Category: An Englishman Abroad

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD FINDS THE BREXIT BONUS

Having completed my own Brexit nearly two years ago I hadn’t expected too much more from my home country.  But the political meanderings over two years since the vote have been the gift that keeps on giving. And over the past two weeks I have been in higher demand than usual by US acquaintances looking for answers.

Being an authoritative source on all matters British and political has its responsibilities.  That hasn’t prevented me claiming that every time anyone in the UK says ‘the Queen’ or ‘Her Majesty’ they have to add ‘God Bless Her’.  But by and large I have been a serious commentator on what are extraordinary times.

It’s very difficult to explain the role of the Queen (God Bless Her) in a Parliamentary democracy.  There is also a touching faith in this ex-colony that she is the smartest person in the country and should just step in to direct MPs on which way is up.  It’s particularly difficult to explain that she has to avoid becoming involved in politics. 

That leads to a whole bunch of unanswerable questions about why she gets to pick the Prime Minister, give Royal Assent to Bills to make them law, and why it’s Her Majesty’s Government.  This gets compounded when I comment that Boris Johnson’s majority would have been lost long ago if the Sinn Fein members chose to sit.  I’d invite everyone to work out why a democratically elected Member of Parliament can’t sit because they won’t swear allegiance to someone who has no direct authority over them.

The House of Lords is another source of mystery and amusement to an incredulous American.  The notion of an unelected group being able to stymie the progress of Bills passed by elected MPs is  as mystifying to me as anyone.  I have taken to calling them the House of Unrepresentatives and relying on interminable, dull, repetitive detail to bore my listeners – a bit like an ordinary day in the House of Lords really.

For the interested (and this is a bit of a pop quiz for readers in the UK) I explain that the full name is the Right Honourable the Lords Spiritual and Temporal of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland in Parliament Assembled.  It meets in a Palace and doesn’t have a fixed size but its make up includes 92 hereditary peers, 26 bishops, and a bunch of people appointed by the Queen (God Bless Her).  At this point I usually have to confirm that Her Majesty remains above politics and only acts on advice.

One contention of the Americans is that this is a separation of powers issue which arises because we don’t have a written Constitution.  My first line of defence is to argue that it is difficult to see how a document written in the 1780s is entirely fit for purpose over 220 years later and they spend a lot of time in court arguing over interpretations.  A little more smugly, I usually go on to point out that the first ten amendments, passed in 1791, are largely based on Magna Carta (1215) and the English Bill of Rights (1689).

Talk then turns to the machinations in Parliament and the role of the Prime Minister.  Here, the difficulty is that there is a tendency to confuse his role and powers with those of the President in the US.  There is some consternation but also some envy when I explain that the Prime Minister is not elected by the populace and that there’s a reasonable tradition of Prime Ministers being ousted by their own party. 

Explaining the powers of the Prime Minister is a bit like trying to explain dark matter.  Aficionados believe it is exists and there is even a reasonable theoretical basis for suggesting it makes a real difference.  But every time push comes to shove the evidence disappears as quickly as a manager of Chelsea football club.

Boris Johnson losing his first three or four votes has made this even more complicated than explaining how Theresa May’s rose to the top political post in the UK after a career with no visible achievements. Equally difficult is explaining why Boris has been able to instantly make the leader of the opposition look like a statesman of gravitas, sense and focus.  And neither is as satisfying as explaining that Jo Johnson’s election and appointment to a Government post was nothing like the rise of Ivanka and Jared to positions of authority in the White House. 

Speaking of Jo Johnson reminds me that Brexit has been a goldmine for memes.  My favourite three currently are:

  • Jo Johnson resigned to spend less time with his family
  • James Bond to the Queen ‘The Members of Parliament, Ma’am?’.  The Queen, ‘Yes, 007, all of them’     
  • The picture of Jacob Rees-Mogg lounging on a bench in the House of Commons being turned into a brilliant visual where he is cuddled by a topless man

Grimmer, but beautifully framed in its righteous scorn, was a comment in the speech by Sir Nicholas Soames after being removed from the Conservative party for voting against the Government.  He commented on the actions of ‘…my right-honourable friend the Prime Minister, the Leader of the House and other members of the Cabinet whose serial disloyalty has been an inspiration for so many of us.’  Truth, humour and sadness captured in a dozen words. 

All this has a serious side and for expats the gloom of the falling pound has only been matched by the sense that the country is being ridiculed for its introspection and in-fighting.  But then, almost miraculously, another day of extraordinary tension showed a silver lining and confirmed something I had been saying for months to my American friends.

I had patiently explained that MPs are representatives and therefore have a duty to do what they think is in the best interests of their constituents even if their constituents didn’t agree.  I also said that MPs could and would vote against their party on issues of conscience.  The voting, changing of party and ousting of members from the conservative party brought this home in spectacular style.

It was a matter of enormous pride to see MPs face down bullying, threats and the prospect of their careers ending in order to vote in the national interest.  For those I know in the US it was great theatre but it has been interesting to see them reflect that partisan politics mean it has become impossible to imagine such a widespread demonstration of individual accountability in their Senate.  At least members of the Mother of Parliaments, for all the chaos, have shown their willingness to take responsibility whatever the personal cost. 


Image by Tumisu from Pixabay     

An Englishman Abroad Rolls With The Royals

Watching the Rolling Stones in the Pasadena Rose Bowl was the closest I’m ever likely to get to seeing the Royal Family reinstated in the land of the free.  Over 90,000 people gathered in a shrine to American Football to celebrate English icons.  And the best bit was that for the first time in several years I think I brought down the average age of attendees.

