The Slaughtered Lamb

[Beardy]

I suppose campus police being a thing is unusual for Brits, but the US have police for everything, presumably otherwise many film plots wouldn't make any sense. Don't be giving me any of that jurisdictional nonsense.

I did once write about my experiences with guns at a crawfish boil but the search fails me. As you slide down I-95 the east coast becomes more gun-toty, but given you'll end up in Florida, that's probably not unreasonable.

This reminds me:

Who copied who, the French or the Americans?

Given the age of America I suspect it is them who have done most of the copying.

[sam]

Given the age of America I suspect it is them who have done most of the copying.

This got me thinking about provenance, and things which are considered British. A short list of not-so-fast:

ENGLISH MUFFINS



Invented by an Englishman, true, but he had to cross the pond to be inspired by our capitalist vigour.

BORIS JOHNSON

The eyes are the windows to the soul

Many wish he had stayed on the Upper East Side from whence he was whelped. He renounced his citizenship a little while ago, so although that doesn't change his origin story, he is indeed now 100% yours. (Mine too, as I also have a red passport. I think. Will have to check on the colour.)

Winston Churchill, arguably, as his mother Jennie Jerome was an American and without her he literally was nothing. I will however refrain from bolding him. For a hidden history scroll down here.

RAIN



Your stereotype still can't escape the umbrella, but we've got you beat.

JAMES BOND(!)



"The name James Bond came from that of the American ornithologist James Bond, a Caribbean bird expert and author of the definitive field guide Birds of the West Indies. Fleming, a keen birdwatcher himself, had a copy of Bond's guide and he later explained to the ornithologist's wife that 'It struck me that this brief, unromantic, Anglo-Saxon and yet very masculine name was just what I needed, and so a second James Bond was born.'"

THE INTERNET,



because so many of us, me included, use that interchangeably with Tim's www; of course we should be caned, and may still be in the fullness of time. We can thank a lot of people (Actually, I invented the internet), most of them in the States.

There are better histories out there, and I'm happy to be corrected, having spent all of about 5 minutes researching this. I liked this quote though: "As for Crovitz’s declaration that the TCP/IP protocol languished for decades in the hands of government, only to be set free by private enterprise, Cerf responded, 'I would happily fertilize my tomatoes with Crovitz's assertion.'"

[sam]

The US of course has public holidays to augment our miserable vacation allowance. We just don't call them bank holidays. Valentine's Day falls in that no man's land of observed but "You're having a laugh if you think you're getting today off unless it's Sunday."

TW & I don’t celebrate VD. (Nor does anyone when you put it like that.) It's not a protest against commercialism or forced observance of domestic niceties; we long ago stopped doing holidays. I don't remember when, it just sort of happened. That doesn't mean I won't play Dylan on Christmas,


The Grinch of YouTube

it means it's just another day, for better or worse. I will however mark it by diving into the little book of Don'ts for Wives, published 1913 and reprinted to offer guidance and wisdom to all who still seek it.



• Don’t be jealous of your husband cycling in to the country just because you don’t cycle. If you can't, or mustn't, or don't want to, that's no reason for cutting off one of his chief pleasures.

• Don't expect your husband to have all the feminine virtues as well as all the masculine ones. There would be nothing left for you if your other half were such a paragon.

• Don't be troubled if your husband is not an Adonis. Beauty is only skin deep and the cleverest men are rarely the handsomest, judged by ordinary standards.

Naturally there are Don'ts for Husbands.

• Don't spend night after night at your club, leaving your wife alone to count the hours until your return.

• Don't let any hobby so overmaster you that you spend every minute on it when you are at home, especially if it is something in which your wife can take no part. Leave some time to devote to her.

• Don't "talk down" to your wife. She has as much intelligence as your colleague at the office; she lacks only opportunity. Talk to her (explaining when necessary) of anything you would talk of to a man, and you will be surprised to find how she expands.

• Don't omit to cultivate a sense of humour. It will carry you safely past many a danger-signal in the home.

