Now that I have completed my penance for the unfortunate incident with the rotary mower, and having emoted grievously on things that pain me in this Isle my humour is much restored. I feel I should do a little further penance and atone for my previous ranting by looking on the positive side of life, and upon the reasons why it is GOOD to live in Britain. Off the top of my tonsure, therefore, I suggest the following ten:

1.  Peter Allen. One half Radio 5 Live’s weekday Drive Time team,  Allen plays the curmudgeonly sexist Everyman to his female co-presenters (usually the rather charming Anita Anand), but has a wealth of political broadcasting acumen, experience and skill. More than capable of putting the boot into shameless politicos or sensitively dealing with a victim of crime, he is equally skilful at lightening the mood with his approach to delightful little pieces on the quaint vagaries of British life; giant exploding marrows, killer bees in Dorset or the man who has built a life size model of HMS Victory out of old newspapers – the sort of thing that matters. Getting me home better informed and sometimes even uplifted. A national treasure.

2.  Eccentrics. Although the post has a British theme, the English excel in this category, and the aristocracy in particular (I’m thinking Helena Bonham-Carter now). Time and space do not permit justice to be done to this topic, but try this brief biography of “Mad Jack Mytton” (1796–1834), from a website devoted to icons of British life – eccentrics past and present rightly being one such category.

….‘Mad Jack’ Mytton – [was] one of the most unambiguous aristocrat eccentrics in history. Mytton carved out a career for himself as a hell-raising dandy capable of extreme extravagance after being expelled from both Westminster and Harrow.

From an early age he drank five bottles of port in the morning and, on two occasions when none was available, drank bottles of eau de cologne “to forestall the bad effect of the night air” (Great Political Eccentrics).

His wardrobe contained 1,000 hats, 700 pairs of boots and 150 pairs of riding breeches, plus over 3,000 shirts. He had 2,000 dogs, which he fed on steak and champagne. He also owned 60 cats, which he dressed in livery.

Clothes and pets (in clothes) aside, Mytton spent most of his time concocting ways of putting his life at risk. He regularly injured himself on the hunting field, attempting jumps that were clearly impossible. He also liked nothing better than taking his carriage out, gathering great speed and deliberately turning it over. On one occasion he was observed running stark naked over heavy ice in pursuit of some ducks, and he was often spotted stripped down to a thin shirt lying in deep snow awaiting the arrival of wildfowl at dusk.

He wreaked havoc upon his own dinner guests one evening when he appeared in full hunting costume mounted on his pet bear, Nell. The bear took offence to Mytton’s antics, turned on him and ate part of his leg, whilst the guests simply concentrated on jumping out of the window in terror. Unsurprisingly, Jack Mytton died young, with his eventual demise arriving after he set fire to himself in a bid to cure his hiccups.

However, whilst we may not quite match the antics of illustrious forbears such as Mad Jack, we do OK; from the Naked Rambler to that guy who proclaims himself to be King Arthur Pendragon. The people who risk life and limb chasing cheese down hills. Ranulph Fiennes and film critic Mark Kermode (if you don’t know, find the podcasts). Obnoxio the Clown (“I shall now proceed to pleasure myself with this fish” – what!?!) Even silly men pretending to be 1,500 year old Romano British Monks when they really should know better. Each a small triumph of free spirit and free will.

3.  A good pub. There are still some left, and though it is a few years since I last enjoyed its hospitality this was one of my favourites. I believe it is still going strong, tucked away on a delightful cobbled street by the school in Winchester. Happy memories indeed.