The Rose Bowl is a grand old stadium that is celebrated as a National Historical Landmark and will be 100 years old in 2022.  That means it is just 15 years older than Stones founding member Bill Wyman who turns 82 this year.  It’s extraordinary to think that Bill left the band more than 25 years ago but even more so to learn that Darryl Jones stepped in immediately and has been the bass player ever since. Who knew?

From Street Fighting Man to Jumping Jack Flash the concert was a reminder of the immeasurable contribution made to modern music by English bands.  The lineage from the Stones, through Led Zeppelin, to the Clash and onwards to Oasis is distinct from the impact of the Celtic nations.  At a parochial level it was a great pleasure to be an Englishman in an arena where 90,000+ Americans were idolising and pouring adulation on my countrymen.

Anyone who wants to see the power of the Stones and their hold over the American psyche should watch the launch of Windows 95 video. It is also the ultimate solace to anyone who has ever been accused of Dad dancing. Watching Gates, Allen et al dancing to Start Me Up as if they having a shared session of electro-convulsion therapy is both joyous and deeply troubling.

But as you listen you realise that the most famous songs have lyrics that are about everywhere and nowhere.  Shakespeare has universal appeal because he wrote about the human condition.  The Stones may have universal appeal because they mainly write about a world which is, at one and the same time, human but beyond reach.

We may be able to just about relate to the notion that ‘sleepy London town is just no place for a street fighting man’ but ‘Gold Coast slave ship bound for cotton fields’ and ‘gin soaked bar room queen in Memphis’ are from a different world.  It may be that ‘we can’t get no satisfaction’ but I doubt many were ‘born in a crossfire hurricane’.  Which may be why the song which sits calmly at the centre of the chaos, darkness and sleaze is the plaintive recognition that ‘you can’t always get what you want’.

The lyrics seem a strange paradox because there is something quintessentially English about the Stones.  For all their international presence, global sales and foreign homes they are recognisably wannabees from the Home County suburbs near London.  Hillingdon, Kingsbury and Dartford are close enough to the bright lights to feel part of the city but far enough away to be desperate for recognition.

A difference between the Stones and the Beatles is that the latter seemed much more parochial in writing about Penny Lane, Strawberry Fields and range of saccharine love songs. Even when they used the American ‘meter maid’ to sing about Lovely Rita it was only because traffic warden didn’t scan. The schism between little Englanders and global citizens was played out again in the 1970s between The Clash and The Jam and, in my view, there was only ever going to be one winner.

But when they gathered round to do an acoustic set interlude of Sweet Virginia it was just possible to imagine them in any country pub in the South of England.  Particularly one where the landlord didn’t want the amplifiers up too loud or any of that aggressive rock nonsense.  No matter, because they posed and postured, preened and performed with total self-assurance.

There were, however, plenty of differences to an English pub setting and $16 dollars for a very average Mexican lager makes sure that nobody gets too drunk.  But that didn’t stop the guy in the seat next to me parting company with his nachos half-way through Sympathy for the Devil.  It may have been linked to do with the overpoweringly sweet smell of legal but increasingly strong weed.

When you see the Stones you are reminded of the power of story-telling and myth.  They are characters that you think you know and about who you form opinions which may be totally at odds with their real personalities.  But they are as venerable and venerated as those on the Civil List and it struck me that comparisons were reasonable.

Charlie Watts reminds me of the slightly dotty uncle who talks to vegetables and frets about deteriorating architectural standards so he must be the Prince Charles of the group.  He looks vaguely embarrassed to still be behind the drums at his age and as if he would much prefer to be home with a cup of cocoa and his slippers on.  Difficult to reconcile that with the story that he once punched Jagger in the face for daring to demand, “where is MY drummer?”

A relative latecomer, although in the band since 1975, Ronnie Woods’ spiritual home has always been the Stones.  The passing resemblance to Keith Richards has faded with time (and Keith’s receding hairline) but Woods epitomises the younger brother who is full of energy and mischief.  Ronnie doesn’t carry the burden of being the monarch or next in line for the crown so, like Prince Harry, he wants to appear useful but is subsidiary to the real power in the Firm.

If there was no Keith Richards there would be no Brown Sugar, Satisfaction, Honky Tonk Woman or Angie and the Stones would be a footnote in history.  Keith may no longer ‘eat iron and piss rust’ but he has always set the musical tone for the band while being content to work with guitarists of greater technical flair and flamboyance.  As the spiritual leader Keith is akin to the Queen because his influence pervades the stage and the mood of the band without needing to do more than embody its history. And, from time to time, he asserts himself like an absolute monarch with an immortal riff or a rude, swampy lick from his spiritual home in the Mississippi delta.

And that leaves Sir Michael Jagger – his Satanic majesty and the model for every starstruck lead singer of a rock n roll band since the early 1960s.  A complete package of manufactured south London accent, snake hips, amphetamine energy, crazy good voice and nearly sixty years of stagecraft.  He is totally mesmerising and delivers the message of the band while rarely standing still, let alone alongside them.  I doubt any modern royal has carried themselves with such a sense of omnipotence and my metaphor rather fades. 

But, in having sympathy for the old devil, I am reminded of Prince Philip being hospitalised at the age of 95, after standing in the rain for three hours during 2012’s Diamond Jubilee Celebrations.  He paid the price for delivering, almost recklessly, what his position demanded, out of a sense of duty and pride.  Mick Jagger’s recent heart surgery is a similar reminder of inevitable human frailty and what will be lost eventually, but his performance was a joyous and inspirational celebration of what it means to be forever young.

