âEllo, âEllo, Wots Bin Goinâ on âEre Then?

by Anna Raccoon on December 13, 2010

A sad e-mail from a dear friend who has already been visited by more unwarranted tragedy than anyone should have to survive, arrived to warn me that the storm clouds of imminent disaster were about to close over her head again. I wouldnât insult her with platitudes, I know the full weight of the crosses she has been asked to bear too well; as I said to Mr G, if only we were at least in the same country, I could give her a hug and maybe crack a joke in appalling taste â or two.

Mr G, going about his business whilst pondering the troublesome thought of what to give me for Christmas, cooked up a plan.

Thus I unexpectedly found myself in a freezing car park at Dunkerque, after a 1000 kilometre dash, waiting outside the firmly closed canteen for the 4am ferry to convey me to that country portrayed via Sky news and the BBC to we ex-pats as a hotbed of angry contorted faces, Royal poking anarchists, grid locked motorways, thieving politicians and bankers, all believed to be currently covered in at least 20 foot of snow that no-one was allowed to clear away in order to retrieve the bodies of frozen pensioners. Much as I love my friend, my cup ranneth over, this surely beat the Black and Decker pneumatic drill he presented me with several years ago.

The white cliffs of Dover in the early morning gloom didnât disappoint. Sea Gulls swooped on briefly digested kebab along every foot of the pavement. Shadowy figures in Djellabas dived behind container lorries as we drove a tortuous route through barbed wire enclosures and concrete walls, past van loads of policemen. A dirt encrusted sign bade us welcome to the United Kingdom and âremember to drive on the leftâ.

The English canteen was as firmly closed as the French version. Nobody smiled. We pulled up beside the âUK Border Agencyâ Office and waited for the triple glazed window to slide open and interrogate us. The occupant didnât even glance at us, deep in conversation with another woman. Several minutes passed. Eventually he looked, not at us, but at our French number plate, and with the merest hint of a sneer, stuck a thumb up to indicate OK and with a cursory wave of his hand, signalled to us to move on. The window never opened, not a word was exchanged.

âAnd on behalf of the British people, may I welcome you to this green and pleasant landâ I said to Mr G, making only his second visit to this septic isle in 35 years. âWe will, very soon, pass a Greasy Spoon, a fabled establishment where you will taste the delights of English back bacon thrust lovingly between two slices of cardboard, and understand the pull this country has to those of us born hereâ.

Only we didnât. We passed a multitude of MacDonalds, a clutch of KFCs, a plethora of Pizza Huts; all firmly closed. The motorway ground on, mile after mile, with narry a sign of Olde Englande, just a pastiche of urban America which promised not to open for several hours. No âpull-offsâ with picnic tables where we might share a van brewed coffee, no petrol stations offering fresh hot croissants and exemplary coffee.

Just tarmac and roadsides littered with curiously demarcated dwellings. Here a clutch of pebble dashed council houses, freshly Farrow and Balled, gardens bedecked with arbours in the approved Monty Don pale turquoise, drives full of Kiaâs with brand new number plates â then â after a suitable patch of scorched earth, a nest of Barratt four bedroomed homes with gardens full of professionally planted conifers, and huge 4 x 4s parked in the driveway. Another patch of scorched earth and you would drive past the original hovels of âCraysFootbyWickHamSteadâ with their replacement triple glazed âoriginalâ windows, and gravelled drives, and five bar gates, and both a 4 x 4 and a Kia in the drivewayâ¦.has some ordinance been passed in my absence that states what car you own, and how many, according to the rateable value of your home? Does nobody own a battered Clio here? Are humble dwellings not allowed to be erected next to âShiver Me Timbersâ? It all seems so regimented to a visitor, your place in life so carefully laid out.

Another 300 kilometres passed in happy contemplation of the relative merits of French bureaucratic egalitarianism and the land of the Free Briton. We passed by Huntingdon Life Sciences just as the day shift of angry snarling faces turned up for their task of screaming at the hapless workers, and then turned off onto country lanes. They grew narrower, lined by hedgerows not red brick houses, the occasional cottage that looked as though it might once have grown Brussel sprouts in its front garden, but still Farrowed and Balled beyond recognition, ancient slate tiles replaced with thermo-efficient red concrete ones.

Finally we crept round a concealed corner and parked outside an honest farm workerâs cottage. The door opened, heartfelt hugs and kisses were exchanged, and journeyâs end was a warm and cluttered kitchen, bright colours, immense pine table, old samplers worked in Georgian times lining the walls; a wood burner belched out welcome heat. Rosy cheeked teenagers, tousle haired from a promised week-end lie in were roused.

The winter sun was rising low over a frosted field outside the kitchen window, ploughed, harrowed, drilled and watched over with loving care for any sign of distress in the crop of wheat destined for Mr Hovis the Baker. The fourth generation of men to tend those fields stood in his thermal long johns, washing up the detritus from feeding his brood the night before. Mrs Farmer suggested breakfast. The upcoming fifth generation hungrily agreed, it had been a mere 8 hours since he had last stoked that eternal furnace known as âteenage sonâ and future farmer.

