Hi All!  I decided this week to have poetry corner.  In addition to inadvertantly collecting gnomes, I’ve also been doing some poemetry here in the U.K., and this particular one is one of my favorites.  It’s dedicated to my recently born niece, Isabella Jeanette Neuteboom (say that ten times fast), and is in the style of a Dr. Seuess poem, about one of the most important places in English culture–the pub.  It’s called ‘Down the Pub: A Seussian Tale”

PLEASE NOTE: This poem contains naughty words and adult themes, and isn’t for kiddies.  Or for anyone with good taste.  You have been warned.

One day, one strange day

Not so long ago or far away

I woke up that day and was all alone

My wife had gone and left me at home

“I’m going away,” said she with a sigh

And when I asked the reason why

“I need some space, to think things through,

and decide if I want to stay married to you.”

And along came her dad drove her away

with a disapproving look and not even a ‘hey’

But sometimes life just rolls that way,

At home, alone, for a whole day?

Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

There was plenty of things that I could do

The list of ideas just grew and grew

I won’t sit and merely mourn

Or let her see me all forlorn

I’ll learn to play a big French horn

Search the Net for girl-on-horse p*rn

I will drunk dial an ex-girlfriend or three

and ask why the broke up with me

Then call them b***hes, hang up and pout

This is what being alone is about!

I ran to the laptop, Kleenex in hand,

When my phone started ringing from the nightstand

It was my friend, my friend Brit Number One

“Alright, mate? Want to have some fun?”

I told him my plight, and he took the piss

Which hurt me inside, but that’s how it is.

“You don’t need a wife,” said Brit Number One

“I’ll take you out and we’ll have cracking fun.”

What will we do? Where will we go?

“Don’t worry, mate, I’ll let you know,

But first I’ve got one thing to do,

I’ve got to ring Brit Number Two.”

They showed up straight away,

did Brit One and Brit Two

They showed up straight away

to help me get through

I offered them tea, they just stared at me

And it wasn’t a look that was very friendly

“Tea?” cried Brit Two, with his big red puffy face

“At time of day, tea would be quite a waste.”

Then what is your plan, I asked quite confused

The Pub! They cried, overly enthused

“It’s a brilliant place, mate, yes, the pub is a place,

A place, you see, where you can get quite sh*t-faced.

A place to forget your untidy past

A place you can get really quite trashed

You can get beer that is wheaty and golden

And color televisions that are totally stolen

You can get pork rinds, sports scores,rolls with cheese,

If you’re lucky you can get one of many STD’s.

There’s no place for fun, not like the pub,

Or maybe a strip joint, or maybe a club

There’s so much fun, cried Brit One and Brit Two

So much bloody fun that is waiting for you!

And with that we dashed to the pub unsteadily

(for Brit One and Brit Two had been drinking, you see)

with a crash, and a bash,

flash with cash from my stash

we arrived there quite fast,

“At last!” Cried Brit Two “At last.”

His eyes slightly bloodshot

“This is the pub, this is the spot!

I’ll get the round in, you get a table

And we’ll booze it up till we’re no longer able.”

We got a table, and we got some beer

And this is when it all went a little bit queer,

For we sat and we drank, and we drank and we sat

And no one said anything, and that was that.

“This is not fun,” said I to the Brit

“We’re just sitting here, this is totally sh*t.”

“Mate, we’ve only just begun.

This kind of fun is British fun.

It’s not like any other fun

Like in the States

with your handgun.

Our fun starts a little glum.

Wait till we get about six rounds in.

Only then will we start talkin.

But once we start it will never stop”, said the Brit

We’ll get louder and flail like a grand mal fit

We’ll jump up on the table and do crazy stunts

Then we’ll call the other punters c**ts

And if they dare to look our way

We hit them with a bottle and that’s okay.

That is fun–British fun, yes, that’s how it’s done

Now get a round in for everyone.”

I did not like this, not one bit,

British fun was not fun like I knew it,

I sidestepped the bar and snuck out for a bit.

Outside I saw a sight, a terrible fright

I tried not to cry out with all my might

For there I encountered a Slee Bellied Slag

The Slee Bellied Slag is a terrible hag

A hag, was she, and a real ho bag.

The Slee Bellied Slag had three colors of hair

Not one of them natural and a steely stare

Her shirt far too tight, her stomach exposed

spilling over tight jeans in rows and rows

Her voice bubbled out like gas from a sewer

I could barely look on, let alone do her.

She beckoned me close, and I knew I was done

“I like your accent,” she growled ‘Want a quick one?”

No, cried I, jumping back like a cat

I would not, could not, and that is that

I would not, could not, in your box

I would not, could not, with anyone’s c**ks

I will not do you, not today

I will not do you, in the alley way

I do not like s*x near a bar

I do not like it, Slag you are.

