Counting up to twenty

“Britain Britain Britain. Discovered by Sir Henry Britain in 16010.”

“It’s complicated”, I would always answer to people asking “but why Britain?”, after I had just seen them wearing sunglasses and summer clothes in pictures from Greece and Monaco (and even bloody Prague!). If, of course, the “purity of language” argument doesn’t work (which it shouldn’t, considering how brutally, as my dear fellow American wants it, this language has been butchered by Kilts, Cloves and Criminals).

“Oh I like so many other things here,” I say, and turn the volume down so I could hear myself better. Michael Crawford is singing some song which doesn’t contain the lyrics that are in its title. “Counting up to twenty.” The fairy tale about the clever Magical Mr. Mistoffelees soon ends and, before I realize it, I do start counting.

I like to see the guy with a map of UK behind his back on BBC news shocked that “we are likely to have a second dry day in a row.”

I like that it is “generally believed” all around Stratford upon Avon that Shakespeare indeed existed.

I like that everything “may contain traces of nuts”. And that ice-cream is also suitable for vegetarians.

I like when old people smile at you in the streets and call you ‘my love’, even though the warmest feeling they may have is the feeling of pity “for a poor girl from Eastern Europe.” I like how people say “sorry” ten times in a sentence, even after you have just stepped on their feet.

I like British Television. I like that the UK is among the very few countries in the world whose comedy shows are actually funny (in many countries it’s rather news that, presumably unintentionally, are).

I like complaining to everybody that British chocolate cannot be compared to Swiss or German chocolate because it doesn’t really dissolve in your mouth, is too sweet and too sugary etc etc etc, and then buying a seven-bar-Cadbury pack.

I like that a sandwich is only a sandwich if it’s triangular. I like funfares and double-decker buses. I like to watch twenty young chaps, whom the driver has just asked to please sit down if they want to continue their journey, desperately trying to come back to 30-pints-of-beer-free reality. I like when Brits stay in their own country for stag parties.

I like how ‘Zoosk’ warns you that ‘you are missing out flirts because you haven’t indicated your location’. I like the ambiguity which the word ‘gay’ brings into ‘Brideshead Revisited’. I like how you can support Young British Artists by buying shortbread in ‘Marks &Spencer’. I like that longbread doesn’t even exist.

I like how British media warned the nation of soon-to-be-increasing levels of crime right before Romania and Bulgaria had joined the EU. I like how they blame Poles for killing the Queen’s swans for food. I like the expression “our tiny island” when in Europe, at least population-wise, only Germany and France are bigger.

I like to think that naked girls with symbolic dresses on Friday nights are indeed not freezing. I like it that you can start booking Christmas parties in summer (I mean, the season which is comprised of June, July and August). I like Guinness with blackcurrant syrup, but I guess that’s Irish.

I like that Brits divide people into enemies and friends according to the results of football matches. I like how everybody gets excited about biscuits (which are in fact cookies). I like reading reviews in ‘Spectator’, even when they are about books I haven’t read. I like how women in my office scream that ‘Strictly come dancing’ is back. I like that Brits can say ‘sure’ and ‘of course’ without having a clue (or without wanting to have a clue) of what you are talking about. I like political irony. I like to have my umbrella with me. I like when people grow out of the age when they can only be friends with the people “who have the same style”. I like to all of a sudden get a maximum amount of points in Facebook’s ‘How British are you?’ test. I like green shoes, ‘Primark’ paper bags, Jeremy Paxman and coffee… I like you if you are still reading this.