Auntie's Bloomers

(Rant alert)

I don't get BBC America. Yes, I watch it - mainly because out of 200-odd tv channels, it's a haven to recognise the acronym. But seriously, I don't get who it thinks its market is. I'm assuming, it being the BBC, it's used some poor UK license-payers' money to commission some flashy market research over here -- god knows how Sham Wow! and repetitive Intercontinental ads alone could fund that kind of research -- and yet it seems to wobble unsuccessfully between trying to please a guaranteed expat audience and attempting to conquer American viewers.

Watching the news at 7pm or 10pm, I quite often find it excruciatingly embarrassing and squirm-inducing - a bit like watching an original UK episode of The Office. They invite along all these U.S. guests anxious to prove what brilliantly intelligent anglophiles they are, while the presenters dither over questions and prove that they couldn't prod a potato let alone a politician. I'm not a big fan of American news programs either, but I just can't get behind this method of marketing the Beeb in America.

I may finally have had enough. Today, for example, one of the news pieces was a story that "is all people are talking about in the UK", we were told. In a Murdoch-by-the-book example of cross-selling, the BBC America newscaster explained with customary patronage that former BBC political jouno John Sergeant has been winning the UK version of Dancing With The Stars (shown on the BBC) by the popular vote, although the judges have declared him a dancing failure -- and so he has bowed out to let other celebrities have a chance to win. I am sure people are talking about this in the UK -- but does anyone care over here, who isn't an expat and hasn't already seen the story on the web or heard it over email from relatives or friends?

Then I saw an advert for the tv programme Gladiators - which I vaguely remember was on ITV in the UK, not the BBC. And while this takes me back to happy days of my childhood, again it's confusing. Presumably, BBC in America thinks this is the kind of show its audience wants, and can't get on the other 200 or so channels. Not that I'd know, because I spend very little time watching those other channels, but American Football certainly seems to have some parallels with Gladiators...

Anyway - I wanted to know what you guys think, assuming you're expats or Americans with an interest in UK culture. Am I just whingeing? Would you rather turn to BBC America for Eastenders and Corrie, the odd costume drama and re-run of Only Fools and Horses? Or do you like the fact it seems to present its vision of American television, run through a British wringer?

Beer, head & rules

A long time ago, back in the old country, I worked at a local former coaching inn. Having just looked it up online again, it actually looks like a quite beautiful little hotel, the kind that visiting Americans would probably love. It has a pub -- which (at least when I worked there) had a bad reputation among the locals -- and also a bar with a small restaurant. It has a reception room attached too and I spent much of one summer pouring drinks at weddings. It is owned by the largest British-owned brewery in the UK and has a reasonable range of beers on tap.

Anyway, when I started, I was given a cursory training in 'pulling' beer -- at least the ales, which aren't simply a case of flipping a tap. Among the things I was taught, and I remember this was even included in a little training booklet I was given, was that the beer's head shouldn't be more than an inch. In fact, I remember being told that patrons had the right to refuse to pay for beer with more than an inch of head.

I've been thinking about this because quite regularly here, pints of beer are served very rarely anywhere close to full. Sometimes you feel like you've been cheated of at least $1 of the $6 beer you bought. On the other hand, in the UK these days, bar staff seem to take pride in serving pints of full as possible and mastering the art of handing them to you without spilling - so that you can have the pleasure yourself of spilling the pint down your wrist, onto your shoes and all over the angry people in front of you on your way back to where your friends are standing.

But anyway, I've been googling to see if the 2.5 cm rule was a real law or just something made up by this brewery - and I can't find any evidence of either. Does anyone know if this is a rule? And, if so, why hasn't Bloomberg launched something similar here?

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And if you're at a loose end - take a look at the video here of Lawrence Dallaglio, Ambassador for a certain beer, showing you how he pulls it.

Oh dear...

Once again, work got a bit on top of me over the last few months and a nasty cold coupled with a chain of visitors topped it off. It wasn't that I didn't want to post, but, well - this is an apologetic catch-up again, I'm afraid. I've been pretty busy, to be honest:

1. I popped my food delivery cherry. Yes, dear reader, I've lived here two and a half years and until last month I'd never had the gall to order food and have it delivered. I was not a true New Yorker. Part of my fear was not knowing how much to tip and the other part was a certain English sensibility that ordering food to be delivered might give my neighbours a certain impression of me... I don't know why I care what the neighbours think - this being New York, I may as well not have any neighbors for all I see them. But anyway, last month I plucked up the courage to make a phone call to order pizza not once, not twice, but four times and I haven't looked back since. I hope by the New Year to have got the hang of ordering from at least one other food category - perhaps sushi, or a curry... Don't want to push it, but I'm proud of my progress so far.