And I ran, ran, as fast as I can

Away from the pub I ran, I ran

I realized I didn’t want this life at all

I ran from the pub and gave my wife a call

She came home and we had a talk

We talked and talked and talked and talked

Then watched the tele and ate some food

And didn’t have s*x cause she weren’t in the mood.

As I fell asleep on the couch, and she in the bed

I thought “Well I’m sober, but at least I’m well fed.”

Dispatches from the East: Poetry Corner is a post from: Anglotopia.net

August is coming up fast, and for the last three years it’s meant Edinburgh for me –performing at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.  The Fringe is the largest arts festival in the world, and part of Edinburgh’s huge-ass month of festivals.  There’s the Film festival, the Book festival, the Edinburgh festival (which is not actually the same as the Fringe, but focuses on huge international companies and large productions), and it’s crazy little brother, the Festival Fringe.

The Fringe has been around since 1947, and started when a group of producers realized there was a huge audience in Edinburgh for the Festival itself, so they started doing shows in small venues and bars around town, hoping to pull in some of the crowd.  It’s since become a massive festival in it’s own right, last year there were over 2,000 productions, and over 31,000 performances at 247 venues dotted around the city.  The venues range from large theatres, to closet spaces where you’re lucky to cram 20 people in.  In addition, street performers and entertainers are playing all day around the city, giving it a crazy, unique feel.

Edinburgh’s perfect for a festival.  Hilly, majestic, and looking a little like that town from Charlie and the Chocolate factory.  The weather is usually in the mid 70′s, and perfect when it’s not raining.  Though it’s usually raining.  The main Fringe strip is the Royal Mile, running from the castle down through the city, and it’s blocked off during the Fringe, filled with a mind-boggling amount of people, all of whom want to hand you flyers for their shows.  Flyering techniques are often more amusing than the shows themselves, as some people strike poses, some strut half-naked down the street, and some stand on posts and shout out their shows details to anyone who’ll listen.  It’s attention-grabbing at it’s finest.

For performers, it’s like summer camp with beer.  For those of us who are putting our own shows together with the hopes of getting future tours, and a multi-million dollar television contract, it’s a gigantic trade show–a chance to peddle your work at a festival that draws producers and agents from around the globe.  It’s also a fantastic opportunity to get to know other performers–our recent tour of Finland was sponsered by a Finnish comedian we met at the Fringe, and we’ve had several shows and contacts through the time we’ve spent there.  Famous people spotting is a fun pass-time, last year we met the infamous Jim Rose (awesome), Joan Rivers (short), and saw Rich Hall (even more angry than the 80′s).   There are shows running from about 10a.m. to 2-3a.m. from every different genre possible–you can see opera in the morning, followed by dance, some stand-up, and maybe even catch a dirty, adult puppet show.

It’s also a gruelling marathon for performers.  Unless you happen to be a regular in Cats, or some other huge Broadway extravaganza, there are very few opportunities to do a full-on every day three week run, and it’s far too easy to wreck your body and liver.  The first week is full of optimism and enthusiasm, as reviews are not yet in, and the audience seems pretty game to try anything.  The second week starts to get a bit harder, as people start to choose shows based on reviews (particularly if you’re not getting great reviews), and you get tired of wearing the same pair of underwear.  By week three, it’s a daze–your liver hits the metaphorical Wall, you’re voice is as gravelly as Moe from the Simpsons, and you realize that there’s very little to eat in Edinburgh that hasn’t been deep fried.

All in all, though, it’s a fantastic place to be, whether you’re a performer or just going up to catch some shows.  Most of the comedians you’ll see on BBC shows have at one point or another Fringed.  Flight of the Conchords were a Fringe act for several years, Ricky Gervais is doing  a one-night stand-up, and my personal favorite this year, Janeane Garofalo is going to be up there for the first week.   For more information about the Fringe, check out their website.  You can get tickets, tips, and other info.  While you’re there, don’t forget to book that dirty puppet show.

Dispatches from the East: Approaching Edinburgh is a post from: Anglotopia.net

Two things happened this week, I moved into a new home, and I bought my first garden gnome.  To be fair, I bought it ironically, but I’m now a gnome owner just the same.   And the most awesome thing about my gnome, apart from it’s essential gnomeness, is the fact that it is powered by the sun, having a lantern, which actually lights up.  All for less than a tenner.  God bless these hard economic times.

My gnome came from Home Base, a sort of UK equivalent of Home Depot, cast carelessly between bad cast-iron patio furniture, paint stripper and desk lamps, peering out from the drab concrete and DIY jungle, begging me to release it into the garden of my new house.  Reminding me of the gnomes from ‘Gnome’ by Wil Nyugen, which my parents had when I was a kid, he’s complete with a little red hat, little blue shirt, and kick ass LED SOLAR POWERED LANTERN.