4.  History people don’t notice. Speaking of Winchester, the Cathedral is rather magnificent. And for a while Winchester was the capital of the Kings of Wessex, which is why there are boxes (ossuaries) full of bones of Kings there (the Saxons were rather fond of having their bones kept in boxes, for some reason. After they were dead, of course, otherwise they would just sort of flop about, which would be no good). Really – proper Kings, these, with helmets as well as crowns. Kings that stabbed people with swords and hacked them with axes and did battles and epic stuff; not like this drippy lot we’ve got now. It’s everywhere, if you know how to look. I was driving out of the rather grim West Yorkshire town of Castleford the other week (which is probably the best thing to do there, although they are having a go at regeneration). But as I followed the dreary “A” road to the bridge across the River Aire by the weir I was passing over the site where, in some form or other, there has been a bridge for 2000 years. Armies have crossed the river here since the time of the Roman general Agricola. Not the very bridge where Erik “Bloodaxe” (who was every bit as exciting as his name suggests) ambushed the Saxon King Edred’s army in 948AD, I hear you cry! The very one, and there was serious carnage. On this roadway, by this bridge, men fought and stabbed and bled and died by sword or axe, or drowned. Have you ever seen a Viking battle axe? I have wielded a replica, and by God, you wouldn’t want to get in the way. That made me very happy too, by the way.

5.  The Armed Services. Well, at least the brave young men and women who risk their necks every day at the sharp end, and show that there is still a wellspring of courage and decency in the country. Better men (and women, if you see what I mean) than me. My hat, if I had one, would be raised to them.

6.  The countryside. Words are superfluous, and it’s still there, if you want to find it. Here is an interesting little site for perusing the many vistas.

7.  Some good actors. Admittedly, I say this grudgingly, but the likes of Judy Dench, Michael Sheen, David Morrissey or the urbane Colin Firth are, well, rather good – and even though they are a bunch of “luvvies”, some of them seem alright, really.

8.  Being called “Love” by middle aged women. Actually, allowing for some variations, it’s “Love” in the North, and “Dear” in the south. It’s somehow comforting to know that the matronly ladies who form the backbone of the nation are free from political correctness, disinterested in whatever status I may profess to display, grounded, egalitarian and charming. It makes me feel at home.

9.  Village fetes. I was pottering around in the little Hampshire village of Rockbourne a few years ago (on a fishing trip, actually) when I saw the signs advertising a local village fete. I duly attended on a lovely sunny Saturday to find that well known cliché, a veritable cornucopia of delight. Bands were playing. There was a plate smashing stall (you know, throwing a wooden ball) and a coconut shy. There was show jumping and “terrier” racing; terrific fun as little devils of every shape and size were parked in proper greyhound traps and then let loose to chase a big raggedy thing on a sort of huge elastic rope. They loved it more than I did, which was a lot! There were ice creams, an old fire engine, children’s races, parents’ races, sack races, sort of electronic clay pigeon shooting, and best of all, a lovely tent for tea with an abundance of cakes, biscuits and scones and cream and jam, all homemade, run by the wonderful ladies of the local WI. Who would gently cajole in their soft Hampshire burr: “Oh, go on m’dear (see above), why don’t you just have one more piece and some more cream…”  I did, and all was well with the world.

10.  Autumn. In Britain, winter is mainly a dismal affair, consisting of drizzle, its big brother rain, and when it snows brief merriment followed by chaos and dirty slush. January through to March is just bleak, essentially a cold waiting to happen. Spring is OK if you like fresh lamb and sunshine and showers, but otherwise not very eventful. Let’s be honest, the British in general, and the English in particular, don’t do summer very well (the above being the exception which proves the rule). Johnny Foreigner wins Wimbledon and mostly the weather is mixed. When it is not we get too hot at work and in the evenings people get drunk and riot, unless they are on holiday, in which case they are not in England anyway, but Tuscany if they are posh or Spain if they are common (a generalisation but you get the ideal). But Britain was made for autumn. For some reason I find it the most romantic, intimate season. In the cities and towns as the daylight light fades I see couples, wrapped up against the cold, hastening to some cosy bar. In the country the air is cool and invigorating, the light is mysterious and the leaves are auburn and gold, the colour of my long lost love’s hair (for I was not always a monk). Occasionally, the beginning of November witnesses your author (appropriately attired and having been given time off from the monastery) waist deep in the powerful, sweeping, almost freezing waters of a well known Scottish river and, even more occasionally attached with hook line and rod to a large and very angry salmon as it powers from the water and tail walks, silhouetted black against the gleaming water. After dusk your author may finally retreat, chilled and tired, to the bar of the I************* Arms, where, as the mist curls up from the river, a fine glass of red and finer conversation awaits.  And a toast, too.

