Being British

Do I feel British again yet ?
Hmmm, can't say. I haven't really figured out what it means these days.

Last week I was sitting in a coffee shop in central London listening to three old biddies going on about foreigners, as they do (it's either that or the war)
They seemed oblivious to the fact that they were probably outnumbered 3 to 1 by the same foreigners they were dissing.

"oooh, they're so rude"
"and they don't know our way of life, dear"
"ooooh no, he looks a bit polish or sumfink, there's lot of them comin' ere lately"
"yeah, they just don't know how to beeave themselfs"
"Anyway luv, I'm on a bit of a diet dontcha know" (while eating a bacon sandwitch)
"oh yeah dear, me too, I cut daown on the chips innit"

... and so on.

Then we have the gaffers - a likeable lot, hanging out in coffee shops, reading papers, swapping jokes, wheeling and dealing - lots of plumbers, electricians, builders. The ones in the coffee shops, the gaffers, are basically your foremen. Nice life, but you can see they've done their time doing hard graft. Salt of the earth for the most part. Usually highly philisophical about life.

The bus drivers are a wonder, almost all of them are irritable bastards. Can't say I blame them considering the traffic, but they really can be truly dickheadish.
Take the one today, when my Oyster card wouldn't swipe.

"No good swiping it more than once mate, that won't do nuffink"

I felt like saying "so what the fuck am I supposed to do, smart arse - it didn't bloody work !"

Instead I smiled inanely and carried on swiping until it did actually "do sumfink", innit !

Then there was the plonker who said "stop pressing the bloody buzzer, or I'll stop the bus now"

Fair enough - the "next stop" buzzer had been pressed more than once.
In fact, it had been pressed a total of two times.

Go figure - must be a shit job.
I pressed the buzzer about 20 times just before jumping off the bus, in a kind of morse code for "fuck you, tosser"

That's another thing, British anger is dealt out in different ways - it's not an immediate emotional outburst, but rather heavy sarcasm or a bit of "cutting off" - god forbid you accidentally catch the back of someones foot with yours on the tube, you'll get that terrible shirty body language that transmits to everyone around "who does this pratt think he is, treading on the back of my foot - bloody tourists !"
Then if they can, they'll cut off your path if your in a hurry, purposefully walking in front of you.

You live and learn - I've learnt to temper my natural stride to different situations and no longer accidentally tread on the back of peoples feet, not that it happened much, but it did happen. You go from shuffling, to bounding, to strolling, to power walking all in the space of 5 minutes - duck, dive, dodge, brollies up, brollies down, of the edge of the pavement, weave and wind.

When you get good at it, you can do all that while reading a newspaper, eating a sandwich and checking your mobile messages.

Then you get the backpack wielding newbie that seems to manage to get their pack in the way of everything and everyone, standing on the right of the escalator diligently, but not quite figuring out what to do to get the backpack from away from the left. Lift it up in front of you mate, or get it to a resting place real soon. Yes, they can often be British.

And the bankers, or rather, the stripey shirt brigade ?
They're ok, just keep out of their way because they are ALWAYS in a hurry. The younger ones bound up the escalators, the older ones seem to melt out of sight after getting of the tube (very odd that), they are all incredibly adept at the public transport game, often jumping onto trains at the last minute, but never looking ruffled or annoyed. Cold and calculated. I've learnt a lot from them, but can't keep up - they move too fast. I tend to follow in their wake for a while when it's really crowded - they seem to know how to weave really well.

Being British is a futile passtime in London, it just doesn't work.
On any given day, your sharing the bus with someone from Poland, the tube with French students, the coffee shop with Americans and get served by Aussies, Saffas and Canadians in the pub. Then there's the language barrier that presents itself when your talking to a newly arrived Pakistani in a newspaper shop - always fun, always fascinating, usually frustrating.

"How much ?"
"bin blun splingi fwibble"
"Excuse me ?"
"Sorry very much how I help you ?"
"Do you have a dictionary ?"
"aaah, spingle foobwad nigglit pickle"
"I'll take 5 please"
"Thanking you and have a good day !"

A good day indeed, yes, well, today really wasn't that good.