[ian]

My umbrella is Canadian (because I only watch Canadian weather, in fact, I've invented an entire comedy series in my head called Canadian Weather, of which the pilot is entitled Mia's Soggy Sandwich – it's true, she really had to deal with her sandwich getting soggy). Anyway, it's (the umbrella, not Mia's sandwich) rated to survive wind speeds in excess of 100 kph whereas I'm only rated 50. I don't think we're in Saskatoon, Dorothy.

The Americans once had a purge of blackcurrants which means, to this day, they're mostly currant-less and have to rely on those peculiar grapes that make the ubiquitous 'grape jelly,' which is the least sweet component of the traditional PBJ sandwich.

Ferrets, for that matter, are also still illegal in some states of the US (and in others have to be licensed, however else are they going to buy a drink). A nation must be protected from slinky mustelids. Anyway, those ferrets were part-time friendly/part-time relentless rat-killing rabbit-chasing machines. Furry little terminators. So, when a young boy is looking to dawdle on hit trip to glean a fifty-pence piece, primarily for the purposes of annoying his parents for setting him the task in the first place, he may have stuck his hand in the cage during their relentless furry terminator stage. Anyway, no amount of reasoned and less reasoned persuasion would entice it to let go, so I took it home. My parents, lest you think them terrible at their task, did attend to the matter of the ferret. Strangle it, you silly sod, was the life advice issued by my father. He wasn't wrong, they do let go if you strangle them. That said, I think that's probably generically useful advice, it's just more difficult to strangle a tiger or a shark one handed.

[sam]

The Americans once had a purge of blackcurrants which means, to this day, they're mostly currant-less

How true. I only learned about currants (and sultanas!) after moving here. I think Sun-Maid were behind the purge.


Machiavelli in a bonnet

My umbrella is Canadian...

If I knew any Canadians growing up they kept their identity furled, perhaps afeared of the consequences of outing themselves. One need look no further than the value of the Canadian dollar, parked almost permanently below ours, to have our exceptionalism further validated. Other than outlier Hawaii, Canada is the only thing standing between us and contiguousness. Chief associations:

Hockey



Some French going on



Draft dodgers (all is forgiven, come back home)



Mounties, from Dudley Do-Right to Due South



Hosers


Ambassadors from the north

[ian]

It took some google-fu, but my first exposure to the people we've come to know and love as Canadians was through a sketch show called Kids in the Hall which somehow percolated into British televisual consciousness at some point in the late 80s (OK, apparently the early 90s, so I might have had a theoretical knowledge of Canadians at that point). To this day, I like to take my fingers, hold them in front of my face, and crush other people's heads. It's curiously satisfying as is using your thumb to block them out.

Google says they had to edit it for American tastes, owing to the usual American fear of nipples and also because Canadians hold in their hands the power to make Jesus cry.

Canadian weather is great. For starters, they have weather, and aren't forced to grade drizzle and also, they're often a bit simple. It's -40 outside, so be sure to wear a jacket eh, says the perky meteorologist. They're also always surprised to see a moose. You live in Canada, that's where the moose live. They should hand all Canadian children, on their first day at school, a card with a picture of a moose on it. Be prepared.

Speaking of, in this case, legitimately surprising animals, we were once wandering through Kent, minding our own business, and out of nowhere (or rather over the fence to our right) a giraffe leaned in and tried to eat my hat.

[Kim]

To this day, I like to take my fingers, hold them in front of my face, and crush other people's heads.

Don't we all?

<a href="http://www.youtube.com/v/8t4pmlHRokg&rel=1" target="_blank">http://www.youtube.com/v/8t4pmlHRokg&rel=1</a>
https://youtu.be/8t4pmlHRokg

[sam]

How I made it this far through life without seeing that astounds me. Speaking of cutting,* this morning involved a trip to the vet for a bunnicure. And speaking of having a giraffe, in observance of John McEnroe’s birthday today:


"Mr McEnroe, I assure you the All England Lawn Tennis Club does not allow giraffes on centre court."


* Correction: crushing, of course. But I kept hearing it as "cutting". Whatever the punishment, I imagine a young McEnroe meting it out.

