Stranger in a Strange Land

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Five years.

Actually a little longer.

A shade over five and a half.

There’s no doubt about it, it’s quite a while.

Athens and Beijing had come and gone. England had won the Rugby, then carelessly knocked-on to the Springboks, and Italy somehow snatched the soccer silverware. It was longer than my time at university. Almost as long as senior school. And by far the longest I’d ever spent outside the country of my birth.

Britain’s a funny old place, and returning was going to feel distinctly weird, the more so as the last few months were spent in the wonders of Nepal, the last few days in the chaos of India. Okay, it’s not quite touching down from Mars to this land of ice and snow, but for those of us without our space wings, it’s as close as we’re ever going to get.

Despite leaving Delhi far behind, Delhi hadn’t quite left me. Debbie unwisely noted, mere seconds before our departure, that at least we hadn’t got sick this time. Needless to say, after a gut-wrenching flight, my bowels finally opened within moments of touching down at Heathrow. My first night in Blighty was spent entirely on Thomas Crapper’s most famous British invention, from which my backside gave a valiant attempt at the National Anthem.

Fortunately, back in the first world the bug quickly cleared, and I was able to join our host’s birthday celebrations the next day, though the planned Indian was wisely swapped for a Pub Dinner.

And what a pub it was!

It’s ironic that back in Australia, the only thing I miss about the mother country is a decent curry. It’s only when you come back you’re reminded of all the other things you’d totally forgotten.

Truly great pubs.

Everything about them. The sights, the sounds, the smells.

And any number of other things. Even the most mundane items can suddenly evoke a strong surge of emotion.

A bottle of Matey, a packet of Hula Hoops, chocolate Club biscuits, Boots and WHSmiths.

You don’t actually miss these things, but re-encountering them can well up a sudden and unexplainable affection.

And British Rail.

Who the hell would miss British Rail?

It doesn’t even exist any longer. It’s now Great Western, Virgin, National Express or whoever else has scooped up the line you’ve chosen, but back in the bad old days I’d yo-yoed up and down east and west coast lines, suffering all the very worst British Rail clichés.

It was a welcome surprise, then, to clamber aboard our brand new carriage at King’s Cross and find myself actually looking forward to the trip. Was I just wearing rose tinted spectacles, or had things finally improved? Certainly, all seemed far more efficient than my fading memories had dared allow.

As we rolled out of London and into the country I realised I now inhabited a weird and unfamiliar zone, that of a tourist in my own land. Everything seemed instantly familiar, and yet tantalisingly exotic. Same, same, but different through my sun-damaged eyes, both at home and yet abroad all at once.

A land written off and left behind was viewed anew with unjaded eyes. And I have to say, when all was said and done, it wasn’t looking all that shabby.

The first thing that struck me was just how green it was. Not the wild riotous green of Tropical North Queensland, but a lighter, more sedate and ordered green, as if an enormous lawnmower had traversed the whole land. And boy, was it flat! Admittedly anywhere seems flat when you’ve come straight out of Nepal, but even by Australian standards this could have been an Outback bowling green. A few lumps and bumps here and there, but who’s complaining? Our views back home in Cairns are of hills higher than any in England just a few minutes drive away, while outside the window now lay a landscape of ripples, valleys and hillocks hardly worthy of the name.

It seemed much emptier than I remembered too, this little land of 60 million souls. Where the hell were they all? Not down the East Coast, it seemed, as we wended our way through little hamlets, each with charming church spires, interspersed by acres of yellow and green.

But while they may endlessly whinge of urban sprawl, congestion and blighted landscapes, it’s the people that make Britain British, and they hadn’t changed at all. Indeed, after so many years away they seemed hyper-British, caricatures of their former selves. You come across plenty of Brits in Australia, of course, but they’re a tainted, diluted version of their former selves, sporting board-shorts, vest-tops and God Forbid, Oakleys! Back home they were restored to full strength, the dial turned right up to eleven. It was like stumbling on some life-size British Theme Park full of ham-actors, all desperate for a part in Coronation Street, The Bill or the next Miss Marple. You found yourself wanting to point, giggle, dig each other in the ribs. Have you seen the state of that one?

This was brilliant. Endless entertainment everywhere you looked.

What is it about British people?

Every one’s a one off, varying wildly in character and deportment, and yet somehow all exactly the same. They spend their lives like partially-deflated inflatables; shoulders slouched at their sides, wrinkles etched across their brows, shuffling along through life this way and that. Mustn’t grumble.

Australians bounce.

Still I have to say that much like the train, they did seem a little more pumped these days. I was chuffed to order my first ‘Pint of lager and a packet of crisps, please’ from a positively chirpy steward who pulled his cart up beside me. It wasn’t cheap, but was at least delivered with a genuine panache. Good on’yer, mate!

All this despite the petty officialdom of his robotic name-badge:

NIGEL ASKEW, 0832. Expires 2013.

I have to say, with less than five years left to live I’d hope to find a more fulfilling way to spend my days, but he seemed cheery enough with his lot.

