The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent terrorist threats and have raised their security level from “Miffed” to “Peeved.” Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to “Irritated” or even “A Bit Cross.” The English have not been “A Bit Cross” since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies all but ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from “Tiresome” to a “Bloody Nuisance.” The last time the British issued a “Bloody Nuisance” warning level was in 1588 when threatened by the Spanish Armada.

The Scots raised their threat level from “Pissed Off” to “Let’s get the Bastards.” They don’t have any other levels. This is the reason they have been used on the front line of the British army for the last 300 years.

The French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror alert level from “Run” to “Hide”. The only two higher levels in France are “Collaborate” and “Surrender.” The rise was precipitated by a recent fire that destroyed France’s white flag factory, effectively paralyzing the country’s military capability.

It’s not only the French who are on a heightened level of alert:
Italy has increased the alert level from “Shout Loudly and Excitedly” to “Elaborate Military Posturing.” Two more levels remain: “Ineffective Combat Operations” and “Change Sides.”

The Germans also increased their alert state from “Disdainful Arrogance” to “Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs.” They also have two higher levels: “Invade a Neighbour” and “Lose”.

Belgians, on the other hand, are all on holiday as usual, and the only threat they are worried about is NATO pulling out of Brussels .

The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy. These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so the new Spanish navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish navy.

Americans meanwhile and as usual are carrying out pre-emptive strikes on all of their allies ‘just in case’.

Canada doesn’t have any alert levels.

And in the southern hemisphere:
New Zealand has also raised its security levels – from “baaa” to “BAAAA”. Due to continuing defense cutbacks (the airforce being a squadron of spotty teenagers flying paper aeroplanes and the navy some toy boats in the Prime Minister’s bath), New Zealand only has one more level of escalation, which is “I hope Australia will come and rescue us”.

Australia , meanwhile, has raised its security level from “No worries” to “She’ll be al’right, mate”. Three more escalation levels remain: “Crikey!’, “I think we’ll need to cancel the barbie this weekend” and “The barbie is cancelled”.. So far no situation has ever warranted use of the final escalation level.

The other day I called my bank’s customer service hotline because I felt like being insulted, treated rudely, and generally belittled for being a lesser human being. What happened is that the bank that my wife and I have faithfully used for a long time decided to randomly and unilaterally close an account that we’ve had open and in good standing for what seems like a couple of millenia.

What was most interesting is that after being treated so poorly by the telephone representatives, I tweeted, in a fit of incensed rage, how let down I felt.

Before I even blinked, a representative of that bank communicated back to me via Twitter. And over the next hour or so, as tweets were sent and received, the issue was dealt with professionally, culminating in a phone call from a very helpful lady who was courteous and kind and made me feel less of a lesser human being. That line just made me go cross-eyed.

This got me thinking about customer service. Americans, in general, are very good at it. Aside from the odd hiccup here and there with the bank, I have to recognize that, for the most part, the customer service experience in America is a good one.

And I know why.

Because Americans complain a lot.

Now wait just a moment before you accuse me of calling Americans complainers.

The British complain a lot too. Actually, us Brits complain more, in my opinion.

The difference is how we complain.

As Brits, we have long traditions to uphold. We must maintain the traditions of keeping a stiff upper lip, standing strong in the face of adversity. We must work hard to continue our tradition of not talking to strangers or, indeed, anyone at all when we’re on the London Underground. And, thus it goes, we have to observe the tradition of complaining in a passive, non-threatening, mumbled-under-our-breath kind of way. No confrontation. No conflict. Just complaints shrouded in the misery of whatever it is we’re not happy about. Unless your my dad, in which case he’ll whip out his calculator and mathematically find a way to prove you wrong, thus legitimizing his complaint.

Americans, on the other hand, speak their mind. Coffee’s too cold? Make it again! Coffee’s too hot? I’m gonna sue you! New shirt has a slight micro-scoping mis-weave in it’s cotton thread? Take it back! In-Sink-Erator not chewing threw the rotten foodstuffs you just washed down your sink fast enough? I demand more horsepower! (By the way, the In-Sink-Erator is subject matter for another post entirely; there’s just too much genius in that device to ignore).

