I dread people asking what being British really means
By Emily Ford |
August 6, 2012, Monday
|
Print Edition
Print Edition
ONE thing I've come to dread about living abroad is when people ask me what my home country is really like. "What is being British like, then?" they ask. "Is it all about queuing and afternoon teas? Have you met the Queen?"
I hate it when this happens, because I never know what to say. After months of studying other foreigners, I still don't have a good answer. I've reluctantly concluded that we're a sort of nondescript nation: not as loud as the Americans, not as stylish as the French, and according to my Chinese teacher Meimei, definitely not as clever as the Germans. When we have to be patriotic it always looks a bit awkward and over the top, like the Queen's jubilee, a sort of temporary hallucination involving flag-waving and royal tea towels.
"Maybe it's not such a bad thing," I think. "We know we're a nice country, we don't need to shout about it."
But now we have to put on a proper show, a truly British show for the rest of the world to see, and I'm nervous. "Ao yun hui (Olympic Games)!" our doorman says excitedly every time he sees me.
'Olympic Games!'
As the day of the opening ceremony approaches, I begin to feel as though I have invited the whole of China - a country which four years ago threw the party of the century - round for dinner. Only my house is a mess and I've forgotten how to cook.
"It's going to be a disaster," I think, Britishly. I find myself mocking the opening ceremony to anyone who'll listen, just to lower expectations. "You know, we don't have a lot of money right now," I say. "But the stadium's finished and I hear they've found more security guards."
Perhaps it's the nostalgia of being away from home, but as I watch the opening ceremony on Chinese television in the early hours of the morning, it has a strange effect on me.
As a lone choirboy begins to sing "Jerusalem," I feel a small tear begin to prick my eyes. By the time the national anthem comes on I am in floods, hostage to a baffling new sensation that I can only assume must be national pride.
"Yes!" I think, as my childhood parades before my eyes. "Mary Poppins! Tower Bridge! Dancing sheep! The health service!"
I learn to my surprise that Britain invented the Internet and ping-pong. Then in a stroke of genius, they send Paul McCartney along as the embarrassing dad to take us all home after the party. "Brilliant." I think. "Next time someone asks me what Britain's like, I can just show them the opening ceremony."
Afterward I am curious to see what my Chinese friends made of it. I consult my teacher Meimei and my language buddy Lulu. Both declare it to have been a huge success.
"Beikehanmu is really good looking." Meimei says. "I used to think he was a bit, you know, old, but he's actually really good looking."
"Who's Beikehanmu?" I ask, puzzled.
Meimei looks at me as if I'm really stupid. "You know, Dawei Beikehanmu (David Beckham). The footballer!"
Lulu won't believe it was actually the Queen in the James Bond video. She's discussed it with her office and they've agreed it couldn't be. "Ha ha," she says. "Don't be silly. Of course it wasn't the real queen."
Lulu's favorite bit was Mr Bean. "He's so funny," she says, doing an impression of Mr Bean rolling his eyes in time to "Chariots of Fire." "Such a typical English guy!"
After a thorough run-down, we all agree that London's opening ceremony was just as good as Beijing's only in a different way, when Meimei jumps up and starts punching the air. "China just got the first gold medal," she shouts. "Go China!"
I hate it when this happens, because I never know what to say. After months of studying other foreigners, I still don't have a good answer. I've reluctantly concluded that we're a sort of nondescript nation: not as loud as the Americans, not as stylish as the French, and according to my Chinese teacher Meimei, definitely not as clever as the Germans. When we have to be patriotic it always looks a bit awkward and over the top, like the Queen's jubilee, a sort of temporary hallucination involving flag-waving and royal tea towels.
"Maybe it's not such a bad thing," I think. "We know we're a nice country, we don't need to shout about it."
But now we have to put on a proper show, a truly British show for the rest of the world to see, and I'm nervous. "Ao yun hui (Olympic Games)!" our doorman says excitedly every time he sees me.
'Olympic Games!'
As the day of the opening ceremony approaches, I begin to feel as though I have invited the whole of China - a country which four years ago threw the party of the century - round for dinner. Only my house is a mess and I've forgotten how to cook.
"It's going to be a disaster," I think, Britishly. I find myself mocking the opening ceremony to anyone who'll listen, just to lower expectations. "You know, we don't have a lot of money right now," I say. "But the stadium's finished and I hear they've found more security guards."
Perhaps it's the nostalgia of being away from home, but as I watch the opening ceremony on Chinese television in the early hours of the morning, it has a strange effect on me.
As a lone choirboy begins to sing "Jerusalem," I feel a small tear begin to prick my eyes. By the time the national anthem comes on I am in floods, hostage to a baffling new sensation that I can only assume must be national pride.
"Yes!" I think, as my childhood parades before my eyes. "Mary Poppins! Tower Bridge! Dancing sheep! The health service!"
I learn to my surprise that Britain invented the Internet and ping-pong. Then in a stroke of genius, they send Paul McCartney along as the embarrassing dad to take us all home after the party. "Brilliant." I think. "Next time someone asks me what Britain's like, I can just show them the opening ceremony."
Afterward I am curious to see what my Chinese friends made of it. I consult my teacher Meimei and my language buddy Lulu. Both declare it to have been a huge success.
"Beikehanmu is really good looking." Meimei says. "I used to think he was a bit, you know, old, but he's actually really good looking."
"Who's Beikehanmu?" I ask, puzzled.
Meimei looks at me as if I'm really stupid. "You know, Dawei Beikehanmu (David Beckham). The footballer!"
Lulu won't believe it was actually the Queen in the James Bond video. She's discussed it with her office and they've agreed it couldn't be. "Ha ha," she says. "Don't be silly. Of course it wasn't the real queen."
Lulu's favorite bit was Mr Bean. "He's so funny," she says, doing an impression of Mr Bean rolling his eyes in time to "Chariots of Fire." "Such a typical English guy!"
After a thorough run-down, we all agree that London's opening ceremony was just as good as Beijing's only in a different way, when Meimei jumps up and starts punching the air. "China just got the first gold medal," she shouts. "Go China!"
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