My gnome is the best two reasons–one, because it’s total kitch chique.  I mean why have four or five plain black solar powered lamps lighting up your back garden, when you can get a built in gnomes to go with them?  Two, because it means I’m on the verge of developing my first English eccentricity.  From here, the world of gnomes has burst open, and I may find myself in years to come like the archetypial trailer-dwellign cat lady, awash in gnomes, to the point that they find me dead, three-hundred and fifteen gnomes cluttering my trailer, stuck in cupboards, peering out of the dishwasher, strewn across the floor alongside my body, which still proudly bears the logo ‘Chillin with my gnomies’.

Even if that scenario plays out, I wouldn’t be the man who took gnomes to the extreme.  Let me introduce you to The Gnome Reserve.  My wife and I found the gnome reserve the last time we were in Devon, and our lives have never quite been the same.  Because the gnome reserve is 4 acres of solid-ass gnomeage.  They have over 1,300 gnomes at last count, big gnomes, little gnomes, black gnomes, white gnomes, gnomes playing poker, gnomes taking a leak, a gnome orchestra, the gnome graveyard (for gnomes who have lost their paint and grown into small gnome-shaped piles of moss), an entire gnome beachfront complete with gnome surfers.  It is all gnomes, all the time,  at the Gnome Reserve.  The woman who runs it even makes gnome art, which while maybe a step or two down the artistic rung from say, Picasso, at least has a pretty consistant theme. Gnomes spill out as you walk down the reserves paths, like a wild English garden of gnomeness.  Plus, you can get a cream tea, and everyone gets to wear a gnome hat.  There is nothing bad about the gnome reserve.

But–you cry–we Americans can do gnomes too!  And that’s true, America has made great strides in gnomeness, from Chomsky,  The World’s Largest Garden Gnome, to a massive gnome theme park in the South somewhere that I sadly can’t find the link to.  But what makes Devon’s gnome reserve so English is the fact that it’s A) fairly hard to find, being located up a small, one-lane Devon country road, B) completely devoid of rides, ticket stalls, and gimmicks, and C) obviously not designed with commercial gain in mind, but rather to make a few quid off someone’s already existing eccentric hobby.  While there is a wee gnome-themed gift shop, this is not a place to buy gnomes, but rather, a place to appreciate them.

So I took the plunge, and never looked back.  I bought the gnome, I took him home, and now I’m that small first step on the way to a huge eccentricity.  The look of slight unease and thinly veiled pity in my wife’s voice when she agreed that I could get the gnome cemented what I already secretly believed.  I am on my way to something bigger.  I’m on my way to a full on gnomish eccentricity.

Dispatches from the East: At Play in the Field of Gnomes is a post from: Anglotopia.net

Every city has its local flavor, the eccentrics and the oddballs who give the place it’s unique feel.  Back in Kansas, Lawrence had quite a few–the Tan Man, a guy who used to spend every day working on his tan on the college campus hill with no other occupation.  Then there was ‘That’s My Dillons Guy’, who wore socks on his hands, a blanket as a coat, and wore a tattered red shirt on which was hand printied the cryptic phrase ‘That’s My Dillons’ (Dillon being a local supermarket that had apparently done him wrong at some point).  So I was much relieved, when I came to Norwich, that despite a whole new culture, the proud and few town eccentrics remain.  And probably the most famous of all of them is–The Puppet Man.

Puppet Man is at first glance a busker, however, there is much more to him than that.  A frail looking septuagenarian, he pushes a cart containing a number of battered old puppets, a cassette player with attached microphone, and a dream into the City Centre on a regular basis, puts some music on (occasionally, the radio), applys a puppet to each hand, and proceeds to bounce the puppets up and down, sort of but not really in rhythm to the music, occasionally shouting a word or phrase from the song, with a small tray that’s usually sadly short on spare change.   He never directly asks for change, in fact, never seems to see his audience at all once he’s started his performance, and doesn’t really talk, interact, or otherwise acknowledge the crowd.  He simply arrives, turns the music up, throws a battered puppy on each hand, and rocks away.

As is mandatory with local characters, there are many stories as to how Puppet Man came to take on his role as Norwich’s most eccentric street performer.  Some say he was once a professor who flipped out, some say he is only allowed by the Police to make £20 a month in busking money, some say he has a family hidden away somewhere on the Broads.  But the facts of his past remain firmly shrouded in mystery.  What’s true is that he’s spawned something of a Norwich phenomenon, with a website dedicated to him, an expose by the BBC,  Facebook fan page, and he appears regularly on local greeting cards and posters.  There was actually a protest when he threatened to retire in 2008, leading to a ‘Save the Puppet Man’ campaign, and he returned with gusto to popular Norwich nightclub ‘Mercy’, where he was greeted with affection by hundreds of club kids.  He’s quickly moving in to the realm of local legend.