Brits complain about the weather to themselves, sometimes to each other, then continue about their business in whatever conditions the weather has provided. Americans, on the other hand, complain about the weather being too cold, or too hot, or too wet, or too dry, until someone gives them heating, or air conditioning, or an umbrella, or a hose.

In England, if we want a table by the window but there are no tables by the window, the waiter will likely tell us to bring our own table and put it outside. And we’ll do just that, mumbling under our breath the entire time. In America, the restaurant owner will personally see to it that restaurant furniture is rearranged so we can have the table by the window. Maybe not quite, but you get my point.

And in case you don’t, my point is this: Don’t ask, don’t get. But, as a famous deity once said, seek and ye shall find. Knock and the door shall be opened. Ask and ye shall receive. Brits hate to make a fuss; Americans not so much.

America was founded on societal concepts that involve what has become known as The American Dream; what you want, you can have. It may sound selfish. It may sound very internally absorbed. There’s plenty of room for debate and speculation in all of that. I can guarantee you one thing though; it makes for some great customer service.

For the last two or three days, California has been under the ocean. Well, no, not literally, but it has been raining rather hard. And whenever it rains here, many people I know, and even people I don’t know, all have the compulsion to say the same thing to me.

“This must make you feel like you’re back in England!”

Well yes. Except that I’m not and it doesn’t and I don’t.

You see rain in Southern California is nothing like rain in England. In England it can rain for weeks without stopping. In fact the last time I was back there for an extended period of time, it rained for 33 days and nights without stopping. But rain in England isn’t good rain, it’s annoying rain. It’s more of a drizzly shower that will sometimes tend towards being actual, proper rain without quite becoming actual, proper rain. It’s the kind of rain that sits  between having your windscreen wipers on intermittent and having them on full, so either you’re blinded by water or annoyed by a glassy squeak.

Not so in Southern California. Here it rains. No, it RAAAIIINNNS. Small rivers gush down the sides of poorly drained roads (which, by the way, is pretty much every road in Southern California). Gardens become miniature lake beds. Venturing outside becomes a task worthy of the Krypton Factor or WipeOut, as any exposure longer than about a nanosecond will result in complete and total saturation.

Now I know that there are places in the world that get far more serious storms than California. In fact when my wife and I were in Hawaii for our honeymoon, a tropical storm rolled in for a couple of days that brought rain the likes of which we have never seen. We were, in fact, physically cut off from the rest of the island while we waited for the water to recede.

But the problem is that it hardly ever rains in California. It will rain for maybe a handful of days every year. That kind of rarity means that when it does rain, nobody knows what to do. Everybody instantly forgets how to drive. People spend large chunks of their morning trying to figure out the release mechanism on their umbrella. Children are confused about why the sky is falling. News outlets go mental with ‘Stormwatch!’ updates every few minutes. There’s panic buying of bottled water and canned potatoes. In short, life gets crazy.

Of course, in about 5 months time, temperatures here will soar in to the triple Fahrenheit figures, the winds will be high, dry and hot, and we’ll all be saying one thing…

“What we need is a good rain.”

Pursuant to my observations on the existence of general stupidity in our society, I need to turn my attention to my own kind for a moment and have a short word in the ear of my fellow Brits.

Friends, we are stupid. In the course of perusing the world wide Interwebs today, I came across a rather alarming article that highlighted exactly how ridiculous we can be. As the old saying goes, we had lawyers before we had laws; our legal system is proof positive. Frankly, I don’t doubt it, judging by how ludicrous some of our British laws are.

For example, did you know that is illegal to die in the Houses of Parliament? I bet that’s probably punishable by…err…death. Also, be careful when you are next putting stamps on an envelope. It’s an act of treason to put a stamp on upside down. And, since we’re just a couple of weeks past the Yuletide season, it’s probably worth mentioning that it is illegal to eat mince pies on Christmas Day.

Of course, we can segregate our stupidity by region. In Liverpool, for example, it is entirely illegal for a woman to be topless, unless she is a clerk in a tropical fish store, then it’s nonpunishable. Or how about those crazy Scottish? If someone knocks on your door in Scotland and requests the use of your toilet, you are required by law to let them enter and use your toilet.

