Have you ever seen people dressed up as African warriors or wild animals, parading around for a group of German or otherwise equally amazed and entertained tourists, and you think to yourself, “What a sham!”? We all know that living in South Africa doesn’t mean we all have the Big 5 in the backyard (well everyone except my friend Mary, who literally does have elephants in her garden), and that this ‘wild African experience’ is mostly a tourist trap. In fact, game farms are now so overpriced that most passport-holding South Africans can’t even afford to go them, so pretty much only the tourists get to enjoy ‘unspoiled’ Africa. But I digress...
The way I feel when I see these tourist gimmicks is sadly the way I now feel in London, having realised that the Queen, Royal Family, and posh English high teas are the equivalent of the Zulu warriors at uShaka Marine World. Yes, all these lovely and quaint Britain-isms exist, but it’s hardly the true reflection of the British. You can visit Buckingham Palace, and Kensington Palace, and Harrods, and Hamleys, and Westminster Abbey, but the truth of the matter is, if you cannot or will not buy into these tourist fares then you are about to experience an entirely different England.
For a first world country people here litter like crazy, spend a large portion of their time getting or being drunk, cleaning (including household, bodily, and laundry) seems entirely optional, and the men are either overly aggressive and rude, or uncomfortably attentive and talkative (this is a polite way of describing the lewd comments I’ve had directed at me from moving vehicles, building sites, and open flat windows). Recently I witnessed a 3 vs. 1 GIRL-on-girl fist fight, in a GROCERY store, AND toasters were thrown. In order not to discriminate, I will simply say that Little Britain is an entirely accurate display of certain subcultures in England!
I have come to realise that the BBC has done a great job of brainwashing me. But there is one element left that seems to ring true; traditional British cuisine is often exactly as it appears in movies and books, and there are those truly traditional dishes that you will find in most homes here regardless of age, class, or culture. Personally, I enjoy the desserts most; scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream, crumbles, pies, trifle, bread and butter pudding, and my ultimate, Eton Mess.
So it seems to me that to be truly British, your day would go something a little like this:
Wake up, open beer. Clothing optional, step outside and scream greeting at neighbour. Open second beer. Moan to neighbours. Open third beer. Walk to bus stop, shout lewd and mostly unintelligible comments to girls. Open fourth beer, toss empty can and cigarette stompie onto ground. Go to pub, consume beers five through twelve. Go home. Shout abuse at partner. Eat dinner of broccoli and Stilton soup, followed by roast lamb with Yorkshire puddings, and finish with spotted dick, cheese and crackers, and beers thirteen and fourteen. Go to the pub with partner, lose track of beer consumption. Have full on screaming match in the middle of the street. Go home. Wake up, don't rinse, and repeat.
(For the female routine, simply add a dash of grocery store fist ups in the afternoon).
So in the name of all that is left of the ‘great’ in Great Britain, here are my versions of some favourites I’ve made recently:
Deconstructed Apple Crumble
So it seems to me that to be truly British, your day would go something a little like this:
Wake up, open beer. Clothing optional, step outside and scream greeting at neighbour. Open second beer. Moan to neighbours. Open third beer. Walk to bus stop, shout lewd and mostly unintelligible comments to girls. Open fourth beer, toss empty can and cigarette stompie onto ground. Go to pub, consume beers five through twelve. Go home. Shout abuse at partner. Eat dinner of broccoli and Stilton soup, followed by roast lamb with Yorkshire puddings, and finish with spotted dick, cheese and crackers, and beers thirteen and fourteen. Go to the pub with partner, lose track of beer consumption. Have full on screaming match in the middle of the street. Go home. Wake up, don't rinse, and repeat.
(For the female routine, simply add a dash of grocery store fist ups in the afternoon).
So in the name of all that is left of the ‘great’ in Great Britain, here are my versions of some favourites I’ve made recently:
Deconstructed Apple Crumble
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