[ian]

I'm somewhat disappointed, I had always embedded Kids in the Hall into my formative years, but it really was a far later addition. It has taken me back (cut to wavy flashback) to The Paul Hogan Show and the classic Leo Wanker, the inept stuntman that every small boy kept inside, which made little me laugh lots. It also had ladies in it. That show taught me everything I know about Australia and very little about women. Apparently, it was shown on the debut night of Channel 4 as we crossed the gurgling rubicon between the two maiden aunts of the BBCs and Uncle ITV into new televisual territory that promised to show at least two programmes a week for people under the age of 45. Groundbreaking stuff. I am sure people wrote to newspapers. I remember staying up late to watch the Thriller video. In hindsight, I probably wasn't the only young boy Michael Jackson kept awake all night. My parents, at this point (we'd moved to an actual house), in a fit of largesse that can only meant they didn't want me interrupting their TV viewing, had bought me a Philips portable TV that featured fantastic clicky buttons and front-of-house tuning controls and black-and-white-o-vision. The only thing that would have improved my unfettered viewing of TV would have been an acknowledgement of my myopia.

[sam]

I didn’t discover Australia until turning on the TV here for the first time and meeting my new Neighbours.



The breakup of the Kennedys, the rise of Toadfish(?) into the legal profession, garden gnome pranx, the clinking of glasses of champagne as the apex of contentment: so many memories not yet washed away by the deluge of TV since. I think it was on twice a day, too, leading me to wonder just how highly regarded it was.

Time now for my second instalment of domestic bodges hacks:



We recently acquired a new heater, so small that it sits on one of the kitchen countertops. You can see its not too distant neighbour Mr Kettle. As a prophylactic against steam, I have repurposed a shower cap, a spare from my Covidhair collection. I would pass this along as a new marketing opportunity, but fear reprisals from Health & Safety.

[Jurek]

To this day, I like to take my fingers, hold them in front of my face, and crush other people's heads. It's curiously satisfying as is using your thumb to block them out.

If you hold a fork up to your eye and look at someone through the tines, you get a good idea of what they'll look like when they're in prison.

[Mr Larrington]

To this day, I like to take my fingers, hold them in front of my face, and crush other people's heads. It's curiously satisfying as is using your thumb to block them out.

If you hold a fork up to your eye and look at someone through the tines, you get a good idea of what they'll look like when they're in prison.

Whereas if you hold a tennis racket in front of your face you get a good idea of what the world looked like to Kendo Nagasaki.

[Jurek]

To this day, I like to take my fingers, hold them in front of my face, and crush other people's heads. It's curiously satisfying as is using your thumb to block them out.

If you hold a fork up to your eye and look at someone through the tines, you get a good idea of what they'll look like when they're in prison.

Whereas if you hold a tennis racket in front of your face you get a good idea of what the world looked like to Kendo Nagasaki.

I actually saw him unmasked during a bout.
He isn't oriental.
He is as occidental as you or me.

[Mr Larrington]

To this day, I like to take my fingers, hold them in front of my face, and crush other people's heads. It's curiously satisfying as is using your thumb to block them out.

If you hold a fork up to your eye and look at someone through the tines, you get a good idea of what they'll look like when they're in prison.

Whereas if you hold a tennis racket in front of your face you get a good idea of what the world looked like to Kendo Nagasaki.

I actually saw him unmasked during a bout.
He isn't oriental.
He is as occidental as you or me.

Peter Thornley (né Brian Stevens before being adopted) from Wellington in that Shropshire that they have now.  Though he has actually been to Japan

[Tim Hall]

To this day, I like to take my fingers, hold them in front of my face, and crush other people's heads. It's curiously satisfying as is using your thumb to block them out.

If you hold a fork up to your eye and look at someone through the tines, you get a good idea of what they'll look like when they're in prison.

If you stab someone in the eye using the tines of a fork you get to experience what beinmg in prison loooks like for real.

[Beardy]

To this day, I like to take my fingers, hold them in front of my face, and crush other people's heads. It's curiously satisfying as is using your thumb to block them out.

If you hold a fork up to your eye and look at someone through the tines, you get a good idea of what they'll look like when they're in prison.

