So I was thinking, how can I mock highlight the difference between British folk and us North Americans? The most obvious way is to examine our language. What do I mean? We both speak English right? We have no trouble communicating. Ooooh reeeeallly. So just for fun I wrote a little story for y’all (not, I’m not from Alabama but it works so well). Then for those of you who have no idea what it’s about there is a glossary after the break.
It was pissing down with rain as I walked down the pavement next to the dual carriageway. I was wearing my wellies and carrying my brolly when an estate car drove by and splashed me. I was able to hit the boot as he passed but didn’t get his number plate. My jumper was wet and I was soaked through to my Y-fronts. I screamed after him “You bloody wanker!” but I knew he didn’t hear. I considered calling the bobbies, but I didn’t think I’d get much beyond sympathy and a cuppa to take off the chill. I wanted him arrested and his arse thrown in gaol. At the nearest pub, I ordered a Newkie Brown and bangers and mash. There was bugger all I could do except attempt to dry out. I knew there’d be no heat in my caravan when I got back and it’s not like I had a char to clean up after me.
I woke the next morning and my mouth felt full of cotton wool. The empty crisp packets spread about meant I’d been rat-arsed when I got home. I heard a groan from my left and turned my head to see a bare arse beside me with a head buried under the pillow. I vaguely remembered snogging some bloke who may have told me to sod off at one point. Obviously I’d been very persuasive. Since I had no clue who he was, this seemed to be a giant cock-up, although the good quality trousers he’d left hanging from the headboard didn’t look too dodgy, maybe he wouldn’t be a total git like the last bloke who’d been a right toffee-nosed prat once he realised I was on the dole.
I hoped we hadn’t nicked the crisps. I was a bit skint these days and wasn’t sure I’d had enough dosh to buy that many packets. I didn’t need a panda car showing up in the caravan park. The stranger turned his head and I was gobsmacked to see it was the bartender from the pub. I was somewhat chuffed to see I’d managed to snag a looker, although he lived in a flat in town so I wasn’t sure why we’d ended up in my manky caravan. I certainly hoped he didn’t expect a fry-up when he woke, because all I had was some tinned spotted dick. I didn’t have any rashers, eggs or black pudding on hand.
I slipped off the bed to head to the loo for a slash. As I stood over the bog I thought about the chap kipping in my bed. The guy wasn’t my usual type, but he reminded me of a bloke I’d dated in uni. I wondered what happened to that little shite. He’d rodgered every guy he could find that term. What a slag! He was good at it though, had to give the tosser that, I wasn’t going to whinge about it now five years later.
I found a clean vest in my rucksack as I’d just been the laundrette and pulled a can of pop out of the fridge. I could have gone for a bacon sarnie with HP sauce, but that wasn’t going to happen. The hunk in my bed lifted his head and smiled over at me. I knew it was daft to even think about a relationship with the bloke, but it would be nice to have someone to watch footie with on the tellie. I hoped the guy had one, because I certainly didn’t. Maybe I could get a job at the chippie down by the quay. It wouldn’t be so bad, if I had someone to cuddle up with when I was knackered after a hard day’s work. I threw the can in the dustbin, peeled off the vest I’d only just put on and sauntered back to the bed. This might not be all bad, even if he was a bit twee for my taste. I slid under the duvet and into his arms, not bad at all.