To Britain!

Gildas the Monk

Gildas August 3, 2010 at 22:36

Post script
These 2 related post on the Good and Bad things are just off
the cuff rants, and in no way supposed to be “right”. They are essays, and no
more. They have slightly strange titles, referring to “The Matter of Britain.”
Some of you may know I have a historical bent, and often a Dark Age theme,
because I am a monk born in the 6th Century. The reason for the title is very
simple. Briefly, “The Matter of Britain” is the name given by early writers,
and particularly those of early Medieval times, to the circumstances
surrounding the creation of Britain and especially, but not exclusively, the
story of King Arthur. A very broad description, but I hope sufficient for
present purposes.
It therefore seemed appropriate as a title. But then, I
am a bit odd.
Thanks to you all.
Gildas the Monk.

Hysteria August 3, 2010 at 01:36

oh – wait….

I am not a football fan – but some of the terrace chants are truly inspired
!!!!!

When compared with the “cheer leading” here in the USA – which is pretty
much limited to folks chanting “Dee-fence” and “Go Cats” (or whoever)

Gildas August 3, 2010 at 22:22

Thank you Hysteria
Occasionally I have visited these football temples
of which you write, for did I not attend the 1996 World Cup (I did actually
– but not the final!).
And was I not in Barcelona in 99…
Gildas the
Monk

Hysteria August 3, 2010 at 01:08

My lord Monk, yer reverand (?)

Loved the post – ( Mr Viking I agree with your frustrations but I find it
so much better for one’s mental health to at least *try* to start with a
positive list before attacking the negative…)

My list?

The Union – I love the diversity and contrasts of the British Isles (hate
the negative posturing and nationailsm)

Another Peter ……….Aliss

The weather (all of it – even the winter, but then I do live in East
Scotland which has to be the best place to live anywhere)

Country towns

Seeing a wild deer in the field behind my house – or seeing a Red Kite
flying above in the evening – truly beautiful.

The natural friendliness of people in the country

Ir’Rational August 2, 2010 at 21:54

I would hope that’s a bottle of [good] claret, rather than a ‘glass of
red’.
Developed [like Champagne] for the English palate.
Back in the
days when the Frogs knew their place!

Ir’Rational
August 2, 2010 at 22:32

Give us back Aquitaine! And Calais.

Gildas August 3, 2010 at 22:15

Dear I’R
PS It was only a glass, but, the material question, is, of
course, the s size of the glass! A pint glass is good. And the rest. And
we should, of course, reclaim most of France! But not the bad
bits.
Gildas the Monk

A Right Animal
August 2, 2010 at 21:24

The art of understatement (and irony, as already mentioned). Did I have
some (gentle) fun with those when I visited the U.S.

Pomp: the Household Cavalry, a piper in full Highland dress, processions,
Royal weddings, etc. There’s no-one to touch us.

Creating and joining little societies for all manner of things.

A reputation for caring more for animals than for people.

Anna
Raccoon August 2, 2010 at 21:35

Ah, Irony and Americans…..
One of my favourite moments whilst running
a restuarant, was playing cards with the chef after a particularly busy
lunch when tempers had frayed.
An American guest who had been more
responsible than most for the frayed tempers pushed his way into the kitchen
and in that inimitable New York manner said ‘You might wanna call me a
cab’.
Chef looked up and said ‘You’re a cab’ and dealt another
hand…..
There was a deathly silence as we all surveyed our new
hand.
It was a full five minutes before the penny ‘sort of’ dropped, and
Yankee said, ‘Nah, I mean you might wanna telephone for a cab’.
At that
point I gave up the unequal struggle to contain my giggles……
He never did
come back.