If you stab someone in the eye using the tines of a fork you get to experience what beinmg in prison loooks like for real.

Only if you get caught.

[ian]

I never really watched Neighbours or Home and Away, but again cultural seepage (which should be a thing if it isn't already) means I know much about both. They were both big when I was at university, but our TV took 25 minutes to warm up (we figured it was the only TV on sale at Tuebrook market that wasn't stolen and was heavy enough to be unstealable in return, and it was thus), and we were never prepared enough to plan to watch anything in advance. I am very familiar with Prisoner Cell Block H though as I used to watch that with my mum. Mum, mum, what's a lesbian? Never got a good answer on that, my family are terrified by The Gays. But if I ever end up in an Australian women's prison, I'm well prepared. I have been in prison, on a voluntary basis, one of our flatmates (the one that used to repaint the flat while we were out) father was the governor (warden, whatever they call the boss man over here) of a grim Scottish prison that I won't name because it might have been against the rules. But anyway, we got to drink booze and sleep in cells in an empty wing (due to be renovated) like proper crims. I've also slept overnight in dentist's chair in Montreal, have stolen this prime sleeping position from a bunch of kiwis. To this day, I'm unsure how that came about. The Kiwis or a dentist's chair. I'm hard-pressed to explain the how and why of why I was in Montreal. On the same trip, a girl called Nina superglued her hand to my forehead after drinking too much Rumple Mintz (and one suspects, other things). I think the best I could manage there was 'you smell really minty.' The next morning we both smelled of nail polish remover after a successful divorce.

[sam]

With your combination of real world and theoretical cellblock experience, and my Open University course at Emerald City and other American hellholes


World's highest prison population = ideal demographic


If you can't hold a tune you don't last long in the joint

along with a brief but formative ‘scared straight’ exposure thanks to a neighbour who was the county sheriff (lesson learnt: he who confiscates fireworks gets to set off fireworks), incarceration is beginning to sound like a viable career move. We should be able to rule whatever secure government facility in which we find ourselves. You’ll be known as “the dentist”, with slightly aggrandised backstory to send chills down the spine of even the most hardened con



and I’ll be the man who can get things, such as forks forbidden by The Man to keep the men from dreaming



and Netflix,



when they’ve had it turned off as punishment for the latest shanking.


In hindsight that cutlery factory wasn't the best idea

I like life in outside lockdown as much as I’m sure you do, so we shouldn’t have to spend actual years inside: just long enough to pad our respective CVs and sell our story to the highest bidder, taking care to secure film rights.


"We heard you're in for stealing bikes."

[ian]

And I've still not seen Breaking Bad. I did Homicide: Life on the Street though. I ate a crab in Baltimore once. Or rather messily dismembered it. No one murdered me though, it was just a grisly fate for crustacea. I always find the streets of rundown, abandoned and often burnt-out rowhouses with the just the one in perfect, well looked after, condition morbidly fascinating.

[sam]

I've never been to Baltimore. Always figured it for an It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia vibe. Homicide had a great cast. Here's Munch being Munch:



Standard Breaking Bad joke:




Yesterday we got the invitation we weren't expecting until sometime this spring, like the rest of our cohort: can we come in for jabs on the weekend? Why yes, we can. AFAIK nobody has turned into vampiric, zombie-like, cannibalistic mutants yet.


Now that's what I'm talking about

The NHS has done alright by us, from glaucoma surgery for TW at one of the world's premier eye hospitals, to expeditiously clearing me of possible amyloidosis at the Royal Free in London as an early Christmas present. My homeland infamously has a frakked up healthcare system. Moving here may have been one of our better ideas.

Slots must've suddenly become available. I'm curious what we'll be getting, but part of me doesn't want to know. Were I given a choice, it might well be a flip of the coin.

This at least opens up the possibility of a vaguely normalish summer, doing things we like to do such as visiting gardens and getting haircuts. Wild stuff like that.