My guts now recovered, even toilet visits were a breeze, especially compared with Indian trains. Here too though, I found signage a trifle harsh:

‘If you observe a person smoking on this train, a complaint may be made to the guard.’

Now really, that seems a bit harsh! I’ve heard of the hazards of passive smoking, but to be punished just for watching someone smoke? That’s taking things a bit far surely, even for this nanny state!

Precisely 4½ hours later, as promised, we rolled into Edinburgh Waverley and on to my childhood home. Here things hadn’t changed at all. Not one bit. How refreshing in a world of ever-increasing turmoil to find somewhere exactly as you’d left it, exactly as you’d want it to be. I guess that’s why they call it a home.

After a pleasant few days with family and friends everything began to feel much more normal again, as if we’d never been away. Just to prove the point, I promptly dumped my washing on my Mum and stole my Dad’s car.

Off we set on a trip around Scotland, our first for twelve years. Scotland hadn’t changed much either, apart from there being far more tourists than I remembered. Perhaps, like us, they were hoping global warming might have turned things rosy and cosy. Alas Scottish weather proved deaf to Inconvenient Truths, and it stuck stubbornly to its former ways.

Now let me say right here that I still consider Scotland on a good day to have the measure of anywhere else in the world. It’s just there aren’t that many good days. Even on an average day Scotland can look truly rugged and spectacular, right up to the point when you step out of the car and realise it’s Brass Monkeys out there, and who the hell’s idea was this in the first place?

On our last day, by now suffering Nepal withdrawals, we climbed Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in Britain. Sadly, on this the first clear day for God knows how long, so did everyone else, making the start more like a busy shopping day on a surprisingly steep Oxford Street. Just as in Nepal, hiking poles were in abundance, getting right on my wick. Well honestly, it’s like some sort of global pandemic. In Scotland, even the kids need walking sticks, and here was I thinking rickets had been seen off long ago. A hefty portion also saw the need to stop off every half-hour to enjoy the clean mountain air over a cigarette. Still, it thinned the numbers out nicely towards the summit, from where I have to say, the views were truly spectacular, and, despite being only a quarter as high as Nepal, you still felt as if you could reach up and touch the sky.

Back home in Edinburgh the police still hadn’t been called, so we decided to take the proverbial, stealing the car for another 4 weeks on our very own Tour de Britain, all without the need to pedal. On the way we caught up with as many folk as we could manage, and that turned out to be quite a few.

We covered the land from Durham to Dover, Lincoln to Liverpool, Cornwall to The Cotswolds, The Lakes, The Dales, The Moors and plenty more besides. Hell, we went just about everywhere. And in that decidedly English way, it all felt so very, very nice.

One thing that caught the eye was how astonishingly old everything was. The Brits take all this for granted of course, but if you’ve spent the last few years in the New World it all seems quite incredible. Durham Cathedral was finished in 1280, way back when the prevailing opinion was that half way to New York you’d fall of the edge of the world! Now there’s an extreme sport for you. Columbus probably got backing from Red Bull. Awesome Dude, that’s insane! I wonder, when you fell, where it was they thought you would land?

Edinburgh has a whole district, comprising half the city centre, with nothing but row upon row of pristine old Georgian terraces started way back in 1765, when they were still struggling to build a decent grass hut round our way. And what name do they give to this historic treasure?

The New Town.

The rest of the centre’s way older than that. There are 4500 listed buildings in Edinburgh, the oldest rooms in the castle dating way back to 1102. And we’re not talking ruins or monuments here; these are buildings in everyday use.

Hands up all those who think anything we’re throwing up today will still be around in 900 years time. The malls, the McMansions, the multi-story car-parks. I’m not seeing many limbs aloft. What a loathsome legacy we leave. Britain must really be getting to me already... I’m starting to sound just like Prince Charles!

Way back when, the Brits knew how to build, and build to last. There’s living history everywhere you look. So why do the masses choose to holiday in Benidorm or Barbados instead of sticking to the delights of home? And where are the hoards of foreigners battering the doors down to get a look-in?

The answer, of course, lies in the grey skies above.

As anyone who’s ever been will tell you, the weather drives you nuts.

It’s not that it’s always so bad. The sun shines down with reasonable regularity, and you get some truly corking days. It’s just that you never know when they’re going to be. Even the seasons are only mild indicators. It can snow in Scotland in summery June, or be sunny blue skies in February. Even on a single day you can’t tell where you’re at. No sooner have you donned an anorak and grabbed your umbrella than the sun comes out. Even think about leaving without them, though and you’ll be drenched within the hour.

It’s enough to drive you to distraction, and ensures nobody holidays in the UK anymore. In fact, Britain is like the third world in this respect. Most folks are quite happy to see it on the telly, read about it in books, but they don’t actually want to go there! They have monkeys here too, or so you’d have to think from the endless array of spikes, glass-shards and razor-wire festooning every climbable surface. Where else are the little tykes to do their gymnastics training for London 2012? Now I come to think of it, if gymnastics really did entail being impaled on spikes whenever you stuffed up a little, I might even be tempted to watch. That would wipe the sickly-smiles off the prima donnas’ faces! And while we’re at it, couldn’t we have synchronised swimming with sharks?

