Obsessions

I was back in Paris the other night and I met my German friend Bongo and his better half for 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8 drinks in a cosy pub of the Latin Quarter. We were discussing many things as we've always done since we met in Kettering last year, but every twenty minutes we found ourselves talking about England again.
His girlfriend spotted it and asked us to stop this madness. "You two are like writing a song when you talk. Your verses are really good but your chorus is boring." The chorus was when we talked about England of course.

She may have been right, for what was left to say about it?

I suggested to bomb it as usual and he came with a better option: "If all the migrants go to the UK, then the island would be overcrowded and eventually sink." That would be the end of the white trash and Ken Loach could continue his filming of the drinking class under water.
But we both felt it was unfair for the Indians and the Pakistani who live there.
Bongo's offer was to give the land to them once the British are expelled by the United Nations. But then he thought twice and came with this conclusion: "The situation will be problematic. What you'll get is a million off-licence shops and curry restaurants with no customers." Bongo's sense of logic was sharp as ever.
It was very sad indeed to imagine these poor Indians standing behind their till, staring at eachother from their shop windows on both sides of an empty street.

We let go these deplorable comments for a while and came back to the verses. We debated about politics, history, books and baby-making but I couldn't help going back to the chorus: "Did you know that in London they put loads of signs in the tube calling for responsible drinking? One of these campaign ads warns about the risk of falling from the platform when drunk in the Underground."

Bongo's girlfriend asked for the permisson to slap me. I gave my permission, she slapped me and then she said: "Now that you have two verses and two choruses, I expect you two to work on the bridge."

Pub-crawling

And so it's friday night, you walk off your place and gets in the street. You are about to meet friends for a nice dinner out, you're in real good mood. But then someone comes towards you with a baseball bat and smashes your head. You fall on the pavement. You see a thousand stars dancing in your head. You're stun. And when you wake up, you're in Kettering, East Midlands, England. What do you do next?

First you go to the Earl of Dalkeith. It's off the main street opposite the pizza place, you can't miss it. The definite place for a friday night starter. Hundreds of guys carrying hundreds of pints, talking loud but still under control. Under your feet, a nice carpet. Above your head, a mighty roof. And all around you, men and women sharing their views on the next Irish band. This pub is the cheapest in town, so you drink up a couple of Carlings and then you go out for a smoke. A 12 year-old teen tries to get in the place, the bouncer asks for her ID, she shows her mum's driving licence and he lets her in.

Then you go to the Watercress, just a few steps further down the street. A massive bloke serves you at the bar a pint of San Minguel. This pub is very quiet. A couple of bar-hopping hotties tease eachother and you cant' but notice them. They're definitely in their thirties, maybe in their forties. You go and ask them politely how much they charge for one night and they tell you to piss off. You take shelter in the garden and light yourself another fag. They follow you and scream at you, you're a bit scared now and so you leave.

Your third stop is the Cherry Tree. A traditional english pub serving traditional english ales. You stand at the bar since there is not seat, and the guy next to you starts a conversation about De Gaulle. Nobody listens to him but you, you find it quite interesting. He's totally pissed, that's for sure. But you're not exactly sober yourself. You order a pint of Guiness and think about spending the whole evening there. But then a terrible smell of shit and organic decay lands to your nose. Someone just farted and you don't want to know who it is. Time to move on.

The streets are busy now. Everybody is kind of pissed and fights arouse here and there. Someone lies on the ground, he's got blood on his face. He asks you for a cigarette and you drop one. He's completely at sea and he cannot even catch it. He says "Cheers, anyway" and you keep on walking. The Peacock is awaiting you now.
Inside the pub, a bunch of girls with bunny ears dance and drink blue cocktails with 120% sugar in it. Some bald stocky guy gets near and squeezes their tits one by one. They let him do and even laugh. So you try do the same, but the result is quite different. One of the girls spits in your face, another one kicks your balls. And then you remember Jarvis Cocker's lyrics : "Nobody wants to be your friend cos' you're not from round here..." and you walk off the pub before it turns ugly.

The Prince of Wales is your last chance. The last place open in town. It's so packed inside you can merely move. Oxygen has been replaced by beer fumes. You manage to get to the bar and wait 20 minutes for the barmaid to take your order. You say "vodka", she says "what?", you say "vodka" again, she says "Ok" and you just realize it's so noisy in there that no one would hear a trombone. You're so drunk that you're eager to socialize at any cost. So you go to the dance floor and move your ass on Blondie's Heart of Glass. But then you slip on someone's vomit and fall. The problem is you fell at the start of the next song which is a punk one. Those ready to pick you up are now trampling on you. You suffocate, you scream and then you die.

When you wake up, the guy with the baseball bat is still there. He smiles at you and leaves. You call your friends and tell them you won't make it tonight. They ask you why and you reply: "I think I've just met Santa Cruz."

British abroad conversation guide

Happy people from the continent, my brothers and soulmates, you immaculate folks from all around Europe, be it the plains of Spain, the fields of Italy, the mountains of Albania or the forests of Germany, you may - or may not - have crossed the path of this rare and peculiar insular animal that we call a Briton.
If you ever cross one of them tourists strolling across your lands, don't rush and call the police or write to your deputy. Keep your head cool. Remember this post. This is a foretaste of what you must expect from this unlikely encounter.

Briton is a shy animal. He's reluctant to leave his natural biotope (see picture above) and rarely learns the language of other species. So if he comes straight at you and asks "Do you speak English?", please take no offence. Just say "Yes", as anyone of you has learned at school, and he will show signs of relief. Actually he didn't expect any other answer.

Then he will ask you where he can find a cash-machine. In order to survive, reptilians need scales, Britons need money. And beer. Simply show him the way to the nearest ATM and try to spot whether there is a pub around. If so, sit in and wait for him to show up. It won't take long till he does and as soon as he recognizes you, the Briton - being very generous by nature - will offer you a drink. And then another. And then another. And then another. And then he will leave.

If he sits at your table in France or Italy, he will try to say cunning things about food, wine and decoration. That's some his favorite subjects. So be prepared to hear one of these familiar lines: "this cheese is excellent"; "I really like French wine but some Chilian wines are even better"; "your house is AMAZING, there is so much space for the children"; "it's always been my dream to own a place in southern Europe"; "Nick and I actually thought about buying a whole village but the one we visited needs complete refurbishing"
If he comes to Germany, you won't avoid this one: "German cars are terrific. I think the best would actually be to have an english bodywork coupled with a german engine."

Then will come the time to share mutual cultural experiences.
Languages: "I learned Spanish, French, German and Ukrainian at school, I even did some latin. But I totally forgot it. It's a pity, isn't it?"
Travels: "My mother took me to Netherlands once when I was small. It was so flat. I didn't like it" (Bonus track: "Shirley went to Dubaï. She got pissed and had sex on the beach with a married waiter. That was before she knew me of course. And yes, cheers, I'll sure have another glass of wine")
Perspectives: "I really think we should enjoy life. Work less hours. Have more time to party."
Regrets: "I shouldn't have married Michael. I should have gone to Africa and looked after people who really need my help."

So, as you see, my humble friends, there is no need to panick. And since I have to be honest, not all of them are like this.