He deals with his share of ridicule and scorn, so I write not to scorn, but praise him.  For I think the Puppet Man is more than just an oddity, I think he’s an artist of sorts.  The art world has a dedicated section to those who don’t fit the mainstream mold, called, appropriately, ‘Outsider Art’.  I believe this is the catagory that Puppet Man falls into, only in his case, it would be more of ‘Outsider Performance Art’.  For the Puppet Man is an innovator as well as a performer–when I first saw him in 2004, he was working with just one puppet and contemporary music.  He has since branched out in a number of different periods–the two-handed period, the Elvis impersonation period, and the Christmas Winnie-the-Pooh movement.  To me, this constant development seems to validate the artistry of his endeavour.  This is an artist continually altering, experimenting, developing, and honing his craft.  The fact that his craft is inherently a goofy one–making puppets bounce up and down to music–shouldn’t discount that.  And while his popularity is more than bought into with a healthy dose of irony, there is something about him, if only the tenacity, that inspires, and builds his reputation.

There is also a certain hint of violence about him, necessary in any great artist, the feeling that he could burst out of those puppets in a one-two punch at any moment.   Children seem to sense this, and tend to avoid him, which means despite the childish medium of puppetry, his work is adult themed, particularly true in his Elvis period when all puppets were dropped.  This may have been an effort at a more mainstream appeal, and was most likely ultimately unsuccessful, for he has returned to the standard collection of dogs on hands.  On more than one occasion I have tried to anticpate the next phase of the Puppet Man, but despite my best guesses, his mind and his work remain his own.

Therefore, he will remain an artist, an enigma, and a local legend.  But should you find yourself in Norwich, on Gentleman’s Walk, and you see an older guy bouncing puppets on his hands to ‘Bright Sunshiny Day’, you’ll know that you’ve found…The Puppet Man.

Dispatches from the East: All Hail the Puppet Man! is a post from: Anglotopia.net

So I’m back from a ten day holiday (yes, I said holiday, not vacation) to glorious Orlando, Flordia, which was a little odd as it’s the first time since my six years in England that I’ve been back in the States as a tourist.  Usually I get home to Lawrence a few times a year, but there’s a big difference between visiting the fam and full-on tourism, and it was kind of weird doing it Brit-tiffied style.

I should mention here that from my extensive research that consists of asking friends and co-workers where they’ve been in the States, it usually boils down to three major U.S. destinations–Orlando, Las Vegas, and New York.  While I can see the appeal of all three to people who’ve never been there before, I can also see why they get a skewed view of Americans, based on those places.  It’d be like saying you knew all about Brits because you’d been to London, Blackpool, and Alton Towers.  (FYI–Alton Towers is a theme park.  I have never been.  It might be great.  But I’m kind of skeptical.)

Anyway, there’s a lot of British tourists headed to Florida, that’s my point, usually to pay homage to The Mouse.  We went because the lovely and formidable Mrs. A wanted to see a Space Shuttle launch.  There were two that were supposed to be  scheduled in the week we were there, however, one got pushed forward, and the other pushed back, and so we had to content ourselves with the Shuttle Launch Experience–NASA’s token nod to an amusement park ride.  Apparently, piloting a space shuttle involves lots of people talking at you while you wait in line, then being strapped in and forced to sit at a 90 degree angle, and having a lot of air blown on your face.  Pretty sweet, but not quite the same as seeing an actual shuttle.

I hadn’t been there since I was thirteen, but I’d like to state it for the record that Orlando is a weird place.  Actually, that’s not fair–we never officially went into Orlando, because there’s nothing in Orlando, it’s all just outside Orlando, and in fact we never saw Orlando.  So, factually, I should be saying that the thirty mile stretch of highway US27 and US192 are weird places.   But that doesn’t sound quite as concise.

We were staying in a private home ‘village’ in a town called Clermont.  At least I think it was a town–we never saw the town.  We did see a lot of Walgreens, Taco Bell, and Wal-Marts, dotting the highway.  That may sound a little haughty, but I actually loved it.  For me, the best part of being home seems to center around consumption–of food, cheap goods, shirts with kittens and American flags, whatever.  The chance to buy something at 3 in the morning, just because you can, is a powerful pull, and my American heart swells with pride when I visit a drive-thru cash machine, which I had to do several times, because here’s the thing they don’t tell you in the guide books–Orlando seems to consist almost entirely of toll roads.  You can’t go five miles without having to stop and pay somewhere between 75 cents and 1.50.  Orlando is the strip club of highway systems, you have to have dollar bills at the ready, and Mrs. A spent most of the time being my toll booth pimp, digging in my wallet and handing out crumpled ones  every few minutes.

