Unlike like the boring London to Hull train, the one to Bournemouth was much more scenic. I saw fields of green dotted with sheep dotted with green. Some branding technique I’d presume. And as I made my way to Bournemouth for the weekend I began to mentally note some of the differences I’ve noticed in England. It’s mainly small things since I had already prepared myself for the big things but still they are occurrences or items that remind me where I am.

For example, when you are stopped at a red light it flashes yellow just before it turns green.

Everyone knows that fries are called chips but I didn’t know that potato chips are called crisps.

Trucks, which are rare to see, are called lorries.

Smarties in Brittan are little chocolates similar to M&M’s, not the tart little slices of hardened pixie stick deliciousness I was hoping for.

“Smeggy” is used frequently to describe someone who is unkempt or nasty looking.

The English never tip. It’s not a matter of being generous or not, its just something that NO ONE does.

The English also do not say “your welcome” after someone thanks you. In fact they think it queer that we Americans do.

Instead of saying, “How are you?” the English say, “Are you OK?” This one still gets me because my response is always a defensive “Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” I then try to explain to them that “Are you OK?” in the States is used as a nice way of saying, “What’s wrong.”

Nob is slag for penis so when I say I’m from the Nob Hill Congregation it usually prompts a chuckle or two.

Some of the English sub-cultures are fascinating to me. One in particular is a group called “Chavs”. The derogatory term comes from the Romani word “chavi”, meaning a child. There is actually a pretty good wikipedia article on it if you look it up. A Chav is somewhat the equivalent of white trash but British style. They characterized by someone in track pants (sometimes with a pant leg tucked in), a hoodie, and a (knockoff) Burberry cap. Actually chavs have been associated with Burberry so much so that Burberry stopped making hats with the pattern, banned all hoddies from their premises, and have made their logo less pronounced in order to separate themselves with the lot. Chav’s have a terrible reputation for being hostile, thieves, alcoholics, etc. Like any stereotype it holds some truth but is an overgeneralization of the people. I actually talked to one on a bus. He was drinking and singing in the front and was pretty pleasant. Kind of out of it, but friendly. Unfortunately he stabbed me on my way off the bus…. I had to get 13 stitches…

I also love that the English seem to have a propensity for cleaver store names. Some classic Hull examples being: His and Hairs salon, GoodFillas sandwiches, or my personal favorite TanFastic tanning. It makes me laugh every time.

Actually a lot makes me laugh. Sometimes I imagine that I’m a different person who is watching me and it has made me come to the conclusion that people may think I’m a bit off, balmy, mad, and so forth. Half the time I am walking somewhere I have a cheesy grim on my face, or I’m singing along to the music I’m listening to, or I’m laughing at a scene that is playing out in my head. Sometimes I will wear my headphones even though nothing is playing in them just because I figure that if I do start laughing at something in my head people will assume that I am listening to something funny rather than assuming that I’m just strange. Maybe I just have a warped sense of humor and an overactive imagination.

Currently I’ve been amused by this idea of going to places in uniform and giving people really bad advice/service. Like getting on a plane dressed as a flight attendant, or walking around the hospital in scrubs, or just walking down the street dressed as a police officer. It should be a hidden camera show I tell you. It’d be like me moving to India and becoming a cab driver. Same kind of awkward funny that I like. I think you would laugh too. At very least you would have laughed if you saw me the other night when I made chocolate milk. I hungrily began to glug it down when I tasted its sourness and then could feel the chunks floating in it. Yes, I think you would have at least sniggered as I freaked out and spat expired cow juice all over my kitchen counters. Or perhaps you would have been equally amused to see my wide-eyed expression as a strange Arab man fell asleep on my shoulder whilst on the train to Bournemouth. True story, it happened just before I penned this. It was awkward and I didn’t know what to do. In the end I decided to pretend like I was trying to take my coat off. He apologized.