In the old days for the Brits, there wasn’t much of a choice; it was freeze your tits off in Blackpool or Bognor or stay at home and ‘miss out’. But once foreign lands became easily accessible, we were off in our droves. Some still chose to stay home of course. Even well into the seventies there were more than a few die-hards who refused to step off British soil.

“Oooh no!” they’d say, wrinkling up their face as if someone had farted.

“Be too hot! The food would be bad!” as if a little bit of sunshine and a diet devoid of chips would lead to their rapid demise. So patently ridiculous was this attitude that it soon died the death, to such a degree that wherever you go in the world these days, you just can’t escape the bloody Brits!

Of course we weren’t strictly speaking on holiday at all. We were merely visiting friends & family, giving us free-licence to go anywhere we pleased, without the need to worry about the weather, which made things all the more agreeable.

And just to make things truly entertaining an astonishing number of our friends seemed to have decided that 60 million Brits was simply not enough, and had gone on a breeding rampage. Twenty-five kids we totted up along the way, most of them under 5, and thus new to us, and us to them.

What struck me most of all about these kids, and I know their parents will laugh at this, was just how incredibly well-behaved they were. Only one or two of them acted anything like kids at all, the rest resembling miniature clockwork angels. From what I recall, my own childhood passed in a blur of lying, breaking stuff, finding new ways to get truly grubby, and wailing like a banshee, though not necessarily in that order. The cycle was only broken for hospital visits to repair nasty lacerations, mostly mine but occasionally others’. Boys will be boys. It’s not that we meant to be bad, we were just having fun. The fact that it drove our parents to distraction was merely an added bonus. And I have to say, compared to the others, I was one of the good ones.

The worrying part is that many would still consider I’ve never actually grown up!

What’s wrong with kids these days?

Don’t they know they’re supposed to be brats?

These kids, well, you could almost like them!

It won’t do. It just won’t do at all.

If we’re not very careful the next generation will grow up into a bunch of well-adjusted shiny-happy people, and then where will we be?

Especially the Brits. What would there be left to moan about? Be a national disaster!

No, really. Something’s got to be done.

I want you get up right now, find one of the little buggers and beat him about a bit, teach him how to fight. If at all possible, send him out in shorts onto frozen rugby pitches, and lob him into the odd balmy Scottish loch. Butter him up with Punk, expose him to way too much bad 80s Heavy Metal, and then throw in some good old-fashioned properly tricky exams which, who knows, he might even fail. If you’re very, very lucky, we might just end up with a handful of responsible upstanding citizens.

Like me.

Or you could just keep plugging away with the current social experiment and see where it leads us.

I’m guessing to a nation of cheery bland people, of the sort who pop up endlessly on This Morning with Fern & Phillip.

Could that be such a bad thing?

Or will they all rebel, cross over to The Jeremy Kyle Show instead, proud British trailer trash.

Only time will tell.

All I know is next time I’m back round this way, I’ll feel even more like a stranger in this most peculiar of green and pleasant lands.








P.S. Many, many thanks for the warm hospitality and great company from all those we descended upon. Apologies to anyone we didn’t quite catch up with, but as you can see, we were kinda busy!

Cast:- (In Order of Appearance)

Nicky, Lewis, Matt, Ramni, Rob, Jaia, Milen, Kamren, Alan, Elaine, Sarah, Anthony, Harrison, Kerry, Glyn, Dylan, Emily, Mum, Dad, Jack, George, Alison, Ken, David, Anne, Andrew, Iain, Callum, Simon, Willie, Mandy, Lexie, Mathilda, David, Elaine, Emily, Tushar, George, Elaine, Steve, Melanie, Garry, Zeti, JD, Irene, Richard, Raj, Derek, Nikki, Theresa, Lisa, Dan, Sonja, Luke, Tara, Kevin, John, Rachel, Debs, Stuart, William, Jenny, Henry, Lolly, Rochine , Jo, Quinn, Becky, Paul, Arriane, Ruben, Angela, Claire, Dan, Ella, Pat, Bernard, Lou, James, Sophie, Emily, Don, Noellia, Ray, Emily, Mike, Corinna and last, but not least, Graeme.

Mr Ratter’s tailoring courtesy of Singh & Sons, Paharganj, Delhi.

Ms Ratter’s Hair courtesy of Emily Dixit, Liverpool.

Mr Ratter’s stunt-double : himself.

No animals were harmed in the writing of this blog except for one pesky fly. And he deserved it.

Oh, and one last thing.

Tristan, where the hell were you?

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Photos

Tower Bridge 'Fortifications'
Anyone for the balance beam?

Just One of the Many!
Lou & Emily, The Best Baby in the Whole-Wide World.

Comments

[emma gilchrist]

So true
Great Blog Andy and once again fab photos to accompany. Having just got back from the U.K I completely agree with all of the above. You managed to put most of my thoughts into a wonderfully eloquent script! A truly interesting read. (How's that for teacher report stylee!!)