Beer & Burger on Being British

The fleeting moments that I spend alone in pubs whilst Angus empties his bladder often lead me to ponder some of life’s great questions. What will happen if I rip off the ‘untouchable’ little red tag on my mattress? What’s the point of having Braille on bus ‘stop’ buttons? And what is the purpose of a urinal cake? Today is no different. As a newly empty Angus bounces towards me ready to restart his drink and pee cycle, I sit up and try to look as inquisitive as possible.

“Why is it,” I begin, “that the British are always stereotyped? Like, the American’s always think we’re either toffs with three horses who go around saying things like ‘damn and blast’, or massive raving cockneys.”

“You’re a cockney.” Points out Angus helpfully through a mouthful of the finest Somerset cider. Damn and blast.

“I know,” Ellen responds.

“A massive raving cockney,” I repeat with intention to aggravate.

“I’m not.”

“You love pie and mash and I’ve seen the poster of Dick Van Dyke hanging above your bed.”

“HE’S NOT A COCKNEY!” Ellen screams across the table, eyeballs bulging with Mitchell family rage, chest swelling with East End pride. A chimney sweep sitting in the corner looks up, broken from the reverie of his newspaper and pint. I carefully take another sip of mine.

“Ok he’s not a cockney, but to go back to your question stereotypes tend to be based on a grain of truth. And anyway Americans probably think we’re all cockneys or toffs because of Mary Poppins.”

“Well. That’s stupid.” I mutter, not wanting to admit defeat. “At least it’s a compliment I guess, I mean the view from the outside looking in is at least quite comical. I can’t think of anything quintessentially British today that isn’t a food or drink. We don’t have cool holidays like other people. The Irish have St. Patricks; the Spanish have La Tomatina and like a hundred other awesome festivals. We don’t even get a day off for St. Georges. What will we do at the Olympics opening ceremony? Watch the changing of the guard ten times over a builders brew and some ploughman’s lunch?”

There is a long pause while I wait for Angus to respond to my outburst.

“You’re thinking of ordering the ploughman’s lunch aren’t you?”

“Can I lend a tenner for it?”

“You can’t lend a tenner for it, you can borrow a tenner if you like?”

“Cheers,” I call over my shoulder as I stride to the bar and order a plate of rural culinary delights and reminisce about my birthplace – Shropshire; the land of rolling fields, Müller yoghurt and teenage alcoholism. As I sit down I say: “God knows what they’ll do about the Olympics” I have very little interest in athletics or indeed any competitive sport, “China were last, can’t be difficult to beat can it?”

“China’s were outstanding.”

“Ah. Well in which case we should have a parade like they used to do in the Soviet Union, except instead of tanks and missiles we can have Routemaster buses and football hooligans”

“They’re a stereotype though!” Ellen cries whilst simultaneously flicking the Vs at a bendy bus rumbling past the window.

“I don’t see the problem with that though?”

“All our stereotypes are so lame!” I whine. “Ok, so ‘Green Street’ may have filled me with a bit of pride over my local football team, but I’m not a hooligan! And talking of football – why are we so good at inventing stuff then sucking at it?”

“Because we realised football’s a load of rubbish?” says Angus to no one in particular as he eyes up the pork pie on the plate coming his way.

“Doesn’t it bother you though? That we’re a bit of a joke? I don’t think anyone has lower expectations for the Olympic opening ceremony than the British themselves.”

“Well what would you do if you were in charge?” says Angus with a smug look on his face, which I can’t decide is from his smart-arsed question or his meat-filled-mouth.

“I don’t know,” I sigh before giving in and suggesting another stereotype, “spray Scrumpy cider over the winners instead of Champagne?”

“Waste of alcohol,” I retort downing the last of my drink to mingle the scrumptious apple flavour with the pork, “I like being British, there’s lots of good stuff; the NHS, the pubs,” I say gesturing lovingly at our surroundings, “The food and drink, the sense of pointless time-honoured tradition, the Commonwealth, Stephen Fry, Boris Johnson, the NHS.”

“You’ve said NHS twice and we have crappy weather”

“Yeah well I like the NHS and the weather. It’s part of the British charm isn’t it? How can we be so effortlessly polite whilst our top hats are getting soaked by the constant drizzle?”

“I still don’t like the weather.”

“We have other good stuff too though.”

“Like tea?” Ellen beams.

“Yeah…” I don’t like tea, “Like tea and a rich cultural history.”

“Mainly about bopping people on the head who are different from us.”

“Ok, that’s true but Britain is an amalgamation of different cultures, ingenuity, integrity and fish and chips. It’s a good place” I smile.

Damn and blast. I have been proven wrong.

“Yeah, alright. Point taken.” I say, still secretly wondering why we can’t be a melting pot of culture and history in melting temperatures. “Congratulations, you’ve won me over with British charm. It is hard not to love Boris Johnson and the NHS.” Angus is looking very smug by this point, and I feel it would be best to drive the conversation away from my patriotic failure. Lets face it, I can complain all I like but I’m never going to leave.

“I’ll tell you something else that’s both British and brilliant.” I say as I stand up and grab my purse from the table.

“Go on?”

“How does a G&T sound?”

“Smashing! I’m just going to nip to the loo.”