[ian]

Downtown Baltimore, around the harbour, looks Like Any Other American City Downtown. Corporate glass. I base my knowledge of the rest of Baltimore on the view from the train (as I've not yet watched The Wire either), which scoots through the north-east of the city, which is a slowly dissolving tapestry of traditional row houses. North Philly is much the same. I remember the time I mentioned to my colleagues that I was going to walk to the Temple University campus from our office on Spring Garden and everyone said 'no, you won't.' For the record, it's not that bad, though I probably wouldn't hang about off-campus after dark (it's possible the concept of 25-minute walk terrified them). I have tried to explain to Americans that we really don't have the concept of places where (mostly white people) don't go. I mean, I don't want to go to Tottenham, but I reckon that while there's a McDonalds open, they won't eat me. When I first went to Buffalo I was advised to not 'cross the Avenue.' Advice that would have been more useful if they're specified which avenue. A couple of years back, owing to circumstance, I was drinking with a few US colleague in Peckham and one of them looked at me and whispered 'is it safe here?' From gentrification, probably not.

[ian]

Thinking of crustacea, I did finally locate my tale of the crawfish boil which seems apt here.

One of my formative American experiences of guns involved pumpkins, assorted other unfortunate squash, crayfish, and the backwoods of West Virginia. For some reason I got myself invited to a crawfish boil. I'm not sure why as I like crustaceans about as much as they like me. But hey, there was the promise of beer and when in Virginia with a girl called Mary Lou and she's y'all-ing for the Dixie olympics, you go with the flow because you know where you'd like it to go. Plus she promised to show me where the Waltons lived, which turned out not to be a euphemism.

Anyway, we crossed the state line. Maps were consulted. Further and further we went, trees edging closer to the road. Daylight got more squeezed. It turned out that none of us actually knew the hosts, they were friends of someone's brother's cousin (never to try to unpick these family relationships would be my advice) who had mentioned en passant that the event was happening. So, we were basically gatecrashing a redneck party.

Now you know it's a party when you get to the end of the driveway, or rather rutted track, and there's some balloons or a banner, maybe a sign saying 'crawfish boil this way.' Not in WV, there's a big fella leaning on a pump action. Y'all here for the 'fish? I'm not arguing. Why yes, good sir we are. You ain't from round here? Sarcasm, go stand on the corner and shut the fuck up, the man has a gun.

So, anyway, another ten miles of track lands us on Planet Pick-Up truck. You know how it is when you arrive at a party underdressed. I felt undergunned. A small army would have felt undergunned. Mary Lou? Paul? Not one of us had thought to bring a weapon. These people made it look like the crawfish might be fomenting armed rebellion. They weren't going to go quietly into that oil drum of boiling cajun-spiced water.

So, in short order, beer was consumed. Two hundred and fifty pounds of crawfish met an unseemly demise, of which I ate about one. As my brain started to go sudsy rockabout, the shooting starts. Now all good Americans want to see English people shoot guns. Trust me, like the accent, it holds an ineffable attraction. So I find myself holding a small cannon in one hand and a beer in the other. Mary Lou appears with a borrowed assault rifle, looks my limply clutched handgun up and down, and shakes her head before putting a 7.62 mm round through a pumpkin far enough away to be in the next county. Suddenly, about 200 pair of eyes fall on me. Shoot the pumpkin, English. I don't think this shit ever happened on the Waltons. I don't think Mary Lou is going to offer any favours to a boy who won't kill a pumpkin so I down the beer, slug some bourbon and take aim and – every varmint in the state duck – start massacring trees. Then everyone is shooting. It's like a small war. Someone zooms by me on a quad bike with a machine gun in one hand, splattering veg left right and centre. It's like an organic veg version of Mad Max.

I've no idea how many people died that night. My ears rang for about four days. Mary Lou never looked at me quite the same. I think you shot a squirrel, she said. Collateral damage.

I was reminded of this, as I'm binging on Parts Unlimited, and Anthony was in West Virginia in last night's episode and yes, fully automatic weapons and splody pumpkins, oh and four-wheel drive lunacy (drive up a vertical cliff face, why not). They alas didn't combine the two, but it was still daylight, and there were still coolers full of beer.

I'm not mocking though, they were the friendliest heavily armed people I've ever met.