Image by Arthur Halucha from Pixabay

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD MUSES ABOUT FOOTBALL FROM THE LAND OF THE WORLD CUP WINNERS

It’s been a good summer of football with the Women’s World Cup reaching delightful heights of quality and tension, the Copa America being as unpredictable and bad tempered as usual, and the CONACAF matches reminding me of the enormous potential in Haiti and Jamaica.  The latter even brought new information when I realised that Curacao was not just the liqueur fuelling the Big Easy Blue Punch cocktail, but was also a part of the Netherlands in the south Caribbean.  With a viewing drought of 30 days until the Premier League kicks off it’s a good moment to reflect on the game and its future.

Watching football (and I will stay with that rather than soccer) in a land where there was no professional league until 1995 is not quite the same as being in England.  The American experience does not yet have the sense of the shared history, rivalry and folklore which can be part of any pub conversation in the UK.  And it’s particularly difficult to find anyone to reminisce with about the way the game is changing.

Having said that I recently mentioned the might Ron Yeats, in the context of a discussion about the value of Virgil Van Dyck to Liverpool FC, and was appalled to find that an English-born supporter of the Anfield team didn’t know the name.  It was difficult to accept that the man Shankly called a ‘Colossus’ has been forgotten by a fan, even when big Ron’s last game was before the supporter was born.  There is something very wrong, but mildly ironical, about a world where a Manchester United fan is giving history lessons about Liverpool to a scouser.

Some change in the game is for the better and the rise in popularity and coverage of women’s football is one example. The USL W-League was formed in 1995 and became the first national football league in the US providing an outlet for professional players.  It beat the start of the US men’s league by a year so  all hail to Long Island Lady Riders, the first champions.  And all respect to the American women’s national team who became four-time World Cup winners at the end of a thrilling and brilliant competition.

The only downside of watching on this side of the Atlantic is that US commentators and pundits still need to up their game in commentary.  When I hear someone is ‘on the dribble’ I assume they are two years old and teething, and ‘service’ is something that I get at restaurants not when the ball is passed, crossed or played.  It’s jarring to listen to, as is the incessant chatter when I am perfectly able to watch the pictures.

Even worse though is the way that Video Assistant Refereeing (VAR) has become a point of contention and frustration.  Allied to the constant tinkering with the rules by FIFA and the current debacle around what constitutes handball, it has ruined several matches.  All of this has contributed to a rising penalty count which is distorting games and undermining the authority of the referee.

The statistics tell a grim story – the introduction of VAR for the men’s World Cup in Russia 2018 contributed to an increase to 29 penalties after only 13 in Brazil 2014.  When the count is done for the Women’s World Cup we should also include the retaken penalties as goalkeepers came off their line a split-second before the kick was taken.  The real problem is that in a game where scores tend to be low the award of a penalty (with about an 80% chance of scoring) has a disproportionate impact on play and outcomes.

Another problem with VAR is that it brings a serious dislocation from the game that is played by millions around the world.  Without instant replays and super, high-definition slow motion there is little choice but to live with the decisions of the referee.  It is character forming and gives great lessons about the unfairness of life, the wonder of a bit of luck and proof that the universe really does not care.   

For well over a century football has remained deeply familiar and played to the same rules and in the same way all around the world.  Pitches that resembled mud-baths have been replaced by billiard table smoothness, legalised (and roundly applauded) violence in the tackle is now outlawed and vigorously punished,  whlle character, paunch and a pint (or two) on the morning of the match have been forgotten for 7% body fat, anodyne interviews and designer water.  But the greatest point of connection is that the game played in a park on a Sunday is, at a fundamental level, governed the same way as the Champions League final.

It seems to me that this is a good principle and that if we are to have assistant refereeing by video it should be limited to matters of fact.  I am in favour of VAR for offside and for digital proof that a ball has or has not crossed the goal-line.  That’s as long as the decision is made quickly and signalled clearly to the watching spectators.

But hand-ball, particularly when there is no blatant movement of the arm or unreasonable attempt to block the ball, will almost always be a matter of opinion.  Similarly, ‘dangerous play’ incidents, like the penalty given against the Dutch in the Women’s World Cup final, should be left to the referee with only serious and evident foul play being subject to VAR when officials miss them.  These decisions are part of the game and fans will always argue about them whether or not VAR intervenes with an equally ambiguous view.

Image by Jonny Lindner from Pixabay

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD THINKS IT’S ALL IN THE NAME

It’s taken a while but I have finally worked out the major difference between US and UK politics.  In a field where presentation is everything there is a fundamental issue about personal branding.  And in this particular department America leads the way by some distance.

The current leadership of the United Kingdom has the main offices of State in the hands of a May, a Hammond and a Hunt.  Far too many imponderables, uncertainties and voiceless glottal fricatives. It’s no wonder the country is struggling to decide which way to go and so many people wish the Government would drop their ‘H”s.

Over in the USA the team is lead by a Trump, a Pompeo and a Mnuchin.  It’s no contest in terms of impact, plosives and a family whose history in the United States began with a Russian-born Jewish diamond dealer who emigrated there from Belgium in 1916. The names sound like characters in a blockbuster film and sometimes have histories to match.

I could also offer Huckabee-Sanders and Lighthizer as examples of the memorable and media friendly names that dominate.  But the big, bold, power-names also leave just enough space for the occasional subtler, headline-friendly option like ex-White House Communications Director, Hope Hicks.  Perhaps the next British Prime Minister’s spokesperson should be considering a deed poll change to become Aspiration, Austerity or Panic. 

There is such a wealth of brand-worthy names available that the President has even been able to dispense with strong contenders.  He got rid of a McMaster, who may have sounded too challenging, and a Priebus, who, perhaps, sounded too much like a foreign car in an era where the focus is on US first.  Most memorably he even forsook a Scaramucci because he featured too strongly in the operatic section of Bohemian Rhapsody to survive more than 10 days as White House spokesperson.