This is just the top of the Iceberg of Stupidity. There is much more legal stupid-ness lurking below the surface. If the head of a dead whale is found anywhere along the British coast line, it automatically and immediately becomes the property of the King. If there is no King, then the tail of the aforementioned whale automatically and immediately becomes the property of the Queen. Additionally, next time you’re thinking of entering the Houses of Parliament in your suit of armour, forget it. It’s illegal.

It’s not all doom and gloom though. Especially if you are a pregnant woman in the UK. If you are, you’re luck is in, because, when nature calls, you can legally relieve yourself anywhere you so desire. Including, specifically, in a policeman’s helmet.

For me, though, the pinnacle of our notably stupid and rather ridiculous law making is one long standing regional law from the city of York. Because, in the city of York, it is legal to murder a Scottish man within the ancient city walls, but only if he is carrying a bow and arrow. So, to all you bow-and-arrow yielding Scots in York, I’d be looking over your shoulder if I was you.

I therefore must admit to being a criminal. On many occasion I have committed the sin of gluttony, and eaten many a mince pie on Christmas Day. But then again, that’s probably along with half the country. What are they going to do; ship us all to Australia?

I’d like to spend just a few moments discussing stupidity. More specifically, I’d like to spend a few moments discussing stupidity in America.

I should probably lay down some caveats here, so as not to offend or cause reason for a law suit to appear in my mailbox. So, to be perfectly clear, Americans are not inherently more stupid than other people. One only needs to wander around an international airport in any given country to recognize that stupidity is a blight that plagues the entire spectrum of mankind. In America we find the world’s largest economy, the world’s richest people, some world class scientific research establishments, Ivy League universities, society-shaping think tanks, and, statistically, more Nobel Prize winners than the rest of the world combined. None of that happens through stupidity.

However, sometimes I have to wonder. Consider this for a moment. According to an opinion poll quoted in a travel column I read, 13 percent of women in America are unable to state whether they wear their tights under their knickers or over them. That’s in the region of 12 million women traversing the course of their daily activities, uncertain of the state of their undergarments.

The presence of this sort of chronic oblivion makes one look around. And when one looks around, it becomes painfully obvious that stupidity of the most preventable kind is all around us.

For example, not so long ago I had to go to the Post Office because I felt like standing in a long line for 30 minutes to talk to a Post Office clerk who would belittle me with their facial expressions and provide a tone of voice that makes me want to hibernate. While in line at the Post Office, I was watching a lady at the front of the line interacting with the Post Office clerk. Upon being asked for her Drivers License, she pulled it out of her purse and promptly dropped it. It then became obvious that this lady was visually impaired, for she had to get down on her hands and knees and crawl around, feeling for the Drivers License that she dropped (that was until I couldn’t take it anymore, picked it up from under her face and handed it to her). Upon finishing her transaction, I watched as she left, car keys in hand, and all I could think of was how this lady, unable to see her Drivers License in front of her, was now going to get in a vehicle of death and careen crookedly down the street.

As a society, we are chronically stupid. As a species, we are insanely stupid. This is why we do things like stop in the middle of walking traffic without regard for people walking behind us, or not take off our belts, shoes, and laptops before we reach the end of the security line at the airport, or, as in my case just this weekend, put my faith in the telephone company to do what they say they are going to do when they say they will do it.

Never fear, dear reader! Remember, now matter how stupid you may feel, act, or look, you are not alone!

What I’m missing in the UK:

It's somewhat chilly in Witney...

What you’re missing in Southern California:

LA Weather

I’m just saying!

I’ve done some more thinking about the language barrier that plagues the diplomatic balance between our two countries. I can’t imagine the horror upon the face of any given US ambassador in London when someone asks him to hand them a rubber (eraser), or when asking where his or her colleague has gone, to be informed that they went out for a fag (cigarette).

On the other hand, it’s odd for me to be told to sit on my fanny (I don’t have one), make sure my vest is properly buttoned up (buttons on a vest?), and fasten my suspenders (oo-err!). In England, an American will garner funny looks and dubious repute if those things were said.