Hysteria
August 3, 2010 at 01:01

classic ! I can picture the scene!

Daedalus
Parrot August 3, 2010 at
01:34

Blimey, that bloke sounds exacly like my old boss when I worked in
London ten years ago. He didn’t have an italisn name beginning with G
did it? He was an unimaginative, bullying New Yorker.

I did like working there though, my colleagues consisted of down to
earth British people like your chef and other New Yorkers who actually
were decent folk and excellent company. Our two senses of humour were
very different but we got on very well.

Ian
R Thorpe August 2, 2010 at 20:30

If you venture into certsin remote parts of Yorkhire gildas you might get
called “love” by a middle aged man (especially if you have curly grey
hair.

To Anna I must say Liverpool women are not the best looking, that
distinction goes to the lasses of Blackburn and they don’t spoil the effect
when they open their mouths.

A Backburn girl only ever opens her mouth to stick a pie in it.

Gildas August 2, 2010 at 20:45

True Ian – and I do! For I move around these Isles quite a lot, Time and
space mean one is restricted in what one can do – it’s just a short essay,
after all.
And I have known both Liverpool and Blackburn girls, and
Manchester and Leeds and London and Ireland and Scotland and …for verily, I
have not always been a good monk, although now I give daily penance for my
wild days and pay a doleful price for it. Which is very true.
Now those
days are behind met, but I do believe I could write a monograph on where, in
Britain, are the most beautiful girls!
Well..how long have you
got….!
I shall think on it tonight.
Gildas the Monk

Gloria Smudd
August 2, 2010 at 21:03

You’ll just have to guess where I live Gildas!

Gildas
August 2, 2010 at 21:49

I have just watched Inception, and you live in my dreams, Gloria.
Although, having watched said film, is that real or…?

David
Thompson August 2, 2010 at 20:14

JimS August 2, 2010 at 20:00

Surely number two should be Lucinda Lambton, adorable and eccentric.

Joe Public August 2, 2010 at 19:55

The ability & resources to expose so many politicians as
expenses-fiddlers and/or hypocrites.

Filthy McNasty
August 2, 2010 at 18:41

Since I was enthusiastic about identifying things I don’t like I feel
constrained to have a bash at this as well.

1. Lord’s – there is no hush in the world quite like that at the start of a
test match here. One of the finest sporting venues on the planet.

2. British writing – still some of the finest writers in the world operate
here and our literary history is second to none.

3. Yes Minister – I know its 30 years old but it remains the cleverest
comedy I have ever seen and watching old episodes recently it is remarkable
how pertinent it is to today’s political world.

4 The RSC – don’t need to say much more.

Brian August 2, 2010 at 18:11

Saying “sorry” when it’s not your fault.
Self-deprecation. NB to
foreigners, there is no implied invitation to join in. Failure to understand
this will get you a compliment or what you might call xenophobia and we call
“saying as we see it.”
Contrary to the ignorant leftie snobs, a cuisine
that is seasonal and varied that holds its own with any other country’s. And
what about our peerless cakes and puddings?
The English
Garden.
Tolerance of things we don’t like on the basis on minding one’s own
business. Sympathy for foreigners – see below.
Fair play and instinctive
support for the underdog.
Bringing people down a peg or
two.
Hobbies.
The Church of England for making the best fist of
rationalising religion up to ethics and good manners by getting rid of the
mumbo-jumbo. I exclude the unfortunate High Church and happy-clappy
evangelists from this definition.

Bob Adams August 2, 2010 at 17:53

As a Welshman (and therefore totally unbiased) I would add an
eleventh
delight: the English language as used by Gildas, and others, to
express such views.

