Being British is Harder Than it Looks

 

I am one of those people who is as insanely patriotic as your average American (no offence, but you guys are CRAZY when it comes to patriotism). The problem with being British and being patriotic is that it is an immensely complicated thing to do, as the correct way for a Brit to be patriotic is to complain like hell about EVERYTHING. Whilst doing this you must also remember that no matter how bad we've got it, we’re incredibly lucky. We could have it so, so much worse. We could be French.

Additionally, while WE are allowed to complain about everything, if someone who is not British DARES to comment, even if they have lived here for the past 15 years, they are out of order. They are practically trying to start a war.

As we Brits are well aware, our Government is crap. We have an idiot who got into power by riding a bike to work in control, a man who looks like he is wearing a ridiculous blond wig and does nothing but mess everything up as mayor of our capital, and a monarch (God bless her, I love the woman) who does nothing but sit around looking pretty on the backs of our world famous pound coins.

We spend our hard earned money buying second homes for members of parliament - paying tax on what we earn, tax on what we spend it on, and tax on it when it sits in the bank. We pay tax on transporting what we have bought (and just paid tax for) home (both for fuel AND the vehicle itself). We pay tax on storing it in our fridges and then we pay tax on throwing it away.

Yet we still somehow feel that we have got it better than every other country in the world. We still believe that we own Australia, Canada, America, India, and every other scrap of land in between (except Russia. For two reasons, a) you’d have to be nuts to take on those guys and b) who would want to live there anyway? It’s bloody cold!).

I think that the fact that we no longer own these countries is part of the reason for Britain’s lack of faith in our Government. We had it all – wealth, power, land – we were the best of the best. And then for some weird reason, we decided to be nice and give it all back.

Who DOES that?!?! America wouldn't do that. China wouldn't do that. All the other super powers would just use the international rule of “Finders Keepers!” But for some extremely weird reason, us Brits find that we need to be liked by everyone. We have some kind of mass personality flaw that requires counselling.

That’s one of the reasons we were so peeved with that big-eared idiot, Tony Blair, when he decided it would be a good idea to go to war just because the Americans told us to. He was so busy trying to get them to like us that he forgot about making sure the others liked us too. And we know that no one else likes us - hardly anyone votes for us on the Eurovision Song Contest (talent show my arse. I've seen more talented dog leavings than some of the acts on that show).

The only people who MIGHT like us are the Aussies, and let’s face it, a) they’re all bloody mental and b) they’re such a long way away it’s OK for them to like us because they don’t have to deal with us. Kind of like a distant cousin locked up in an institution. They can’t get at you, and you can’t get at them. Also, they don’t help us at all with the Eurovision, what with them not being in Europe.

The French still haven’t forgiven us for that 100 years where we argued a bit. The Germans think we’re idiots and they can’t stand stupidity (which I think is a bit rich considering certain events). The Irish haven’t gotten over the potato incident. Or the Protestant thing. The Spanish think we’re all easy, the Italians think we’re rude, the Russians think we’re trying to steal their oil (they’d be right about that) and the millions of little eastern European countries see us as a meal ticket.

Even the Americans laugh behind their hands at us, their “sidekick”, because if they said “go jump under a bus” we’d ask if they wanted us to use Stagecoach or First, or maybe they’re prefer to use one of their Greyhounds?

We’d be OK if we were a bit more like the Irish – lovable, friendly, chatty, drunk and a bit dim; but everyone’s favourite, slightly backward, drunk cousin. But we Brits, we don’t have that charm. We’ll beat you to death with politeness, we’re kind but we won’t show it, we’re clever but we don’t boast, we always try to do our best but have a habit of getting it horrendously wrong and most of all, we’re good, but never good enough.

So it is hard to be British. It is hard to know that we’re a country led by idiots, who are in turn led by even bigger idiots. It is hard to know that none of the “intelligent countries”, as I like to call them, like you. It is hard to know that every year, for the next 100 years we are going to lose the Eurovision. Every year we are going to have to deal with the shame. It is hard to know that we ARE good at some stuff, but because we’re British we aren't able to TELL anyone about it - that would be rude. And it’s hard to know that our best doesn't quite cut the mustard.

But the HARDEST thing about being British is dealing with the weather.

On the plus side though, we've got the Queen. 

Adrenaline Can Make Me Do Superhuman Things. Ish.