But this Clermont place had a pool, and a spa, and was totally hella-functional.  It is, in fact, owned by a British couple who rent it out to other Brits on holiday, which was great, because they understood the things about America that could confound British holidaymakers.  The house ‘handbook’ told us that we would in fact NEED A CAR (which we happily had planned for in advance), apparently to get from tollbooth to tollbooth, and that there was ABSOLUTELY NO RECYCLING.  BIN EVERYTHING, it said in capital letters, and I was ready to go whole hog, luggage, chairs, tables, everything, until Mrs. A pointed out that I might be being just a little bit churlish.  But seriously, even a British holidaymaker’s homebook can come off as a little condescending.

I’ve never lost my American accent, however, I have started picking up some British phrases and mannerisms after six years, most irritatingly, saying ‘Cheers’ to everything.  ‘Here’s your change,’ ‘Cheers.’, ‘It’s over there.’ ‘Cheers.’ , and forgetting how friendly people in the States can be, my first reaction to ‘How ya’ll doing?’ was automatically ‘Why do you want to know?  Why do you care??  What are you after from me???”  It took a few days to get over the culture shock.

I also made a U.S. rookie error–I tried to pack my own bags at the Winn-Dixie supermarket, much to the disappointment of the Norman Rockwellian grandmother-type who was checking me out.  She looked at me as if I had grown three heads and made disparaging remarks the talents of her children.  ‘That’s an interesting packing style you got there, mister.’  I tried to explain to her that in England, the goal is to shove the goods into the bags fast enough that the bored kid doesn’t build your shopping into a pile the size of Everest on the converyor belt, but she wasn’t having it.  ‘Why don’t you let me do that,’ she said, a hint of amusement and condesention that implied she’d dealt with manyt Briddish types before,  ‘here at the Winn Dixie, we lack to pack things so you can find them.’  So she packed them so I could find them, which meant about three things in every bag, resulting in a spare bag collection in our holiday home that could have stocked a Tesco Metro for about three weeks.  Luckily it came in handy for packing up trash in, because–THERE’S NO RECYCLING.

I totally loved it though–America is such a weird and wonderful place.  The freedom of driving in a place where a traffic jam means you have to slow to forty miles an hour for about ten minutes, the abundance of radio channels with really bad commercials with jingles, twenty-four hour lotta things, warm greetings from total strangers (who are usually trying to sell you something, yes, but…), eighteen different types of barbeque sauce, all meant we had a hard time wanting to come back.  Every time I take her to the States, Mrs. A is more and more convinced she wants to move there, which is okay, but not, I think, to Orlando.  I just don’t have enough change for the roads.

Dispatches from the East: Stranger in a Strange (Home)land is a post from: Anglotopia.net

After being here for a little more than six years, I’m stuck in the very strange position of still having a strong American accent, but having picked up enough British slang and nuance that every time I go back home I invariably say one or two things that cause the good folks of Lawrence, Kansas to look at me as if I’ve grown a second head.  Which I haven’t.  You only get that after eight years of ex-patting.

Apart from having to remember to tip again and say ‘dollars’ and not ‘pounds’ when referring to money, there’s a linguistic paradigm shift that an ex-pat must go through–little things like remembering that the toilet is a bathroom, the taps are faucets, and asking people ‘Alright?’ is going to get you either very strange looks or a detailed account of someone’s last brush with swine flu.  And while I don’t consider myself as having picked up any accent, if I’m not careful, I’ll slip something into conversation that is just too British for people to let go, and for the rest of the evening I’ll get to hear all about it.

So for those that are about to take the leap, I thought I’d help you out a little with the slang and language differences I’ve learned over the years.  Here goes–

Alright?–usually pronounced ‘Aight?’ and often followed by ‘mate’, this is actually a standard greeting and does not mean you look unwell.  The stand reply to this greeting is ‘Aight. You aight?’ or just ‘You aight?’  Much like ‘How you doin?’, this is less a question and more of a verbal acknowledgement that you have recoginized each other as two human beings cohabitating a nearby space.  Conversation may start after that, but is not necessary.

Mate–I love this phrase, but always feel like an imposter trying to use it.  Roughly the equivalent of ‘buddy’, but so much more.  A mate can range from ‘best mate’, or BFF, to a guy you met in the pub once, to the plumber, to your worst enemy.  It can even be used menicingly (i.e. ‘Give us your phone, mate’).  You may or may not have met a friend if someone calls you ‘his mate’.  In Scotland, substitute ‘pal’.

