TO Americans, Britain is Buckingham Palace, Stonehenge and Hogwarts. To maintain the illusion they should avoid these locations:
Any supermarket
Our supermarkets are neither Harrods nor the village shops of wartime dramas. The British shopping experience consists of industrial quantities of frozen food in trolleys, with a good smattering of rough families in Adidas buying microwave oddities and vodka. Groceries aren’t packed in paper bags so they’ll get stung for a 30p Bag for Life, while the pensioner behind tuts because they’re friendly to the cashier and were late joining WW2.
Wetherspoons at last orders
At the best of times it’s not a cosy pub with a raging fire, darts and a dog to pet. Rustic ploughman’s lunches would be an unwelcome distraction for the red-nosed 7am regulars. But kicking out time is when the violence begins. On the upside Spoons sells shit beer to make Americans feel slightly at home, but tourists seeking an interactive art exhibition can witness a Hieronymus Bosch painting come to life at 11.20pm at The Capitol in Forest Hill.
The away end at the footy
Americans will quickly realise this is not the sporting experience they’re used to. Here we have no national anthems sung by beloved R&B stars. No lush green outfield of a major league baseball ballpark. No, this is lower tier football. A nil-nil draw on a mashed-up pitch at Leyton Orient. Here we don’t celebrate our athletes. We call them wankers. It’s normal to threaten to kill your own team’s 19-year-old winger if he missed a sitter in the 95th minute.
The British seaside
Nothing about our shitty seaside towns is quaint. It’s raining and the seagulls are in attack formation, so shelter in arcades and pretend to enjoy a 2p-shoving machine and a cacophony of random noise. Then they can get fish and chips that are surprisingly shite given they’re the town’s speciality and return to their hire car which has been clamped in a dodgy ‘£3 all day’ car park.
Catching a train
Visions of the Flying Scotsman are mistaken. Coastal trains do not scenically snake their way through dales. 90 per cent of services are two-carriage rattlers with no compartments, no dining carriage with waiters, and no commuters in bowler hats with briefcases. Tracksuit bottoms and ankle tags, maybe. Oh and your journey costs £300, which is a little bit like the Orient Express at least.