2. At one point in the last few weeks, I felt so ill that I took myself to the doctor's office. I'd more or less convinced myself I was at death's door - strange what being away from home and English common sense and the National Health Service will do for you. I sat in the doctors office feeling like I was on fire, but with a strange watery sensation in my lap. It wasn't until 45 minutes later and I was called to the nurse that I realised I'd failed to put the lid on my litre bottle of water and it had been slowly dribbling through my new red leather handbag and down my jeans. I peered in and my wallet was literally floating in my handbag. I dug it out and hid the bag, dripping, behind me as I walked into the nurse's office. Where they asked me a load of questions about my medical history. Then I waited 10 minutes. Then I went to the doctor's. Who spent 15 minutes asking the same questions and marveling about how I couldn't remember the name of the last doctor I saw, more than two years ago now. Then back to the nurse for a strep test (is this the same as tonsilitis? I've never figured it out. To my knowledge 'strep' either doesn't exist in England, or Brits are blessedly immune). All the while I was leaving a trail of watery red dye behind me. I don't think I'll be going back in a hurry. It was bad, but it got worse when I realised on leaving that both my mobile and my work-issued blackberry were floating, lifeless, in the dregs of the water. I hate being ill. It was definitely the most costly doctor's visit I've ever had.

3. Oh yes, about the history that happened. Bleary-eyed shortly after 6am last Tuesday I stumbled to the bus stop for work. I could not for the life of me figure out why there was a three-block long queue of people lining up outside the housing estate across the road. My eyes were a little wonky and everyone was bundled up against the cold in a way that suggested Russian bread lines. I briefly wondered just how bad the financial crisis had got before getting on the bus and forgetting all about it until I got to the office, where all the yanks were whingeing about the voting lines. To which I replied, ha, well, at least you CAN vote and made a lame-arse crack (complaint) about taxation without representation, which just doesn't have the same ring to it as it did 200 years ago after a load of nice tea had been thrown into a harbor.

4. The other thing that's taken up my time has been the end of the baseball season. For the last few weeks, my braindead tv-watching time, previously occupied by baseball, has been taken over by American football. If you remember, this was where I was at last football season. Now, I find myself watching football much as I do a firework display - the odd second where I go 'ooooh!' in admiration when someone catches a far-flung ball, or 'aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!' the moment when someone breaks through a line of vicious lycra-clad warriors and then 90 percent of the time thinking that I'm getting a crick in my neck from straining to watch action that's hidden behind trees/clouds/ad breaks for new cars.

How to be English in the U.S...

In what will hopefully wind up as a series, I'm offering some thoughts to Americans who might want to have the best of both worlds: being English and living in the U.S. That is, the peace of mind that comes from having a get-out clause for all disputes over American political, economic and religious views AND being able to enjoy many consecutive days of sunshine without ever wondering where you last left your umbrella.

In this episode, I will be discussing how to eat a slice of pizza at a New York pizzeria like an English person.


How to eat pizza like an English person

First of all, you must express some quiet, understated but totally and utterly confused astonishment at the sheer scale of gluttony that has been served to you. Something like, "Gosh! It's rather large!" or "Golly, I've never even seen a whole pizza this size before!" should do the trick.

Probably nobody has heard you because you talk about 20 decibels below everyone else in the queue (not a line) and because you're English, not American, you will resist the urge to turn around and see whether anyone heard you, understood your astonishment, or admired your attempt at the accent.

Then comes the tricky part. You'll notice that the slice of pizza does not fit properly onto the flimsy paper plate on which it has been served. In fact, some of the mozzarella is dripping messily down your wrist. And it's hot and it hurts. This time, you will look around to try and see whether anyone has noticed how grubby you're getting. But you won't even blink as the cheese really begins to burn, because you're English, and you don't feel pain (or any other minor inconvenience), remember?

You'll make it to the table doing a John Cleese-inspired walk designed to maintain as much grease as possible ON the pizza and OFF your hand and wrist, while walking as quickly as possible to a table so you can (carefully, quietly) drop the source of the third degree burn.

Now you must begin to search frantically (but again, quietly so as not to draw any attention to yourself) for some cutlery. There is none. Look around, surreptitiously, and notice that people are eating with - horror of horrors - their own hands! Briefly recoil, then sit down and breathe deeply. Eye the pizza suspiciously. Wonder whether it's worth it. Remember that your relatives suffered worse fates during the war.

