common language

Some time ago, in the immediate aftermath of the Clegg débacle, I commented to Sean McDonald that I had probably spent too much time in Britain.  I had sent Bill an e-mail which to the Anglicised ear was stroppy yet good-humoured; it was TOO MUCH.

Here's Britain for you:


Monday, July 25, 2011...

The inevitable radge-packet weaves toward us, tracky-bottoms tucked into sport socks, shaven of head and belligerent as hell. He makes some unflattering comments, directed at the women.

I know exactly how to handle this. In a previous life I worked in the 'licensed trade' and have dealt with many a drunkard, despite – or because of - my less than towering height and slim build. Keep your voice low, steady and firm. No aggressive body language, do not encroach on personal space. Maintain regular eye-contact but don't stare. Be polite, do not get annoyed. Easy.

Me: [Stepping to within 6 inches of his face and firmly planting my hand in the middle of his chest] Listen, chief. Why don't you fuck OFF back home to your pregnant girlfriend and your fucking STAFFY BULL TERRIER?

I pause to consider my words. I feel I may have forgotten to include something. Ah. I know.

Me: You CUNT.

***

When I wrote to Bill I was, as I've probably said, exhausted, having spent 24-hour shifts at my mother's bedside.  The man had promised for months to send me copies of his book and now claimed there were no review copies left, which did not come across as, shall we say, the assiduity of a man aiming to please. But I was TRYING.  Trying to be pleasant and good-humoured. Trying to be tactful and diplomatic.  And measured by, as it might be, Tired Dad, I WAS tactful and diplomatic.

Oh Britain, Britain, Britain, Britain, Britain.   What have you done to me?

I miss Britain.