And where the name itself falls short there are some brilliant nicknames even if they have also fallen by the wayside.  Mattis may not have risen to the status of celebrity surname but being called ‘Mad Dog’ was always likely to draw attention.  And returning to Mr Scaramucci I can only be in thrall to someone who not only has a name worthy of Hollywood but glories in the nickname ‘The Mooch’.

Part of the brilliance of the best names lies in not being too over the top – teaming plain old Donald, Mike and Steve with a striking surname is part of the trick.  Just imagine having Theresa Trump, Jeremy Pompeo and Philip Mnuchin powering through Cabinet meetings.  They’d make pretty short work of a Rees-Mogg whose hyphenated Welsh-English surname owes more to channeling Daffodil-Rose than Dragon-Lion.      

All of this helps explain why the British media have latched onto the dishevelled, accident-prone figure of Boris Johnson as a potential leader.  He has become the one name diva of the current political generation with a unique line in hair.  While it’s difficult to credit there is no doubt that he is the Tory party’s equivalent to Beyonce, Pink and Madonna.    

The brilliance of Boris is that he has even been able to appropriate the nickname of a US multi-Olympic medal winner and a Golden Globe nominated singer-actress.  Sadly, Florence Griffith Joyner passed away in 1998 so there is no chance of the three ever teaming up.  BoJo, FloJo and J-Lo might sound like a slightly outre vaudeville act but I suspect that together they could have equalled anything that Groucho, Harpo and Chico managed.    

Of course, Boris’s given name is Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, which incorporates a distinctly Germanic-surname containing more consonants than necessary.  In that respect he joins Nigel Farage who has had a little help from the continent with a family name of French Huegenot extraction.  The forename-surname rule comes into play here as well because I suspect that Boris Farage would be too exotic and Nigel Johnson too prosaic for public support.

So there you have it.  In a world where attention spans get shorter and shorter the route to political success and media approbation lies in having the right name and demonstrating real affinity with popular culture.  The era of Tony, John, Gordon, Margaret and David is over and we are looking towards the day, depending on who wins the Premier League, when Pep.U.Up or JuergenaImojiMe2?  have a realistic shot at leading the country as it seeks re-entry to the China-European Union Alliance in 2050.

Credit: Image by Tumisu from Pixabay

Academic Entanglement for an Englishman Abroad

My recent talk with a student counsellor from an American university was a pretty bracing engagement.  It was all about objectives, needs and ability to pay with a swift follow up email on what I needed to do next.  What I had anticipated as a low-key chat about study options became as clinical and unnerving as an exploratory colonoscopy.

One outcome was a suggestion that I really needed to get my academic qualifications verified in the US.  My initial indignation was around the fact that I have the certificates and academic transcripts for all the higher degrees.  They have been accepted as evidence for two senior roles at UK universities so it was a surprise to find that they would not cut the mustard if I chose to apply to a US university.

The certificates are with a small batch of papers which I keep in a hard-backed envelope and will leave the house with me in the event of a fire.  Leafing through the envelope I was surprised but relieved to see that I still have the certificate from Pontins Holiday Camp confirming that I swam a width when I was eleven years old.  I even have the scraps of paper which confirm my sub-optimal performance at ‘O’ and ‘A’ level

It’s fair to say that I was not the most dedicated scholar during my school years and ‘O’ really did mean ‘Ordinary’ while ‘A’ was probably shorthand for ‘Average at best’.  I also have four CSEs which my peers would reflect stands for Completely Second-rate Education.  I am still slightly stung by the comment on one school record that says ‘always did the minimum with least effort’ but realise, looking back, that it was probably true.

Of course, we are all familiar with stories about the rather underwhelming academic record of Einstein and Churchill.  But the former’s minor troubles in French and the Humanities were more than overshadowed by the fact that he mastered differential and integral calculus before he was fifteen.  Even the latter’s patchy school record can be forgiven for his 1953 Nobel Prize for Literature demonstrating “his mastery of historical and biographical description as well as for brilliant oratory in defending exalted human values.”

I can’t claim either as inspiration but by my late twenties, having been thoroughly schooled in the meaning of discipline and application by the retailers at Tesco and ASDA, I hauled myself out of my academic tailspin.  Eleven years of studying at a distance and paying out of my own pocket schooled me in submitting essays at 3am in the morning and posting them from motorway service stations, airports and even foreign capitals.  Six years of summer schools educated me in how surprisingly feral middle-aged people can become when let off the leash with people they will never see again.

After all that effort it was very satisfying to get my degrees which made it all the more perplexing to realise that the certificates and my honest demeanour were not going to be enough. I guess that every computer now has the software to knock up a reasonable copy that might allow someone to substantiate claims of having a really high IQ and a big brain. Or they might simply choose to make the claim while ensuring that their academic records never saw the light of day.

My diligent counsellor advised me that the best thing to do was have my qualifications reviewed by World Education Services (WES) or a similar service.  For $150 dollars they would confirm to an American university or an employer something that the University awarding my degree already knew.  I’m keeping the bits of paper in the hard-backed envelope but have a sense of sadness that their purpose is almost entirely lost.

I chose to go with WES because it sounds like a real person which, I suspect, is one of the reasons that Alexa seems to have become more popular and talked about than Siri.   SIRI is derived from Speech Interpretation & Recognition Interface but is also a real name in Scandinavia with the meaning ‘beautiful victory’.  Given that not many speak Scandinavian (and even fewer speak Swahili where ‘siri’ means secret) I’d guess that this is lost on most of the world.

While Alexa is a made-up name it has sufficient echoes of standard first names, male and female, to sound familiar.  Alexander the Great, Sir Alex Ferguson (who is considered the greatest after winning the Champions League, Premier League and FA Cup in a single season) and Alex Kingston are among the better known.  It is pleasing to note in terms of new words I have learnt today that Alexandra Smirnoff (1838–1913) was a Finnish pomologist – the branch of botany that studies and cultivates fruit.