Pip Pip

Gildas August 2, 2010 at 19:07

Dear Bob
That is very kind, and all the more appreciated from the race
of Bards. Of course, I did spend some years as a scribe and in study at
Llancarfan, although it did not do that much for my spelling, which can be
erotic…
Gildas the Monk

Gildas August 2, 2010 at 19:07

Sorry – erratic

View from the
Solent August 2, 2010 at 20:17

I thought you meant exotic

Gildas
August 2, 2010 at 21:01

Probably more accurate

PT Barnum August 2, 2010 at 17:48

A list, plus most of English Viking’s additions, that made me smile and nod
in agreement, to which I would add:

Irony – no one else does it like the Brits;
The art of queuing when
pursued properly and without any visible effort;
The casual kindnesses of
strangers – not something I’ve encountered anywhere else in the world;
Our
disdain for vulgar patriotism while always believing this is the best country
on earth (despite the best efforts of our political masters and their army of
clipboard fondlers);
Gardens, allotments and gardeners;
Ealing
comedies.

Joe Public
August 2, 2010 at 19:39

And its near-cousin, Sarcasm.

Macheath August 2,
2010 at 17:30

it

PT Barnum August 2, 2010 at 17:37

In the East Midlands it’s ‘Duck’, by or to males and females of any
age.

Subrosa August 2,
2010 at 17:25

Auch Gildas, any man without grey hair is called ‘son’ by me. Dear, as
Eleanor says, isn’t a Scottish expression. Neither is dahlink – just to let
you know should you decide to wander north of the border.

I love Scotland too even though we have rubbish pubs (men’s drinking houses
really) and no garden fetes. Give me the local Highland Games any day.

Delighted to see the armed services included. I’m weary of hearing them
negatively criticised and the ‘Why would anyone join the Army? They must be
stupid’ line.

Gildas August 2, 2010 at 19:48

Thank you for the advice Subrosa. I do enjoy your regular postings, by
the way. I sort of do know what you mean about Scottish pubs, by the way. I
know a nice one at Loch Lomond, and another which used to be great at Loch
Ness (I truly love) , but I fear a change of owner may have lowered its
standard!
Gildas the Monk

English Viking
August 2, 2010 at 17:19

Gonna struggle on this one, but here goes;

1. Test Match Special, with Agger, Tuffers, CMJ and especially Blowers.

2. Fish and Chips, or Pie and Gravy, or both!

3. Church bells on Sundays,

4. School bike-sheds, more particularly the fun to be had behind them.

5. British women are surely some of the best looking in the world.

6. Game shooting, and the fighting with the ‘antis’ afterwards (or during).
Never really a good idea to attack a man with a gun.

7. Skegness 30 years ago. Unfortunately, it now appears to have fallen
victim to all things Chav, but at least I have the memories.

That’s it, and that took me long enough. Strange how hate comes easier than
love.

Eleanor August 2, 2010 at 17:48

You should hear The Brits around here trying to silence The Church Bells.
I doesn’t seem to have occurred to them that none of us would know what
bloody time it is if it wasn’t for The Church Clock.
And then of course,
we all know when someone has died. You can tell how old they were if you
count The Bells. Older than you is good because you have still got a couple
of years or so. Younger than you is not so good, unless you know their
entire medical history, which most of us do. Any which way leads to much
discussion. And then we all go to their funeral in the hope that everyone
will come to ours.

I find it all rather comforting.

English
Viking August 2, 2010 at 19:08

They’ll be sorry when the bells are replaced with un-godly wailing from
a minaret.

Anna
Raccoon August 2, 2010 at 17:49

English Viking,

Re: 5. Liverpool women are the world’s best looking. Unfortunately they
eventually open their mouth and spoil the illusion.

English
Viking August 2, 2010 at 19:04

You’re preaching to the converted, Anna. LFC, through and through.
YNWA.

Eleanor August 2, 2010 at 17:15

I am quite old, and I never call anyone Dear unless I wish to insult
them.

I love Scotland all year round.