England: Don't Believe the PR

I used to have a rather idyllic impression of England: high teas with crumpets and scones, punting along the Thames, witty conversation over cigars and Brandy. It turns out that that's all bullocks. The "proper," "polite" British are as loud, obnoxious, and disgusting as any American I've ever known, if not more so.

Now, I realize it may be unfair to judge England based on Oxford, which is a college town (I certainly wouldn't want to be judged based on my school), so take what I say with a grain of salt (if you don't have any, there's plenty over here), and remember all the lovely things I've said so far.

People make out everywhere here. In cafes, in pubs. It's worse than the student union at my school back home. People even stop in the middle of the sidewalks just to snog.

And speaking of sidewalks, they are too narrow and no one has the common decency to get out of the bloody way. So Christine and I will be walking down the sidewalk in single file to avoid taking up too much space (and to hide our numbers, much as the Tusken Raiders of Tatooine do), and we have to step into the road to get past any number of people coming toward us who apparently all need to gaggle about together like geese. At first we thought it was our fault. We're used to staying to the right, but in England they probably go to the left. Nope. The mindset on this tiny island seems to be that with space at a premium, I must take up as much as I can whenever I can.

And what's the deal with driving on the left side of the road? It's not any more practical. It's as if the English all decided, well, the Americans drive on the right, so we're going to drive on the left (I suspect the actually wanted to drive in the middle of the road, but someone must have been practical. Whoever it was, he and his descendents must have emigrated). Look, America invented the car. If you want to drive one, drive the way we do. I have the same question about their power outlets, which are too big and oddly shaped. America discovered electricity, so if anyone else wants to use it, they should darn well use it the way we do.

And a word or two on our flatmate. I think all I have said so far was that he is a nice guy. He still is. He is also the most disgusting clod on this island (which is saying something). He and his girlfriend (who is basically our fourth flatmate, although we don't know her name because nobody here speaks English) are proof against Darwinism (and while that should strengthen my faith, the fact that we have been forced to live with them actually makes me question it). In a naturalistic, survival of the fittest world, Christine and I would kill and eat them. They illustrate famously that book learning doesn't mean intelligence. Their one purpose in life seems to be to make this flat smell like arse. They begin in the kitchen, cooking elabrate and wonderful smelling meals, which they then devour in the living room. I use the word devour, because they sound exactly like the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park when they eat. Including the snorting. My brother, cousin, and best friend are notorious for their less than elegant table manners, and each one of them could give our flatmates lessons on table etiquette. Once they've demolished their meal, they leave their dishes lie wherever they slip out of their greasy fingers. Then they begin to strew their books, shopping bags, shoes, and papers all about the living room, where they will stay until we kick them into a corner. The next day, the pans which were used to make the delicious smelling meals lie on the counter still encrusted with food, where they will stay unless we ask them to wash them so that we may cook. If we don't ask, the dishes stay where they are, the kitchen and dining room smell foul, and they have accomplished half their life's purpose. At which point they move to his bedroom, which is next to ours, and proceed to chain smoke smoke Marlboros, filling the hall with the acrid smell of unwashed cowboy. The bathroom, thank God, never smells too badly. However, when our flatmate takes his bi-monthly bath, he throws the shower mat onto the floor after filling the tub with water and then gets out before drying off, and then wonders why the bathroom is damp. It all reminds me of the line from The Green Mile, "How many years you spend pissing on a toilet seat before someone told you to put it up?"

Say what you will about English food, at times breakfast baps, fish & chips, and bangers & mash are all that keep me from writing off this festering turd of an island. Well, that and Victorian horror fiction. And the people at the Raddy are nice. And the libraries, the libraries are good. Not to mention Blackwell's. And I do like the castles everywhere. And the year-round Cadbury Creme Eggs. And the crocuses and daffodils are blooming so everything is purple, yellow, and green. And everything here is within walking distance and the museums are free. Oh, who am I kidding? I love it here!

I just want to go home.