Ah, Bless!–I have to give props to Kat from London for bringing this one up, but it is a Brittish slang gem.  ‘Ah, bless’ manages to be both incredibly condescending and endearing in that quintessentially British way.  If you have done something that someone replies to with ‘Ah, bless’, you have probably done it wrong.

Suspenders–Not the romantic 20′s era detective staple we think of Stateside, suspenders in Britain are what ladies use to connect garters to stockings (i.e. a garter belt).  DO NOT SAY TO YOUR BOSS AT WORK “NICE SUSPENDERS”, AND THEN WHEN HE LOOKS AT YOU FUNNY SAY IT LOUDER.  You’ll have to trust me on this one.  It didn’t end well.

Bloke–a man.  Bloody good bloke–a nice man.  Tosser–not a nice man.

Oxbridge–referring to either students from Oxford or Cambridge.  There is no such actual place.  I should know, I asked.  The reply?  Aw, bless.

Doing my nut in--driving me crazy.  I love this, cause I’m not sure if it’s actually dirty, but it really sounds like it should be.

Sort it, Get it Sorted, Sort your life out, mate–all plays on ‘figure it out for yourself’ and/or ‘pull yourself together’.  Often used by Jeremy Kyle.  Jeremy Kyle is Britain’s answer to Jerry Springer, only with less fighting between guests and guests with less teeth.

Get the round in, mate–like many British requests, phrased as a statement.  Means ‘go buy us all beers’.  Mate is optional, and again does not necessarily require friendship to use.

Minging–If something is ‘minging’, it is nasty.  Not to be confused with ‘minge’, which is a very naughty phrase indeed, referring to lady parts.  Combining the two into ‘minge-ing’ is not socially acceptable.  I should know.  I’ve tried.

On the pull–attempting to hit on members of the opposite sex (i.e. “I’m going out tonight on the pull”).  Pulling–actually succeeding in hitting on a member of the opposite sex (i.e. “I pulled last night”).  Usually does not require the physical act of pulling, though may require spasmodic dancing at terrible night clubs with very expensive drinks.

Cheers–thanks!  Like so many British slang phrases, can be used ironically.  “Mate” follow-up optional.

I can’t be bothered–another one of my favorites, this little phrase eschews any hint of politeness and is blatantly, evilly honest.  Example–”Did you go to Ian’s party last night?”  “No, I couldn’t be bothered.  I stayed home and washed the cat.”  (fyi–washed the cat is not British slang, I just used it as an example, but it does kind of sound dirty.)

Unlucky–That’s too bad.  Can be used for the most dire of circumstances.  “My house just burned down, my cat died, and I won the lottery only to realize my dog had eaten the ticket!”  “Unlucky, mate.”  Can be followed with–

Worse things have happened at sea–show that ‘chin up’ attitude with this callous phrase that ends whining almost immediately!

Whinging–whining.  I don’t know why they added the ‘g’.  Just go with it.

Fit, well-fit–attractive or very attractive.  The opposite can either be manky or minging.  Mostly used by twelve year olds in track suits (aka chavs).

Knock you up–I’ll come to your house and knock on your door.  Neither a punch out or sexual innuendo.

Innit?–added to the end of any statement to make it a question, or even just a statement.  “That’s the story, innit?” or “She’s well fit, innit?”  Doesn’t make a lot of sense, innit?

I’m sure I’ll think of more, but that’s a start.  Enjoy your new phrases, and hopefully we’ll understand each other a little bit better when I knock you up in a fortnight to go on the piss and pull, innit?

Dispatches from the East: How to Speak Good Briddish is a post from: Anglotopia.net

So check this out.  Norwich is old.  I mean, really old.  We’re talking invaded by actual Vikings on longboats in the 9th century old.  There are Roman roads here, for Pete’s sake.  They’re not in very good shape, sure, but they’re here.  And for a Kansas kid who grew up thinking the founding of America 250-ish years ago was about as old as history could get, it’s pretty hard to get your head around.

A ten minute walk from my flat takes me to the old city gates, which date from the 12th-13th century.  Only a few sections remain, and they’re understandably not in particularly good shape, but it is an interesting and constant reminder as you walk by that your city is steeped in a history that included having to have walls to keep invaders out.  I kind of wish they hadn’t let them go to ruin, sure, a full set of city walls and gates would be a nightmare for traffic and transportation (which are bad enough as it is), but you could have a great time with the city tourism slogans -Norwich: Visit if you think you’re Tough Enough!, or Norwich: Vikings Stay Out!  A full set of city walls could also be great for keeping out the citizens of Ipswich, the scariest place on Earth.  Plus, let’s be honest, although it rarely happens anymore, you’d be ready if Viking’s did attack, and with pirates currently on the rise, it’s only a matter of time before being a Viking raider is back in vogue.

