mccullochblog

A Tale of Two Britains: Part One

Stiff Upper Lip Required

We’ve been in England for a week now, and being back has made me realize that the English have it tough, you know. For a nation that prides itself on its stiff upper lip (i.e. its pretty astonishing tolerance for the unpleasant) there really is a lot to be intolerant about.

Don’t get me wrong, England is a wonderful place too (hence the forthcoming Part II) but being back under England’s murky skies has reminded me why the Daily Mail never seems to run out of reasons to complain about British life.

Take the pub lunch, for example, that bastion of English culture and cuisine.

A pub lunch seems to cost about twelve pounds ($20) these days. If Britons knew that was the going rate for an entrée at top San Francisco restaurants, surely those upper lips might quiver a little?

Then there’s motoring. If you’ve ever met a Brit, you’ll know there’s a well-developed national obsession with automobiles over here, even though the country’s auto industry has waned as much as the Empire has contracted over the years.

Well consider this: the blueprint for many of Britain’s roads was drawn up by the Romans 2000 years ago with the width of a chariot in mind. Despite centuries of development, subsequent street designs (for London and surrounding villages, for example) were similarly created with horses and carriages in mind. As a result, Britain’s patchwork of roads grew up as exactly that, and today the resident or visiting motorist will find that even the motorways (freeways) are perennially under construction, as well as utterly clogged.

Oh, and by the time the auto-traveller gets to where they want to be, they are deterred from freely enjoying almost every inch of this heavily-taxed country by ‘congestion charges’ and an army of “pay-and-display” parking machines.

And don’t even mention the price of petrol (gas) to a Briton.

To assure you that I’m not just cherry-picking here, let me point out that life isn’t any less testing for non-vehicle owners. Ten pounds ($16) is considered cheap for a weekly local bus pass and forty pounds ($65) is what it costs to get between two cities one hundred miles apart on a train. 

Strangely, it costs about the same to fly anywhere in Europe with a budget airline such as EasyJet or RyanAir. It’s almost as if Britons are being subliminally urged to emigrate. Hmmm….

If Britons were thinking about emigrating….or at least not staying….then Britain’s (complete lack of) customer service is probably the thing that pushes some of them over the edge.

This country undoubtedly possesses some of the most miserable retail and hospitality staff known to planet Earth.

If you’re visiting, don’t expect to be asked how you’d like your lamb cooked. The waitress doesn’t care.

And don’t waste your breath on a cheery “How are you?” to a retail staff member. They will stare at you in utter astonishment, as if to say: “Why the hell do you care?”

It’s at times like those that America’s obsession with cheese-ball, toothy-grinned, open-armed, Disneyland-style fake welcomes seems utterly charming.

Before you ask...Yes, re-experiencing of most of the above this week has reminded me why I wasn’t too teary-eyed about leaving in the first place, but it would be utterly remiss of me not to point out that Britain is simultaneously also one of the most charming, historic, fascinating, beautiful places on Earth….but more about that later.

'Home' for the Holidays

A few days ago, Emma told me she had cried at the thought of our impending trip to England. She said that all of the emotions associated with seeing parents, sister, niece and nephew again were suddenly all a bit much for her.

Tears have come to my eyes too at the thought of a trip home to England. 

Usually it's the thought of the sweltering unventilated tube ride from Heathrow airport that does it. Or the misery of driving around London's designed-for-carriages streets.

Or, for that matter, simply anticipating the crippling pain of ten hours attempting to sleep in a space barely big enough for a bag of golf clubs.

But I have to say, the trip to England this time around promises to be fun. For starters, you'll note I referred to it as 'home' for the first time in a long while. Odd that isn't it? I've lived in California for eight years, longer now than I ever lived in London, and longer than anywhere except the house I grew up in, but still I call England 'home'.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that I'm 'homesick' though. Packing warm/cold/dry/wet/snowy weather clothing soon took care of any of those feelings.

But it will be great to introduce young Master William to such excellent folks as Uncle Poddy and his bevvy of eligible daughters. Yes, Poddy has more-or-less sworn blood-curdling wrath should my son be as dishonorable to his daughters as I may have been to one or two ladies when Poddy and I were still in our irresponsible youth, but as William is only four months old, and Poddy's trio are still under 7, I think we'll be fairly safe. 

And then there's the extended family in Holland to look forward to. William may be too young to fully appreciate that he is returning to his roots, but I think it's important that he experiences a little of Holland's perpetual rain and warm hospitality before his first birthday.

And then of course, there's the grandparents....and the role they all play in enabling the possibility that Emma and I will have a night out together without WIlliam's push-chair by our dinner table!  :-)

Railway Tavern. Roast Dinners. Appeltaart. Ron's barbecue. Dover Athletic. Here we come!