Returning to the task in hand I can report that the entanglement with WES and my alma mater, the Open University, has been less than perfect so far.  WES has quite exacting demands in terms of material being sent under seal and signature and the Open University form making the request does not allow me to specify this in detail.  I am left hoping, without expectation, that these organisations are so familiar with the process that it will all work out.

The system seems to have largely been established for those pursuing careers or qualifications in academia.  It’s an opaque world which institutions would do well to open up by making transcripts available through secure digital systems for free.  These should be available to any institution or employer, anywhere in the world, authorised by the student to access them.

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD SEES THE SKY FALLING DOWN

Cultural appropriation should be punishable by having an acorn falling on your head.  After that catastrophe you should live out your days in mortal-fear of global catastrophe.  And when you least expect it you should be eaten by a sneaky but smart tod*.

Any English-person of a certain era and with a child would recognize elements of that as a reference to the fate of Chicken-Licken.  They would share my outrage at finding that on this side of the Atlantic it has been usurped by the tale of Chicken Little.  Even worse, the Henny Penny Corporation (!) claimed in 2011 that Chicken Licken is the “largest non-American-owned fried chicken franchise in the world”.

Naming a company responsible for the Evolution Elite Open Fryer, used to deep-fry chicken for commercial purposes, after an innocent nursery rhyme fowl seems wrong on every level.  I am left wondering if the aforementioned Chicken Licken hands out Foxy Loxy masks to all its customers as they gorge on the product.  And do they do a sideline in Goosey Loosey pieces or Ducky Lucky fries?

My deep dive on the subject led me to discover that there is a formal classification system for organizing, classifying, and analyzing folklore narratives.  It’s pretty heady stuff when you consider that four-year olds decide which ones they like, without any guidance.  But step forward and take a bow Finnish folklorist Antti Aarne who published the first version as Verzeichnis der Märchentypen in 1910. 

Next time I’m asked what the Finns have ever done for Western civilization I can add this to my short list that has previously only included staving off the Russians in 1944, cross-country skiing, and being a potential punchline to any joke which contains the words “I’ve started…..”.  I guess that their other major contribution has been winning the Eurovision Song Contest with a heavy metal band (Lordi with Hard Rock Hallelujah in 2006). It made Dana and All Kinds of Everything seem a very long time ago.

For the record the first publication of this European folk-story came in 1823 when Just Mathias Thiele published a version in Danish.  Beguilingly the main character was Kylling Kluk, with the word Kylling being Danish for a chick.  It all ended badly with everyone getting eaten by the fox which suggests it may have been a trial run for Danish TV series and smash hit, The Killing.

Out of fairness I will acknowledge that the all-powerful Wikipedia suggests that Chandler’s publication of ‘The Remarkable Story of Chicken Little’ in 1840 appears to pre-date any English versions.  But the title is a typical example of over-statement and hysteria which would be better reserved for the era of conspiracy theorists.  What’s ‘remarkable’ about farmyard animals getting together because they think the world is coming to an end?

More sober and appropriate is ‘The Story of Chicken-licken’ published by Halliwell in 1849.  Critically, the animals are purposeful and set out to tell the King about their vision of catastrophe while Chandler’s animals just milled around in a frightened manner before being eaten.  Right now, of course, this seems to be a good metaphor for both the Republican party in the US and Theresa May’s Government in the UK.

If I was seeking further proof of the rightness of Chicken-licken my clincher would be that Chicken Little doesn’t even rhyme.  There is no point to Chandler having Hen Pen, Duck Luck, Goose Loose et al when the main character is a startlingly poor example of blank verse.  Perhaps that’s what comes of having someone who was primarily a wood-engraver and lithographer trying to tell a tale of everyday farm animals in a state of moral panic.

*tod is Scottish dialect for fox (it’s also a unit of weight for 28lb of wool but the notion of a carnivorous ball of wool would mean I’d never wear a jumper again)

An Englishman Abroad – Gatos y Perros?

It’s official – this is a particularly rainy year in California and I am slightly giddy about it.  The map from the blogspot of the mighty Aaron Justus, meteorologist and brewer extraordinaire, shows most areas getting rainfall well above 100% of the average.   The purple patches show the heaviest levels above the norm, although all this is tame compared to Aaron’s video of being in situ for Hurricane Earl .  

I already think of him as Sir Aaron because anybody who is both obsessed by the weather and works in the brewing industry, particularly right here in San Diego, deserves to be adopted by the British and knighted.  It’s a combination of interests that’s a bit like finding out that Bruce Wayne and Batman are the same person.  He deserves recognition for his selfless dedication to two liquids that have been pivotal in shaping the modern world. 

I have also become slightly obsessed by Aaron’s web-site with its multi-coloured maps, radar loops, satellite images and chatty exchanges with readers.  Any site that has all that, talks about el nino and la nina with casual authority and posts a webcam ‘looking west from the Black Mountain’ gets my recommendation.  And that’s before you get to his beer videos like the spooky ‘open fermentation’ special where the vessels truly runneth over.

While Gladys Knight raised the prospect of ‘a rainy night in Georgia’ it was Albert Hammond who immortalised southern California’s reputation for drought.  He took it a little far when he said it never rains in California but more importantly the next line, ‘it pours’, was on the money.  As an aficionado of Belfast drenchings and Manchester soakings I have been mightily impressed by the Golden State’s ability to mount a storm of decent ferocity.