Last week was probably the most stressful week of my working career so far. It was so stressful that my hair has actually started falling out.

Therefore the last thing I needed on a Wednesday evening was to get home and find that there had been some kind of Noah’s ark type explosion in my flat.

Please note that the explosion was almost 100% my fault. I suffer from/enjoy the comedy value of dyspraxia, which I may have mentioned in a previous post. When I get stressed the short term memory loss symptoms of this particular disability increase tenfold, and with the stress at work, I’ve been getting extremely forgetful.

So, when I fed zee derbils (the gerbils to all you sane people out there) Muse and Florence, that morning before work, I left the cage door open. Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal – Zee Derbs are a bit too fat and lazy to bother making a break for it when they both know they can get their food from INSIDE the cage with far less effort. I know this because this is NOT the first time I have made this mistake. Not even the first time I have made this mistake THIS WEEK. I always come home, swear a bit, and then close the cage.

This time it was a little different. It was different because as I opened my front door (which happens to be located down a gated alleyway) I heard my neighbour call out from the garden, so I left my front door open to go and have a chat.

Despite my safe, locked, gated alleyway I should have KNOWN that my flat was not safe. I am well aware of a small furry thief – a regular criminal in my neighbourhood – who will take any opportunity to get into my flat, steal my food, and terrorise Zee Derbs (although they are really not fussed by his presence). It would have been ok if I hadn’t left the cage door open.

I finished my quick chat with my neighbour, walked back down my alleyway and as I turned to go into my flat spotted Monty sneaking out of the door, very quickly, very quietly, and with what was definitely a tail in his mouth.

I reacted with a speed I did not know I possessed. My neighbour was already unlocking the gate and I shot out, after the cat with a snack, in time to spot him heading into the fenced off construction site two doors down from me.

I shot after him, discovering that the gap between the fences was indeed too small for an alarmed ginger bird with big boobs. Nevertheless, in the battle between me and the fence, I won.

If I had been able to think rather than panic I would probably have entered the half finished building via the front door. Sadly, I was panicking, and decided that the only way to get into the building was via the 5 foot high window. On the plus side, it turns out that when I am full of adrenaline I am quite capable of leaping 5 foot into the air, and clearing the windowsill. On the other side of the window I spotted the cat leaping out of the window opposite. Having realised how stupid I had been to not use the front door, I decided to exit using the back door. There wasn’t one. And this windowsill was higher. I took a running leap, and thanks to adrenaline managed to clear this one too, in time to spot Monty and his snack disappearing into the jungle outside. At this point, Muse seems to have managed to manoeuvre into a position where she was able to plunge her teeth into Monty.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of a gerbil bite. I have been bitten once by this pair of gerbils, when they had gotten into a fight with each other and Muse had an infected eye as a result. When cleaning the infected eye she had given me a ferocious nip due to the fact that she was in pain, and it HURT.

Monty dropped the Muse, giving me enough time to close the distance, and as I got to him he tried to pounce again. I reacted instinctively, and my foot shot out and connected with poor Monty, who immediately backed off and I scooped up the prize – one slightly alarmed gerbil. Monty realised that his snack had been confiscated and immediately started following me around, yowling pitifully at my heels. I realised that although I am able to clear the windowsill when full of adrenaline and with free hands, I had no method of getting back over the wall with a gerbil in my hands.

My only hope was to stand by the gap between the perimeter wall and the wall that was just big enough to fit my hand through and yell for my neighbour, hoping that she was waiting to see what the outcome was. Luckily for me she was. Unluckily for her, she’s scared of mice and other rodents of that size. She ended up using her dress to hold muse while I ran around the building, and with another spurt of adrenaline in case she let go of the poor furry mite and Monty got her again (he could fit through the gap) leapt over and cleared both windows - I’d forgotten about the front door again. Having retrieved muse (and consequently one hungry cat) from my neighbour, I hurried home, realising as I did that the cage was still open, and I did not know what had become of Florence.

I got in, dashed upstairs (my flat is upside down the living room is upstairs!) and found Florence sat in the cage, wondering idly where her sister was. I popped Muse back in with her, administered a few treats for shock and escorted the now pitiful looking Monty from the premises. After arriving back upstairs, I found both Gerbils curled up together, fast asleep as if nothing had happened. Not a scratch on either of them. I however, had lost a large portion of the skin on my hands.

Monty in the alley, outside my front door

Muse and Florence, Muse is on top