Half a pig sliced into perfect tranches of back bacon, any surplus minced into temporary occupation of sausage casing. Bread, Hovis naturally, was fried to a tottering pile of crisp perfection. The winter output of several hens cracked into a pan of English butter and stirred to a creamy scramble. Black pudding? Would we like Black Pudding? And Beans, proper Heinz Baked Beans slid out of those iconic Turquoise and Gold cans into warmed dishes, fresh mushrooms sliced and cooked âjust soâ, and Tea, gallons of it, proper builderâs tea in mismatched mugs set down amongst the fifty thousand questions asked and answered round that table.

Coherent, intelligent, teenagers talked 20 to the dozen, amiable good natured parents got a word in edgeways, when they had the chance, to tell of prowess â âtaught herself to play the guitar, she didâ and âpassed his tractor driving test first timeâ.

The Yeoman heart of England still beats, drowned out on the airways by the tales of Ahmed Ishmael, a British Citizen, arrested in â fill in your chosen foreign clime; and Charlie Gilmour, a multi-million Trustafarian studying history at Cambridge, but apparently unable to even guess at what the Cenotaph might represent.

Not only we ex-pats, but the rest of the world, take our view of England from those news broadcasts. If you know where to look, the true England is still there and raising the next sturdy limbed generation; facing the trials and tribulations of crop failure, personal tragedy and Nu-Labour with equal equanimity, good humour and lashings of love.

Pity Iâm not giving you the address; because itâs also the perfect âGreasy Spoonâ Iâve been dreaming of in my absence.

Cheers Mr G â best Christmas present ever. Truly Inspired.

{ 30 comments }

tonyb December 14, 2010 at 14:09

As someone who has returned to the UK after living in France for 10 years
the pleasure of bineg back is overwhelming. Beneath the veneer of France is a
very unpeasant bureaucratic society with its inhabitants living in fear as
they are so controlled.

The UK for all its faults is still a wonderful country

Alan Douglas December 14, 2010 at 11:14

Coming away from Dover one early morning, some years ago, I was delighted
to finally see an OPEN sign on a cafe. Having parked and all got out, this
turned out to be a statement a little short of true.

Luckily the sign was propped on a windowsill directly above a wire waste
bin. You can guess the rest â¦.

Alan Douglas

backwoodsman December 14, 2010 at 10:08

Meanwhile, the bbcâs âFarming Today â, which should be for and about Annaâs
fair friends, had , Monday, rabid ramblist screaming that âcoalition cutsâ
would somehow be responsible for ending all access to footpaths, (despite
access having survived for the last 800 years or so.) Tuesday, disabled person
, claiming âcoalition cutsâ would end all countrside access for disabled
people. Iâm looking forward to Wednesday, thereâs only the gay, lesbian &
transgenders left to have a go at us ! Unless the self detonating community
get the nod.

SadButMadLad December 14, 2010 at 22:28: If the ramblers were so concerned about their paths they would look after
them themselves. What do they expect, the paths to look after
themselves?

If ramblers were so concerned about the contryside and its destruction
they would stop rambling because thatâs whats causing the damage.

I speak as someone who likes a walk but doesnât expect the paths to
appear as if by magic. Somone has done a lot of work maintaining them. It
should only be fair that ramblers help maintain them rather than the tax
payer who doesnât use them. Ramblers are a minority group amongst the whole
population. As the mayor of Doncaster said about gay parades â âyou can have
your parade but donât expect the council to pay for themâ.

gladiolys December 14, 2010 at 08:12

The idyllic England can still be found even in London, if you know where to
look. No. Iâm not âavinâ a larfâ¦.

robbiethered December 14, 2010 at 06:44

Upon a more leisurely and considered reading,
Yes, I must frankly admit,
it is only those earthy and timeless Hobbit-folk around us that has thus far
prevented me and tâmissus from forsaking these Bent-Sceptered Isles. Maybe as
she says, I have more in common with Frodo Baggins as an educated rustic at
heart than any other character in fiction.

Excepting, Perhaps, the Good Ole Boss Nass.

What, You been to De Earth Peoples Of De Gungans? Now You See, Weâs a No
Like uh, da Naboo. Dey Not Know of Uâs un!

Babel 6 December 13, 2010 at 20:17

I did once absentmindedly jab a digit worryingly near to a raccoonâs
backsideâ¦ not quite the same thing though, Iâd wager!

Babel 6 December 13, 2010 at 20:04

I donât believe a word of it!

Anna Raccoon December 13, 2010 at 20:11: Have you tried reverse Babel6?

Engineer December 13, 2010 at 19:53

Yep â thereâs still plenty of Real England about, but it doesnât make a
fuss about it. Real England, despite the pillocks infesting Westminster,
Brussels and all the other dens of incomprehensible idiocy, just does what it
has always done in the face of adversity and Gets On With It. Sometimes with a
grimmace, sometimes with a smile, but always in the sure knowledge that
thereâs not much that a good mug of tea (or maybe a pint of something) and a
chinwag canât put into itâs proper perspective.