The rain has given me a whole new perspective on life as an expat Brit in a land where sunshine is the norm.  I wield an umbrella with appropriate flourishes, throw scorn at the drivers who slow to a crawl at the first drop on their windscreen, and smile at the astonishment of locals as I walk in light drizzle without a coat.  I take Uber rides specifically so that I can give the captive driver a monologue about how the rain is all well and good but that it was the UK drought of ’76 that was most formative in my teenage years.

I am slightly troubled, however, that if this goes on long enough I may exhaust my supply of rain references.  I’d guess that the English have at least as many descriptors for rain as the family of languages including Inuit and Yupik have for snow.  Whether it’s ‘spitting’, ‘spotting’, ‘chucking it down’ or ‘coming down stair rods’ it’s an idiomatic pick ‘n’ mix of great cultural richness.  I haven’t tried popularising esta lloviendo gatos y perros but the time will come when I will have to use my fledgling Spanish to best effect.   

My fall-back position will be a childhood chorus including ‘incy wincy spider’, ‘rain rain go away’ and ‘old man is snoring’ – all with actions if I’m in the mood.  And I feel the growing inevitably of a mix tape with old favourites by Status Quo, Barbra Streisand and Tina Turner.  Perhaps I’ll even take issue with Paul Simon’s statement that ‘a good day ain’t got no rain, a bad day’s when I lie in bed and think of things that might have been.’   

As usual I have bumped into the language barrier while discussing the opportunities arising from excess water in a semi-desert landscape.  Like any responsible citizen I have been discussing how to harvest the rain in order to use it later in the year.  But it became clear that my references to buying a water butt were being met with looks that ranged from bemused to mildly scandalized.

Apparently, they refer to them as rain barrels in the US. But I contest that description on the grounds that rain is what comes out of the sky and once it is settled it becomes something else – a puddle, a stream, a pond or just water.  Unfortunately, the etymology of ‘butt’ and ‘barrel’ makes it difficult to separate them so I have asserted my usage with the standard – ‘whose language is it anyway?’.

My research on the subject took me to the internet and leads to me sharing some good advice with any sensitive readers interested in this subject.  The search term ‘butt etymology’ should be avoided at all costs. The worldwide web is a wondrous thing and to be treasured but it can lead down some very dubious roads.

The other wondrous thing about the past few weeks has been a morning temperature that allows that delightfully childish game of breathing out smoke into the cold air.  It has been as low as 42degrees farhenheit (5 celsius for European readers) recently. Not quite record-breaking but has led to a set of ‘frost warnings’ in other parts of the State. 

It’s almost like being back in the UK with the only difference being that I probably have 260 days of sunshine to look forward to.

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD WANTS TO CHANGE THE RULES

Challenging the norms of another country’s national sports is always asking for trouble.  But the weekend’s Patriots versus Chiefs championship game ended on such a note of anti-climax that it cannot go unremarked.  The way in which tied matches are decided in over-time does no justice to the talent in the game.

The stakes were heightened by the star quarterbacks on each side.  Legendary, multiple Super Bowl ring winner Tom Brady against young gun, superstar Patrick Mahomes.  The sherrif was in town and the kid was itching for a fight.

It was an attritional game with flashes of brilliance on all sides which is everything you could hope for.  The two slugged it out toe to toe for four quarters and with just ten seconds left in the game the Chiefs tied the scores.  High drama to be followed by total disatisfaction that left a new observer of the game cold.

The method of settling the game is that each side gets a possession and the chance to score unless a touchdown is scored by the team with first possession.  If the scores are equal after a possession each it becomes ‘sudden death’ with the next score winning the game.  And the first possession is determined by the toss of a coin. 

The Patriots won the coin toss and marched down the field to score a touchdown.  There was no opportunity for the Chiefs or their quarterback to respond with their own touchdown.  And that is where the problem lies.

Imagine a world heavyweight boxing match where the scores are tied at the end of the allotted twelve rounds.  To decide the fight a coin is tossed and the loser is not allowed to throw a punch for the next three rounds.  If he is knocked down he loses.

Or a tied game in a World Cup Final between Portugal and Argentina.  On the flip of a piece of metal, it is decided that Messi can’t play in the first half of extra-time and if Portugal score the game is over.  As Ronaldo wheels to celebrate his success the sight of the world’s other greatest player on the sidelines would be heartbreaking.

Defence may win championships but most fans clamour for the thrill of creative players doing amazing things.  They want the joy of enterprise and the jubilation of scoring.  To have a system where one side can be deprived of that makes little sense.

It’s even worse in a game which is a series of set-pieces and where first-mover advantage is in favour of the team in possession.  Alex Lalas noted that a free-kick in soccer is ‘probably the closest thing we have to American football’.  An increasing number of goals in soccer are coming from set-plays as coaches understand the advantage it gives them in a game which is otherwise almost entirely random.   

This advantage in American Football is borne out by the statistics.  According to Football Outsiders statistics Drive Success Rate (DSR), which measures the percentage of down series that result in a first down or touchdown, no team is successful less than 60% of the time.   In 2018 the Patriots had a season DSR of 73.9% and the Chiefs a DSR of 80%.

In short, you would expect the Patriots to complete a first down most of the time they are in possession.   And some excellent statistical work by Brian Burke indicates that, wherever on the field a drive starts it is more likely to end in a touchdown than a field goal.  None of this takes away from the quality of the Patriots’ execution in a pressure situation but it shows how the balance of probability adds up.

But the point is that the Chiefs did not get a chance to respond which short-changed the paying public.  I am told that before a rule change it was even worse, with only a field goal being needed to win in overtime. It’s a version of the dreaded ‘golden goal’ tried in soccer until being dropped in 2004 – I like to think because rule-makers realised it was dumb.