Other terms aren’t quite so obvious. Take ‘99′, for example. Here in America, it’s merely the number that comes after 98 and before 100, and that’s also true for the UK, but in the UK it’s also a variety of delicious soft serve ice cream with a Cadbury’s chocolate ‘Flake’ sticking out of it.

‘Z’. That’s another one. American’s say ‘zee’; Brits say ‘zed’. This wouldn’t cause much of a social ruckus, except that a couple of generations of British children have had to relearn the last letter of the alphabet thanks to Sesame Street’s ‘Alphabet Song’.

Of course the same is true for a plethora of other words that are pronounced differently and, indeed, spelled differently. We have the British ‘aluminium’ (a-loo-min-eeum) versus the American ‘aluminum’ (a-loo-mee-num), and nobody can decide which one is technically correct. We’ve also got the missing ‘u’ syndrome that plagues the American dictionary (neighbour/neighbor, colour/color, labour/labor, etc.), and the fact that the same word can have totally different meanings.

What Brits call trousers, Americans call pants. What Brits call pants, Americans call underwear. Brits walk on a pavement, Americans walk on a sidewalk. Brits play football, Americans play soccer (well, some of them do anyway), and what Americans call football, Brits call boring, and a little confusing. Brits have a boot, but Americans have a trunk. Brits spread jam on their toast, Americans spread jelly, yet Brits enjoy jelly for desert while Americans enjoy jello. A jumper to a Brit is a warm, long sleeved upper garment, akin to a sweater. A jumper to an American is a suicidal maniac on the egde of a high bridge or cliff. Most confusingly, the ground floor in the UK is the ground floor, and the next floor up is the first floor. In America, the ground floor is the first floor, and the next floor up is the second floor.

In England, people speak English. In America, they speak English too. Yet neither country speaks the same language. Oh the humanity. How my wife and I ever manage to communicate at all is a mystery.

Shortly after I moved here, I went to Baskin Robbins in order to make every attempt to put my pancreas in to shock. Baskin Robbins, for those of you not in the know, is the McDonald’s of ice cream parlours. They have them all over the country and they are often known by their other moniker “31 Flavors”.

I had never heard of Baskin Robbins before, but being a very dedicated, life long fan of ice cream, it certainly sounded like the kind of entity with which I could establish a relationship of mutual respect and honour, based upon their abilities to supply ice cream and my abilities to eat it. A place, nay, a chain of places that serve thirty one different flavours of ice cream? I wanted a piece of that action.

As far as ice cream goes, I’m a vanilla kind of guy, and I mean that in both senses of the word. I don’t want my ice cream complicated. A single flavour at a time, perhaps two mixed together, is how I prefer it. Perhaps that’s why I’ve never been much of a fan of neapolitan ice cream. And vanilla flavoured ice cream, when done right, can’t be equalled or bettered.

Of course, Baskin Robbins didn’t let me off the hook that easy. I was faced with multiple vanilla choices. Vanilla, French Vanilla, Vanilla Bean, Tart Vanilla, Vanilla Cream; I was half expecting to see Milli-Vanilla as one of the choices.

“Vanilla for me please, in a cup.”

And this is where things got complicated. I was asked a simple question, for which I had a simple answer.

“Would you like any toppings?”

“Yes, strawberry please.”

“Huh?”

“Strawberry.”

“…”

“Strawberry for my topping please.”

“I’m sorry, wha…”

At which point my then-girlfriend, now-wife jumps to my aid.

“Straw-berry.”

“Ahh, got it.”

And thus began my journey in to learning American English. Part of the issue, you see, is my accent. I grew up in rural Oxfordshire, but in a happy collision of genetic fortune and cultural prowess, rather than sounding like fat faced farmer yelling “Orff of moi laaaaand!”, I did not develop an Oxfordshire accent. I have, instead, an accent known as ‘Received Pronunciation’. In other words, I speak English English.

This means that sometimes I put the emphasis on the wrong syllable. Or rather, I put the emphasis on a syllable Americans don’t expect or understand.

