Piccadilly Jones Strikes Back
We stumbled across Dilly, who was nursing a hangover with a strong coffee, in a London café. Despite his previous night's drinking binge, his rant about the British amused us, and we engaged him immediately. We thought we needed an antidote to the high culture elsewhere on the site. Read on, and you decide.
Hi, I guess I should introduce myself. Piccadilly Jones, Dilly to you my dear reader. Unusual name, yep! I chose it myself, it's kind of Yankee Doodle Dandy, wouldn't you say? I think so. Well that's me. I'm an American living the high life in Europe, oh yes, but at the moment, well, times are hard, no mun no fun, as my pop says. Enough of my blues, you might say my bad luck is your good fortune. Journalism calls me. Any case, I wouldn't want the folks back home to know what I'm up to, would I? Hence, my nom de plume. Nudge is as good as a wink as the Brits are stupidly likely to say.
I prefer straight talking but the Brits they do skirt around an issue. You won't get that from me, straight talk about those Limeys, about all their funny ways. That's what I propose to give you, my Russkie friends. Having lived amongst the Brits for some time now, I do find them a strange lot. This country is not like our homelands it's a small and overcrowded island. Back home, I can walk for miles and not see another person. Here you can disappear into the remotest region and still hear the hum of traffic. Wilderness!
Dam it! Despite this I do like the Brits. They are an eccentric lot full of history. You would think they invented time itself. Hey, they did. Yep, Greenwich Mean Time, all time is measured from a line the British drew. Not just history, they've got style, not well-knock-them-dead style like we Americans. No, they have cool understatement. Who but the Brits would turn a disused power station into an art gallery? Who? Who but the Brits would think an unmade bed is art? My garbage can is art to these people. They go all dewy-eyed about a bus without a door. This is truly a strange nation.
And another thing, the cops are unarmed. Yes, they go into battle with the hoodlums without guns. Man! Can you believe that? The gangsters are armed. In fact, there was a shoot out just in the High Street less than a mile from my house. Was it Kurds or Turks or both? Heroin, I think? That's another story, London is another story. Hey, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm here, Piccadilly Jones, to let you know, how it amongst these Limeys. I've seen things, heard them say things that would make your Russkies look to heaven and contemplate your soul. It is not all high tea and warm beer, I can tell you. Dilly gives it to you straight. Watch this space. Here is a big ciao to you all for now.
Dilly Picadilly, August 2003
Editors' note: In future articles, Dilly will provide his acerbic views on the British at work and play, on holiday and at home and, of course, down the pub. Despite his grizzled state Dilly is no dimwit, he almost has a degree in English Literature, his dissertation on the contemporary British novel is "about" to be written, only 3 years overdue!
|Copyright ╘ 2003 by Piccadilly Jones|
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