In every sport I can think of, where a definitive result is necessary, the teams battle it out on a blow for blow basis until the end.  Baseball can go on for hours and hours and innings after innings.  Football has resorted to penalty shoot-outs which at least equalises the pressures and skill levels of the teams.

And that is probably where American Football should go.  Maybe they give each side two ‘mini-quarters’ of, say, three minutes, with no time-outs, to score.  Once they score, a field goal or touchdown, or lose possession they hand the ball over to the opposition.  If the scores are level at the end of that, the game goes to field goal kicking of increasing lengths until one misses while the other scores.

Or they could simply move to the NCAA college rules where each team is, in succession and with no time limit, given the ball on the 25 yard line. After the first team completes its drive with a score or turnover, the opposing team has the same opportunity. If the teams are still tied after the second team’s possession, they must play another period until a winner emerges.

Neither is perfect but both mean that each side has an equal chance to win.  The game is eventually settled on a test of skill rather than fortune.  And the tension would be unbearable to the very end.  Perfect.

An Englishman Abroad Struggles With Sporting Conventions

It’s play-off and championship season in the National Football League and I am riveted by the mass of information on the TV screen.  There’s the score, the time, which quarter the game’s in, the number of yards needed and which down it is.  It’s a lot to take in but I remain baffled as to why the home team’s name comes second on the screen.

A lifetime in the UK has been based upon the immutable law that when a match is promoted and shown the home team’s name is first.  It makes sense because the game is at their stadium and it’s a reminder of home advantage.  It is very disorienting to have this turned on its head for no good reason.

The argument from American friends is that it is to reinforce the spoken version.  So it’s “the Steelers at the Patriots” and they seem equally bemused by my concern.  It’s common to American sports from basketball to baseball to hockey but it is as strange to a resident alien as some of the spelling. 

It might help if the American sports had proper knock-out cup competitions because it seems inconceivable that you would draw the away team out of the hat first.  But there was incredulity when I described a competition where pure chance might pit the might of Premier League Champions against the humblest of pub teams.  There is no equivalent here to the televisual genius of watching faded, mumbling players of yesteryear plucking swirling numbered balls blindly from a rotating device that has been borrowed from the local Bingo hall.

The ‘oooing’ and ‘aaaing’ and sharp intakes of breath as particularly juicy ties are drawn is a staple of being a fan of English football.  It’s matched by the camera in the clubhouse of some non-league upstarts looking to make an impression on the shins of an overpaid, over-tattooed and overrated Premier League star.  They may themselves be overweight, overworked and, er, over-tattooed but this is their moment in the sun.    

Everything about the FA Cup speaks to the principles of a working class game that has spawned decades of clichés. It’s eleven against eleven, a game of two halves and a pitch recently cleared of cow pats is a great leveller.   Nobody wants to play against Clogger United on a frosty, January night but it’s a reminder of the days when players caught the local bus to the stadium and drank a pint or four with the fans after the game (and sometimes before).     

It seems to me that the lack of decent cup competition is against the very spirit of the United States and I’d venture, without any genuine understanding, that it is likely to be unconstitutional.  This is supposed to be the land of opportunity where every child has the chance to become President and where Supreme Court Justices vehemently declare their love of beer.  Surely there has to be a space for the town of Gonzales, Louisiana, the ‘jambalaya capital of the world’, to form a team called the Gophers and take homefield advantage to give Bill Belichick’s all conquering New England Patriots a bloody nose.

When I raised the possibility it was suggested that the entire Gophers squad would be hospitalised in the first quarter by the superior physical qualities of the visiting supermen.  But anybody who saw Division 2 Sunderland beat the mighty Leeds United in the FA Cup Final, or savoured Southern League Herford’s win against the, then high-flying, Newcastle United, knows that dreams never die.  A ruptured spleen and complex fractures of every limb seem a small price to pay for a shot at glory.

It’s always good to have a theme so if I’m obliged to start a campaign my intention would be to invoke the spirit of the Rocky’s – Balboa and Marciano – and the formidable peak peaks of the Rockies – Elbert and Massive.  Warming to the task I’d eat Rocky Road ice cream (invented in California in 1929), wear Rocky boots (from Ohio since 1932) and sing Rocky Mountain Way by Joe Walsh (born in Kansas 1947) as my closer.

I put the whole fear of being beaten by part-timers down to another unfathomable thing about American sports – there is no promotion or relegation.  For a land which consistently harps on about winners being first and losers being nowhere this rather softens the blow of not being good enough.  No chance of going down or up, or facing ‘Nutter’ Smith in the backfield during a tricky cup match, means that the players can coast indefinitely.

The weakness of some of the groupings in the NFL’s structure of eight, four-team divisions grouped in two conferences has been recognised.  An example is the NFC East where the New England Patriots have topped the table 16 times in the last 18 years.  The advantage is that you get a week of rest and then homefield advantage against a ‘wild card’ team.

Talking of the Patriots reminds me of another strange thing about American football.  Each team gets to use their own balls when they are on offense (or attack in English parlance).  This led to the famous ‘deflategate’ scandal where the Patriots were accused of under-inflating their balls.  It was January 2015 and they were playing the Indianapolis Colts in the AFC Championship game.

The referees seemed not to notice at the time which is not surprising because their ‘ruling on the field’ is overruled by video review with astonishing regularity. It may also be because they are dressed in replica Newcastle United shirts and throw yellow dusters around when they spot an infringement. It’s like watching the Toon Army take up Morris Dancing with Molly Maid Home Cleaning Services.

It’s difficult for me to get excited about the scandal because the thought of teams being able to change the ball just because they are in possession is bizarre.  But I do laugh at the thought of running a rugby game in the same way.  Imagine stopping some lumpen Welsh flanker with cauliflower ears and a broken nose, who has just turned over a ruck-ball by stomping all over the head of an English fly-half. 