Welcome backâ¦.

robbiethered December 13, 2010 at 19:50

Yes, lovely and heart warming post.
(Including the mention of royal
poking anarchists.)

Would write more but a simples such comment will have to suffice, Iâm in
the middle of making my famous rabbit and wild mushroom stew.
Seriously.
(Well, itâs famous rewnd âere, onyways!)

Begorrah!

Ian R Thorpe December 13, 2010 at 19:29

Good post â but royal poking anarchists? We havenât had any of those since
Roddy Llewelin was slipping one to Princess Margaret on a regular basis.

woodsy42 December 13, 2010 at 18:44

A Black and Decker pneumatic drill! What an amazingly thoughtful present,
and I was just wondering what to get Mrs W42 for Christmas. Perhaps she could
lend it to me for those jobs around the house?
But most importantly I hope
you cheered up your friend.

Anna Raccoon December 13, 2010 at 18:48

woodsy,
Careful how you go lad â I was so thrilled with the Black and
Decker, I bought him a fetching black suspender belt and sheer stockings for
his birthday the following monthâ¦..make sure she knows your stocking size
before you invest in that pneumatic drill, I am told the stockings are
hopelessly too small.

Little Black Sambo December 15, 2010 at 16:54

Get her some WD40 to go with it.

lenko December 13, 2010 at 17:17

Annaâ¦ England will always be glad to offer its traditional still-there
cuisine, to you poor, gastronomically-denied, culturally-starved people
trapped in the savagery of La Belle France. From the humble but satisfying
bacon sarnie to the glories of rosbif, you should no longer be denied. How you
must be suffering! Welcome back.

PS: We want Calais back!

lenko December 13, 2010 at 17:19: PPS: Forgot to mention le poisson et chips, avec toute le vinegar et
salt.

Ben December 13, 2010 at 17:14

Thanks Anna, very inspiring and lovely. I need this kind of thing to revive
my hope that this nation still lives âin the catacombsâ as it were, ready to
spring up again.

Just one word of advice, if youâll bear with me: Please use a little
âinverted pyramidâ technique in your writing, so that we can find out quickly
what the piece is about and go down to as much detail as we feel able of have
time to cope with, in a recognised and structured way. I think probably most
of us donât have much time, and to have to wait to the end of a lengthy piece
to find out the punchline is not manageable to a busy parent of a family like
myself.

I want to read your blog, I really do, I discovered it only today with the
piece about the autistic lad and I love it, but I canât cope with the length
and ramblingness of it.

Anna Raccoon December 13, 2010 at 17:17

Ramble? Moi? As though I would!!!!!

The Nosey Mole December 14, 2010 at 02:44: Anna
I would just like to say I am delighted to see you back on the
blogosphere, I find your writing interesting, informing but most of all
entertaining.
Regards
Moley

Pericles December 13, 2010 at 19:36

Welcome, dear Ben !

What you must understand is that you have entered upon a library of many
and divers books : some small, concise, that can be devoured in
but a few minutes ; some heavy, leather-bound and illuminated, to
be savoured over a period that would do justice to a Georgian dinner.

Î Î

Item : to repair of keyboarde after Bro. Daniel drooled over
it whilst reading the procyonic missive of the day, 1s. 6Â¾d.

Laurent December 13, 2010 at 16:35

I wouldnât mind someone like you driving me around, showing me places &
people
Take care !

Woman on a Raft December 13, 2010 at 14:56

Royal poking anarchists

Punctuation malfunctionion or maybe not. Mind bleach! Mind Bleach!

Jeremy Poynton December 13, 2010 at 14:56

Ms. R. The South East is a hell hole. Come to the South West and we will do
you the best English you will ever have had.

Instance.

Local dry cured smoked streaky bacon
Local sage and red onion
sausages
Local eggs laid this morning
Local mushrooms picked this
morning
Local sourdough light rye to sit under it all.

Consume, and sir very still for some many minutes.

The nutter in Stockholm is apparently a grad in Sports Therapy from the
University of For Fuckâs Sake Bedfordshire. A âdegreeâ needed to know which
muscle to massage, and what exercises to prescribe. No wonder
the nutter
was pissed off with us.

Sighâ¦â¦â¦. at least he wasnât a Cambridge Undergrad studying what passes for
âHistoryâ these days, who didnât know the significance of the Cenotaph.

Caedmon’s Cat December 13, 2010 at 14:48

Despite all of the best efforts of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither
holy, Roman â nor an empire worthy of the name) to foist its
Frankish/Gallic/Visigothic/Ostrogothic/Viking/Moorish/Hunnish values upon us,
I am also pleased to announce that Northumbria is still Anglo-Saxon â and
forever shall remain.
Must dash â Caedmonâs come home with a haddock
vindaloo with pilao rice and parsnip bhajis.. pip pip!

JuliaM December 13, 2010 at 14:46