In the case of the poor, frustrated girl at Baskin Robbins, what she was hearing from me was “Strawbree.” In the case of the poor, frustrated English guy who’s only desire in life at that point was to get a cup of vanilla ice cream with fresh strawberry toppings, this became a point of high amusement when I realised that every syllable must be pronounced deliberately. Straw-ber-ry!

This language barrier doesn’t stop there. My first trip to The Home Depot, America’s equivalent to Britain’s B&Q or Focus DIY stores, lent for some amusing conversations as well.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m looking for polyfiller. You clearly have no idea what that is. It’s white and it’s like plaster and you use it fill holes in the wall.”

“Ahh, you’re looking for spackle, yes?”

“Probably.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, I also need some of those small devices you use for hanging fixtures on a wall. They are an inch or so long and round and you drill a hole in the wall and put it in the hole and then you screw the fixture in to it. Where I’m from it’s called a rawlplug.”

“That’s called an anchor, sir.”

And so on and so forth. I wouldn’t say this is a daily battle, but even after more than seven years here, there will often be something said that at least one person in the conversation won’t understand. And frankly, people should be thankful I don’t speak cockney rhyming slang. That might result in a fist fight.

On that note, I’m going to go up the apples and pears and make some tea for the trouble and strife before there’s any Barney Rubble around here. Alright, china plate?

On August 6th, 1997, in the middle of a heatwave that had been pounding the Manitoban plains for several weeks, I crossed the Manitoba-Minnesota border and first set foot in America.

For a couple of weeks beforehand, friends in Winnipeg had been asking me how I liked Canada.

“I like it. Although everything is very big here.”

Cue the knowing chuckles and under-breath laughter of those better informed than I.

“Wait until you go to America,” they said, “Everything’s much bigger there.”

And they weren’t wrong. It would be five years until I set foot on United States soil again, in a place famous for it’s glitz and glamour, it’s brashness and bigness. I had no idea at that time what those second steps on American ground would lead to, but just a few short months later, I packed up my belongings, left England, and moved to Los Angeles.

By way of introduction, my name is James Ridgers. I’m an expatriated Brit, hailing from the dreaming spires of Oxford. I left the only place I ever knew and made my home in California in late spring 2002. Over the years that I’ve subsequently lived here, I’ve heard many people make comments to me along the lines of “well, at least the culture isn’t that different, it must have been easy to adjust.”

They have no idea.

The differences between England and America are staggering. They are mammoth in proportion. They are colossal. And those differences are never more apparent to me than during those times when I journey back to my homeland to visit, to work, to see friends and family. This blog that you are so kindly reading is my journal of those aforementioned differences between my home of 24 years, and my new home of every year since then.

But James, if America is so big, shouldn’t the blog be titled “Notes from a Big Country”?

Good point, but one that misses my purpose. You see, as much as I love America (and I do, I really do. Even with its flaws, I understand why this country’s natives believe it to be the greatest country on the planet.), my heart and my allegiance will always be with England. By matters of definition and, indeed, comparison, England is a small country. And so, since my musings on this blog, whether they be happy, sad, funny, bitter, annoying, or just plain bland, are the result of an inspiration that starts in my heart, these are, in fact, notes from a small country.

William Wordsworth, an English poet, wrote a series of poems over a period of three years between 1798 and 1801. These poems were poems of love, heartbreak, desire, loyalty, commitment, and regret. They were, interestingly enough, written while he was in Germany. He wrote them to and for an idealised, probably fictional girl named Lucy. However, his imagery and description in these poems clearly leave one with the unshakeable notion that William wasn’t so much in love with Lucy, as he was with his country; his England.

And so it is with myself and this blog. California is home for me now. The United States of America is a place embedded in my heart, a heart that is well fond of it. But England? Well, England will always be my home. And so, as I thank you for reading, I leave you with the immortal words of Mr. Wordsworth himself. Take it away, Will…

I travelled amongst unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea,
Nor, England, did I know ’til then,
What love I bore to thee
‘Tis past, that melancholy dream,
Nor will I quit thy shore,
A second time, for I still seem,
To love thee more and more