Referee: “Sorry, old chap, but it’s your turn to attack now so you need to stop for a moment and play with your own ball.” Flanker: Makes unintelligible, sub-human noises due to fractured septum, mud up the nostrils, multiple concussions and an ill fitting gum-shield over teeth already needing complete reconstructive surgery. Referee: “Good man, tha……” before the rest of the conversation is lost as the unfortunate official being trampled by what the late Bill McLaren might have called, ‘twenty stone of the finest, Welsh livestock on the hoof’.

And with that I am immediately looking forward to the first day of the new six-nations championship on 1 February and the opportunity to indoctrinate friends here about the virtues of rugby.  Dark-arts in the scrum, pace and power set against speed and strength, and the ultimate in physical confrontations without padding.  There is nothing quite like it and I am hoping that the screen will show the home team first – just like it should be.   

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD IN CHRISTMAS PRESENT (AND A BIT OF PAST)

Being in a city where the sun hardly ever sleeps makes Christmas a physical and mental challenge.  No icy streets to avoid slipping on, no blanket of sodden, fallen leaves to trudge through and none of the relentless street corner carolling from chuggers and latchkey kids on the make.  Just the sunshine, clear blue skies and refined, acoustic covers of Christmas hits in local gift shops.

Many of the traditions in the run up to Christmas are missing.  This includes the yearly favourite, inspired by betting company PR departments, around the growing chances of a white Christmas.  For a few weeks weather forecasters play along with reasonable degrees of humour before offering us reassurance that no snowflakes will fall on the big day.

There’s good news for betting people in that the old test used to be a snowflake falling on the Met Office building in London.  But the developing sophistication of the bookies means that some of them offer different odds for different parts of the country.  Paddy Power makes Aberdeen this year’s favourite – which may be the first time since Alex Ferguson’s tenure that they have been favourites for anything.

There doesn’t seem to be an equivalent in the US.  Some parts of the country seem to be fatalistically awaiting or have had several weeks thigh-deep snowdrifts, while others are blithely deciding which pair of shorts to wear.  It’s another reminder that the UK could fit, in terms of land mass, into each of the ten largest states in the US.

The other sign of changing times is the diminishing need to leave the house to shop.  On too many occasion my Christmas Eve was spent dashing around an overheated department store buying overly expensive gifts. The cost was usually proportionate to my desperation and sense of guilt about lack of planning.

The efficiency of online retailing has made the last minute dash a thing of the past. I cannot be alone in my astonishment that orders seem to arrive almost before they are made.  Perhaps the next step is that Alexa simply chooses for you what gifts are to be purchased without you even having to think about it.

My problem with that would be that Alexa has a habit of misunderstanding me.  I think it’s an accent thing and I have lost many games of Jeopardy or Pop Quiz due to answers being rejected because I have not  develop a trans-Atlantic twang.  The specific failing is that years of reminding the children ‘there’s a ‘t’ in that word’ means I don’t geddit that I should say paddio rather than patio.

Music has also become a bone of contention with the sunshine creating a slightly perverse demand amongst locals for full on Christmas cheer.  My post-ironical play-list containing the more profound but less joyful classics, ‘Christmas in February’ and ‘Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis’, has been roundly rejected.  There is a real tension between attitudes in a sunny, warm climate and those bred in the harsh reality of an English winter.

My belief in gritty realism is that I’ve always taken the view that the celebration is grounded in very difficult circumstances.  It’s about an impoverished family, bullied by a venal government, taking temporary shelter in conditions suitable only for cattle.  It seems well established that social services failed them terribly and that cutbacks to the emergency services meant they couldn’t get there in time for the birth.

In a classic Government cover up the Government of the day decided to move the news cycle on by launching a campaign to persecute infant boys.  Twitter resistance was launched under #notustoo but nobody was ever successfully prosecuted.  Over time all of the events were glossed over or denied and secret payments were made to ensure the silence of those involved.

Editor’s Note: None of the above should be taken to reflect any events or people past or present. It’s inconceivable that any of these things could happen in a well-ordered democracy where the rule of law prevails.

Looking back I was reminded that in the early 1990s I spent all night in the run-up to one Christmas in the ASDA Clapham store.  We had managed to take advantage of the changes in UK legislation to become the first major store to be open for 24-hours.  It seems so common nowadays that it feels like a different world to remember that all big stores used to shut by 10pm.

Christmas in the aisles was punctuated by the PR specials we had imported to enliven proceedings.  The man on the bed of nails certainly made an incongruous addition to the non-food aisles as was the sight of the company’s CEO carrying out bag-packing duties at 3am in the morning.  The next day’s coverage was spectacular and the face of late-night shopping in the UK was changed forever.

This will also my second year without a traditional works Christmas party.  High kicking to ‘New York New York’ has happened, inappropriate behaviour that has brewed all year between colleagues has occurred, and the trousers of a board director have fallen down. A lot of alcohol has been taken and hangover breakfasts consumed.

The partner of a work-mate has phoned at 4am to say the boyfriend isn’t home and that Find Friends is locating his phone in the middle of Albert Dock.  People have cried, shouted, argued and cried some more.  There has been a lot of laughter and high jinks that have made Christmas Day feel like the last mile in a marathon of celebration.   

No such dramas this year.  The tree is up and decorated, the dogs have their Christmas sweaters and there will be beef and Yorkshire puddings as we pull the crackers for lunch on the 25th.  And I will have the best excuse to continue my personal tradition of never watching the Queen’s (God Bless Her) speech.

Thanks to all those who have read any of my musings during 2018. I hope you have a wonderful Christmas and a joyous New Year.  All the best for 2019.