Take a little nibble from the side. Take a little nibble from the other side. Realise you've only succeeded in making the slice thinner and more difficult to eat. Eye the slimy tip of the slice. It's still dripping oil. That can't be right, can it?

Your next choice will determine the type of Brit-in-america that you will become. You can either: A) open your mouth wide, fold the pizza in half and gobble it up like a true Yank, or B) Check to see whether your mother and/or a dinner lady are watching, then carefully put it in the bin and walk out before anyone notices you just threw perfectly good food away because you were too cowardly to eat it.

You get to choose - you're in America now!

Tipping Point

I knew something like this would happen eventually.

Supermarket Cheated Workers, State Says
The top two executives at an Associated supermarket in Brooklyn were arrested on Wednesday on charges that they had cheated workers out of more than $300,000 and had falsified business records that they gave to state officials.
Attorney General Andrew M. Cuomo said the executives paid no wages to supermarket baggers — who received only tips — and paid a weekly salary of $300 to other employees who worked 70-hour weeks; the pay rate breaks down to $4.29 an hour, far less than the state’s minimum wage of $7.15 an hour...
(NY Times, Oct 8)

I mean, it seems like these executives now have to deal with the fearless bank-attacking NY AG Cuomo, and the supermarket baggers are being looked after.... But I can't help but feel guilty by association (no pun intended) - I had no idea I should be tipping the supermarket baggers. And what's worse, my local supermarket is an Associated...

I've had my fair share of waitressing, bartending and kitchen portering jobs and I care about tipping - I just still, after two and a half years here, don't seem to be able to get the hang of it...

I know enough to leave at least 20 percent for a meal, a dollar a drink at a bar -- but I still get stumped on too many occassions.

My usual tactic is to avoid any service for which tipping might be expected - but when I drove to Boston with my brothers, the hotel we stayed at had free parking, with a valet. And I had no idea what to give the valet. In the end I put a wad of small bills in his hand and kept my fingers crossed I wasn't insulting him.

I try to err on the side of generosity, but I don't have any real benchmarks and I'm always left feeling uneasy after a visit to the hairdresser or the waxing lady - maybe what I think is generosity will be met on my next visit by a bad dye job or some painful hair removal.

Does anyone have a good tipping guide? What should you do, for example, when your bags are ripped out of your hands as you walk into a hotel lobby? Do you pay the bag-stealer, or stubbornly insist on carrying them yourself? Which is worse? And what about the valet parking guy?

Falling for fall

I knew I was becoming just a little bit more American last week when I started to get excited about Autumn - and even almost remembered to refer to it as Fall.

It's not really a season in the U.K. Maybe it's just time wearing my memories thin, but I only remember September to December as a steep descent into short, dark days, with the dampness getting daily colder.

Here in the North East, autumn is prickly bright and refreshing after a long stifling summer that's dulled the senses. There's a freshness to the air. Even the waft of decaying leaves has a certain piquancy that dispells the summer fug. It's like a sweet and sour chilli soup, draining sinuses and assaulting lethargy.

My first two years here, my autumn was filled with a slow-building dread of the cold to come. Violent orange autumn decorations for Halloween and harvest-time stared, lurid, from everywhere, their plastickly lifelessness confirming the imminent arrival of my winter purgatory.

This weekend, I bought my first ever pumpkin.

And I’m beginning to look at photos like these and feel uplifted, rather than condemned.

Creature Comforts

While the habit of cogitating on the toilet is neither exclusively American nor British, I'm coming to the conclusion -- through my own loo-based thinking sessions -- that the Brit and American peoples have very different opinions about what makes good toilet paper.

Loo roll, bog roll or an Andrex-puppy toy -- as Brits habitually think of the white stuff -- tends to be on the luscious side in private homes. Even your regular old economy, Tesco Value loo roll (if I remember rightly) comes in two-ply sheets.

In the U.S., however, TP (toilet paper) even in personal residences, tends to be thin and toward the rougher end of the bottom-wiping spectrum. Certainly not something a Labrador puppy would care to play with.

This is the country that created Lay-z-boy chairs, drive-through ATMs and household plumbing that functions.

The U.K., on the other hand, is the country where schools provide children with loo roll the consistency of tracing paper, and toilets with an air temperature significantly below zero, regardless of the season.

To be sure, the U.S. doesn’t want for toilet roll choice – there’s scented and coloured rolls, patterned, economy and luxury. But the overwhelming choice of the hotel, household and office is a simple, economic, one-ply roll.

So what gives, America? What’s wrong with treating the humble bottom nicely, just once in a while? And is it really because of bottom-wiping trauma while at an early age in school that we Brits are prepared to spend money on loo roll?