Norwich Cathedral, well worth seeing if you like things that are really old, dates from about the 12th century.   That’s so old!  It’s in much better shape than the city walls, being ‘still-an-actual-working-building’ type thing instead of a ‘busted-up-rocky-ruin’, and as you walk around it, you think ‘at the time when this huge thing was completed, the average life span was thirty-five, the French could actually fight, Norwich was the 2nd biggest city in the country, and people ran around on horses wearing plate armor and trying to skewer each other’.  Which, let’s face it, is a far cooler history than ‘a bunch of religious fanatics who arrived on boats wearing all black and who were too stupid to plant corn.’

Next to the cathedral is the Adam & Eve pub, which bills itself as ‘Probably the oldest pub in Norwich’, a testament to it’s modesty (or a clever attempt to escape historical accuracy).  The Adam & Eve was set up by the monks at the cathedral to give the workers who built the cathedral a place to go after work.  It’s like a Medival Cheers, with monks.  Sadly, monks don’t frequent the Adam & Eve anymore, it’s mostly students, who are kind of like monks in that neither ever have any money.

Down from the cathedral is Elm Hill, another old place.  The longest consecutive stretch of Tudor era housing in the country, it is decrepit that even someone from Hollywood thought it was old enough to put in a movie!  The movie, Stardust, has Robert DeNiro in it, who is pretty old.  But not as old as Elm Hill.  How old is it?  When Elm Hill was new, Henry VIII may have been as young as Jonathan Rhys Meyers looks in The Tudors.

Sometimes the new combines with the old–like Castle Mall.  It’s a mall, built below a castle.  You can marvel at the great 15th century keep, while making sure you get bargain priced clothing at H&M.  That’s right, even shopping in Norwich is a historical experience!  The other mall, Chapelfield mall, has a chruch next to it, a church old enough to have several gravestones in the churchyard.  The Chapelfield Mall planners weren’t able to get permission to remove the graveyard, so as you walk in and out of the mall you go just past a KFC, a Starbucks, and THE GRAVES OF THE 18TH CENTURY DEAD.  It’s hard to imagine a more pleasureable shopping experience.  And not one you’d get in Kansas.

So when people ask me what I love most about England, it’s the same old story.  All the old stuff.

Dispatches from the East: Same Old Story is a post from: Anglotopia.net

So spring has hit us this week in East Anglia, the low clouds and drizzle of winter parting to reveal a sun which suddenly remembers, ‘Ah yes, Britain does exist, too’; and the artfully unkempt gardens in my neighborhood have started to splash out in vibrant colors.  English gardens, even the small ones, are worthy of a blog of their own–the most key factor being that, in England, it is perfectly acceptable for heterosexual middle-aged men to plant dainty flowers. In fact, it is nearly mandatory. 

Swarthy Tony, my Spanish ex-pat neighbor, Internet Lothario, and proud adherent to anything he deems to be quintessentially English, told me gleefully as he transplanted a rather ungainly bush that this truly was the year his garden would be perfected–a project that had taken him three years.   With a fish and chip shop to run, a grandson he spends a lot of time with, and the many ladies he’s chatting up over the Interwebs, the fact that he can find time to garden as well gives some idea of the dedication and esteem garnered from a well tended garden.  And the key to an English garden is another nod to the great British sense of irony, in that the more cared for it is the wilder and unkempt it will appear.   Don’t let it fool you, though, they made it that way.

But it isn’t just the gardens that are blossoming–about this time of year many of the local pubs sprout flowers as well.   The mildness of spring and overwhelming joy of having light past 4:00p.m. means that pubs really come into their own in the spring.  Publicans decorate their somewhat austere brick buildings with a variety of pots, hanging plant boxes, and fauna which sometimes leaves you wondering if you’re walking into a bar or a garden centre.  However, you’ll know you’re in a pub because you’ll see the line of taps for Real Ale.

If you’re a fan of beer, Real Ale is one of the great treasures of the U.K.  It’s the beer our grandfathers who served in WWII warned us about–served cellar temperature, generally fairly flat as it’s naturally carbonated, and coming in a variety of strengths and colors, from bitters to Pales to porters to stouts,  each region and area represented by breweries ranging from huge and corporate, to brewers who work out of their houses.  They carry a variety of fun and catchy names–you can quaff a Hurricane, a Spitfire, a Golden Fox, or a (slightly unnerving) Bishop’s Finger.  And because some of them are brewed in such limited quantities, it’s a constant state of delight in finding one you really like, and disappointment when it’s no longer available because it’s run out.

