lot of racial mixing. Not like "mixed-race kids" (which, now that you mention it, there are a LOT of), but more like "lots of different coloured people in the same place at the same time." I know it sounds really obvious, but the buffet spread in London offers a lot more choice than even one in New York City. It was like an Affirmative Action party packed into one subway car: a bunch of Indians, a Cantonese guy, some generic white people (both local and Eastern European), some black people (Westernized and FOB Africans - wow, that came off a little offensive, eh?), a Southeast Asian lady (most likely Filipino), a dude in a turban, and some vaguely Middle Eastern women (couldn't be sure: can't see anything behind those damn veils). And this was average daily viewing. This much ethnic mingling is amazingly refreshing for a guy coming from a place that's 90% Yellow. Man, did I miss black people.

The rainbow of humanity had one segment that was of particular interest to me: the huge amount of Eastern Europeans. Since when did London become a magnet for these folk? Since the demand for low-paying, service-related jobs increased.

Living in China has made me somewhat sensitive to those occupying the lower rungs of society and their demographic makeup. While Mexicans do the dirty work in America, Filipinos look after children in Hong Kong and Taiwan, and people from Anhui province clean the apartments and villas of Shanghai expats, so the Polish do their thing in London. On the flight, watching British comedy shows on Virgin's on-demand glorybox, I thought it was strange to see the amount of jokes referencing Polish service people. It was only when I landed and saw all the Eastern Europeans (Russian, Polish, Czech, whatever) cleaning, shipping, moving and waiting that I got the humour. They seem to be everywhere.

Obviously it's not a utopian society where everyone prances around hand-in-hand to the tune of Coldplay's "Don't Panic." Race and class issues in the UK are as abundant and serious as the ones in America, maybe worse (especially in the boroughs on the outskirts of the city). Now I know why M.I.A. is so bitter. But simply being able to see a healthy mix of all walks of life on a daily basis was a nice change of pace.

III. They're Talking In A Language I Can't Speak

If you've noticed, I've been casually tossing in terms used in the UK. I don't mean to be a pretentious wannabe twat. I'm just highlighting an important cultural divide between the US and the UK. At the end of the day, it's these tiny alterations to daily speech that ensure you will never be a Brit until you learn how to speak like a Brit (that is until your accent betrays your poser ass). Whip out those flash cards, kiddies, it's time for a quick ("real") English lesson.

If a Brit compliments you on your "nice pants", it'd be best for you to phone the police immediately (or, if your admirer is sexy, get ready for a good, hard shag). Why? Because in the UK, "pants" are not those long-legged garments we used to cover our lower limbs. Rather, they are underwear ("knickers" if you're as old as the Queen). Though I'm sure that if Jude Law came up to you and said "Hey luv, nice pants," you'd surely drop trou. However I wouldn't recommend using the same line when picking up girls in a club. You aren't Jude Law.

Also, if you want to tell a girl she has a nice ass, by all means, I deplore you, do NOT tell her she has a hot fanny. You'll be complimenting the wrong side of her hips... The kick to the nuts will be well-deserved, my friend. Fannypacks take on entirely different meanings now, eh?

Here are a few more common vocabulary terms for you to memorize:

jumpers = sweaters or sweatshirts
trousers = pants (like the ones Americans wear)
trainers = sneakers
fags = cigarettes (gay men are referred to as "poof(ter)s")
coach = buses
pram = baby strollers
posh = high-class, bordering on snobby, one of the Spice Girls
knob = pee-pee, ding-dong, weiner, wang, johnson
daft = stupid
minging = ugly, nasty (as in "that bitch be mingin'")
Asians = Southeast Asian Indians, not Chinese/Japanese/Korean
bugger = to sodomize (also used as an exclamatory statement like "S*&T!" or "F@#K!")
slag = loose woman (see also: trollop)
wanker = one who enjoys pleasuring oneself

There are billions of these, especially once you break it down into societal, racial, dialectal and regional slang (phew!). But these few are guaranteed to pop up in regular conversation. Let's review the above terms and see if you understand:

Scene 1: Da Club
"That daft poof over there is wearin' some mingin' trousers. He must have been buggered so 'ard last night, 'e forgot 'ow to dress! Let's smoke a fag and harass those slags. Teacrumpetsyeahbabyjollyoh!"

Yes, yes, that bit of Britspeak was sooo authentic, but you get the idea. If you didn't know the terms, you wouldn't have a clue what the crazy wanker next to you was going on about. Why'd he insult the fashion choices of that poor cloud of smoke? And why has he euphemistically invited me to engage in oral sex with a homosexual man? Furthermore, what is a crumpet, anyway?

You see? Thank me later.

One particularly annoying bit of wordplay that confused the pants off me was the difference between dessert, sweets and pudding. Just as the chip-crisp-fry menage a trois offers curious insight into differences in word usage, the dessert-sweet-pudding threesome is equally annoying.

Say you want to order something sugar-filled after your meal. Order dessert, of course. WRONG, you bleedin' knobhead. You order pudding. And if you're posher, you order sweets.

So what happens when you order your "pudding," expecting to get a nice cup of smooth mousse, and you're presented with a bowl of bready crap that looks like a deflated, gooey muffin? You did order the pudding, right? Absolutely. You've heard of bread pudding before, so what are you complaining about, ya Yank? It's just what you ordered. Same duplicitous trickery goes for sweets, which not only means dessert, but also doubles as candy at the convenience store. I love it.

These complications are not viewed as troublesome, of course. Rather, to the Brits, they represent a depth and complexity in the language that simple and boorish Americans could never understand because we've butchered the English language beyond recognition. As if! Like we totally like didn't like mess up the like English language like. Like. Like, like like. It's akin to how the Taiwanese correctly view the mainland desecration of the Chinese writing system, except the British snobbery regarding speech is not as contentious or true. Bloody simplified chickenscratch...

Sadly, I will never be British. Try as I might - and man, did I try - there's nothing I can do to fool them. I could dress like a god and use the proper slang (if I actually remembered it in relevant conversations and was bold enough to attempt usage), but innate ticks will always betray my Americanness. Until this trip, I didn't realize just how American I am. I mean, one day, walking in Bath, I uttered a "wow, jeez" without thinking and a local immediately turned to me and snickered. Biatch. I just can't win.

For the time being, my nationality remains a point of embarrassment, but I will reclaim my pride once we get Bush out of office (lovely to note that the British media and folks I met there all support Obama...if only they could vote in the general election, eh?). Experiencing this cultural gap actually served me well, for I was able to notice subtle differences between us and engage in a few interesting conversations of successful cultural exchange. If you want a comprehensive look on all these quirky differences, browse the immense library of US vs. UK books that have cropped up in recent years. I personally recommend Watching The British and Notes From A Small Island. Even if you end up staying right where you are and never have a chance to interact with the English on their home turf, you'll still be entertained.

Even Obama, Our Next President, Loves The Brits