Britisher Talk

There is something so bizarre, yet classy about the way the Britishers talk. It’s almost as if they consider everything they think as oracle to enlighten the earth, so they just spew it forth, calling it out as they see it.

On a bus ride back from Rhossili Bay to Swansea, a couple British students (university, I’d say) were discussing New York. Loudly, I might add, so there was no way not to overhear them.

The one chap was going to New York to visit his sister. The other chap had spent two weeks in New York. Naturally, they were discussion New York.

The chap who had visited the city still sounded somewhat awed by it: “I wanted to get out of the city, visit Cape Cod, but I couldn’t, it [the city of New York] was too big.” “The only way to get out was to fly” “It never stops, the lines run all night long, nothing closes.”

But then again:

“The whole city smells, but it’s America, the fringe of civilization.”

They also talked about how their some something unique to Britain about evening sunlight… I didn’t really get it.

Or take another bus ride: This time, the protagonists were two pensioner ladies in their sixties.

“My bloody brother, and his bloody wife, and their bloody kids.”

The poor lady was pouring out the baleful tale of her sorrows, the drama of her life, to her companion. It seemed to me that she had more drama, more excitement, in her life as a British pensioner than I can whip up no matter where I travel or what I do. She had stories, tales, pivotal moments, but I had none, nothing, zilch. 

Or consider Cardiff:

Cardiff appears to be a bit of a party town: I saw more ‘hen-party’ groups there in one evening than I have seen anywhere else the entire rest of my life. These women, dressed to kill (so it appeared), in the most outlandish and ugly costumes imaginable (the get-ups would have been at home at a fashion revue, they were so bad), ran around town pretending to have wild and ridiculous parties. I must admit, I found it amusing when one after another hauled down her colors, pulled off her high heels, and walked barefoot along the streets.

Or the guys who paused in the middle of a street to wrestle…

Or the guy getting carried off (literally) to the police wagon…

The Brits have some talent when it comes to creating a good hubbub.

One evening I was meandering along one of the bustling pedestrian thorough fares and came up to a man and his wife (assumption) who were also strolling along. Out of nowhere, the guy loudly exclaims to his wife and everyone in the vicinity: “What a handsome man.” The subject of the remark didn’t show any sign of hearing him, so he raised his voice more and, addressing the poor guy, declared: “You’re a handsome man.” I think the subject was a bit bewildered. He mumbled something and disappeared. Less than a minute later, the same guy sings out: “I like your frock.” Sadly I didn’t see the reaction he caused, because our paths parted. No doubt, however, if I’d have followed him, he’d have ripped out some other, equaling unexpected and amusing compliments to other random passers-by.

But then again, maybe those same things are said everywhere else, but I just can't understand them...