Keeping everyone abreast of the Real Ale movement is a group called the Campaign for Real Ale (or CAMRA).  Whenever a group of Brits get together to form a social group or club, you can guarantee that they will A) take it very seriously, B) quickly become experts in whatever they’re doing, and C)be able to talk about it to absolute strangers for hours.  CAMRA is no exception, and they have painstakingly documented pubs across the country in a book entitled The Good Beer Guide, which is a must for anyone travelling to the U.K. hoping to get a flavor of the Real Ale scene (and, handily, it also gives you a heads up on where the good food is at).  CAMRA also sponsors festivals across the country, has a selection of books on pub walks and London pubs, campagins to save pubs in danger of going out of business, and is generally a fantastic resource for anyone interested in pubs or pub culture.  Some knowledge of Real Ale is also a great way to get a conversation going in pubs, as most Real Ale enthusiasts love to compare favorite ales, and are keen to win you over to the Real Ale side.

I’ve been lucky enough to have a well-respected Real Ale pub, the Trafford Arms, as my local, which was a great introduction, and the Fat Cat, a Norwich staple which serves beer from across the world (including Sierra Nevada from the States, great if you’re feeling homesick).  Also, Norwich hosts a Real Ale festival in October every year at local St. Andrew’s Hall, featuring over 200 types of beer from breweries around the country.  Even smaller towns have festivals–one of the most entertaining I’ve been to was the Sheringham Beer Festival, which took place on a train platform and was a delightful, if surreal, combination of bluegrass bands, tents, steam engine locomotives, and, of course, beer.

So with spring in the works, the sun out, and all this talk of beer, I may wander down to the local, sit outside in the sun, and see what’s on tap today.

Dispatches from the East: Beer, There, and Everywhere is a post from: Anglotopia.net

Norwich – England – Photo from Flickr

Editor’s Note: Anglotopia is welcoming a new weekly columnist to our fantastic team. Will Averill is an American Ex-pat living in Norwich. I’ll get out of the way and let him introduce himself properly. His posts will go out every Monday so check back!

Welcome to East Anglia.  It’s not a well known place, and that suits us fine.  If East Anglia were one of the States, it would be a fly-over State, and it’s charm is mostly in the fact that it’s A) Hard to get to, B) Hard to get out of, and C) Everyone here really kind of likes it that way.  East Anglia comprises the counties of Norfolk, Suffolk, Cambridgeshire, Essex, and on a good day Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire as well.  

Though it’s lesser known it has a fantastic history, from the Iceni warrior queen Bouddica, the powerhouse trading center of the 14th century, Norwich, up to the many U.S. air force bomber and fighter bases left over from World War II.  The Norfolk Broads, a system of man-made rivers and lakes in the area, were a hugely popular tourist destination in the 50′s and 60′s, and remain so today.  While lacking the enormity of London, the rolling hills of the West Country, or the rugged terrain of the Lake District, East Anglia has a lot to offer, and is well worth taking some time to visit, particularly if you’re a fan of castles, World War II, and large expanses of wide-open fields.

I’m Will Averill, and I’m an accidental Anglophile (There is where you all say ‘Hi Will’ to your computer screens).  I never set out to become an Anglophile, though looking back on it, life had set me on that track for a while.  My parents, convicted hippies, used to watch ‘Monty Python’ on good old P.B.S., and so I was exposed to the British sense of humo(u)r from an early age.  My cousin’s grandmother, who we often spent time with as kids, is a war bride, whisked away from Bradford to Topeka, Kansas, at the tender age of 20.  We were always fascinated with her accent and strange ‘British ways’.  

A freakishly well-timed meeting in a chat room in 1999 led me to meet and later marry my lovely wife, and the fact that I’d never lived anywhere but Kansas and was kind of looking for an adventure brought me over here six years ago, first for our wedding, and then to settle in Norwich.  Since that time I’ve been across the country touring with a comedy show, been up to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in 2007 and 2008, seen a couple of Premeireship football matches, drank beer with Vikings, shot arrows with Longbowmen, and researched the history of the WWII 8th Air Force bases in Norfolk and Suffolk extensively.

I’m hoping with Dispatches from the East to fill you in on a little of the great history and culture both in  my adopted home city of Norwich, and across the East Anglian region.  I’d also like to share reflections on being an ex-pat, the best and worst of life in England, and the difficulties of surviving in a land with no Taco Bell, Cool Whip, or Super Target.  Yet somehow we make it through.  I’m also happy to answer any questions about ex-pattery, East Anglia, and most importantly, who’s going out this week on The Apprentice.

Dispatches from the East: Introductions is a post from: Anglotopia.net