One could use a lot of grey cells and ink trying to suss out and describe the behavior and thought processes of the Brits. It’s almost “the more you know, the less you understand.
Having lived in London for several years, I’ve been up close and personal with our cousins, the Brits, and with the perfect clarity provided by time and distance I can now say definitively that perfect enlightenment regarding their character is in knowing that one will never know them.
A recent article which prompted this piece and from which I will quote extensively (one can never be to careful with all the literary lynch mobs roaming the streets looking for budding plagiarists) reported on a nascent effort to create the perfect motto for the the United Kingdom, or was it Great Britain, or maybe it was England, or possibly the British Commonwealth. Come to think of it, those of you who are globally savy, let me know the difference. A golden curmudgeon for those of you who get it right. In any case, the thesis of this piece, which I think was in America’s newspaper, the NY Times, was that a pithy, succinct statement which was suggestive of the inherent character of the “odd little peoples of the British Isles” would be a significant marketing asset and would somehow further the greater interest of commonwealth on which the sun never sets. We have our Declaration of Independence, Israel has it’s plaintive mutterings on the wailing wall, and the French will shout out “Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite”, that is when they’re not saying me donnez une beeg Mac. But the poor Brits have nothing that really describes them character-wise.
In perhaps a colossally misguided effort to correct this deficiency in the British lexicon, the Times of London recently sponsored a motto-writing contest for it’s readers. This is a task that legions of overly educated, under challenged readers of the Times would flock, and flock they did, flooding the Times editorial staff with tonnes (that’s British for tons) of paper proposing ideas from the ridiculous to the sublime. More of the former than the latter, I’m sure. My personal favorite was “At Least We’re not French”, but the weight of the public vote on the finalists went to “No Motto Please, We’re British”. In a fit of cynical humor the Earl of Mar and Kellie (where ever that may be) proposed the simple solution of using the ancient Scottish motto, “Nemo me impune lacessit” which he translated to “Don’t Sit on a Thistle”. I didn’t check his latin to english translation, but I did LOL for several minutes. You gotta admit that this proposal does rather expose one dimension of the British character. More to the point was a proposal that the inscription on the entrance to the House of Lords should be considered….”Questions and answers ought to be short”. Come to think of it, this would be fine advice for all political types and their journalist cohorts. Had I still been a reader of the Times, I would have been inclined to offer my own entry which I take from the wall in the gin rummy room at my golf club…..”No, Whining Allowed”.
Language is a funny thing with the Brits. They’ve never seen a phrase they couldn’t mangle, a word they couldn’t mispronounce, or a meaning they couldn’t misconstrue. A reporter on the BBC today was reporting on the misadventures of the President of Venezuelar. Venezuelar…..why put the “r” on the end of an otherwise perfectly good country. I’ll bet all right thinking Venezuelarians would have more than a spot of trouble with this. There are several examples of this sort that grate my sensibilities. Not long after we settled in London Town, a Taco Bell was opened ‘neath the shadow of Eros at the end of Picadilly Street which they insisted on calling Tacko Bell (as in thumb ‘tack’). Never mind that they insisted on dousing perfectly good tacos with a sickeningly sweet tomahto/relish concoction that they tried to pass off as salsa. I don’t know if it bothered me or my french amis more that a filet de boeuf became “fillit” of beef when uttered by any of Brit persuasion. It turned an otherwise delightful piece of meat into something dreadful which had both a noxious sound and taste. It took me six months of my three year stay to determine that “the top of the high street” meant nothing more than ‘at the end of main street’, and I never did adjust to “at the end of the day” meaning finally or at last. You see what I mean.
My first meaningful confusion with the language that I thought I knew occurred in a business meeting wherein we were discussing the adoption of our standard (US) policy for employee appearance and dress. I repeated the corporate mantra including the now very curious prohibition against female employees wearing ‘pants’ in the office. There were some muted gasps, then quiet titters growing to guffaws. I inquired after the source of this amusement only to be informed that while our male employees might receive some titillation, our female English employees would find it quite quaint to be forbidden the wearing of undergarments in the office in order to accommodate a corporate policy. After a short period of reflection, I agreed.
Bob’s your uncle if it’s not bleeding likely that bugger will budge up and make some bloody space for me. That’s just bullocks! Eh, say again; in english, please.
