And Boom Goes the Dynamite: Why I Hate Bonfire 'Night'

Warning:  What I say, I say in love and jest.  Get bent if you don't like it.

First and foremost, let me press this upon you:  Bonfire Night is NOT, contrary to its name, a single night.  It is a months-long nightmare for a hyperacusic like me.  Let me share my hell with you.

Me

So, you've seen Bridget Jones's Diary.  You know she went to Lewisham to report from the fire station on Bonfire Night and then slid down that fireman's pole.  But did you bother googling what Bonfire Night is?  No, because you're a lazy shit, am I right?  Oh but wait, you've also seen V for Vendetta, right?  Yeah.  And you think you're so cute and so clever and so British when you notice it's 5 November and you start chanting about the Gundpowder Plot.  (Newsflash:  Ain't nothin' cute, clever, or particularly British about that.  Hollywood gotcha, motherfucker.  So cut it out.)

America, you're ridiculous

Well guess what!  5 November/Guy Fawkes Day = Bonfire Night.  Except it's not always on 5 November.  The British are big into 'oh, this holiday's on a weekday?--let's shove it to a weekend and do something about it then'.  But there's no consistency since it's technically not a holiday.  So anybody can celebrate Bonfire Night aaaany fucking time they fucking please.

I've lived here for years and I've now realised Bonfire Night basically starts in September and goes through January.  Why?  Because you can buy massive bloody fireworks any time you want in this country and annoy the living piss out of your neighbours--it's way more fun in the darker month, I am left to conclude.  Where I'm from fireworks sales are extremely prohibitive.  They are only sold for a tiny window before 4 July and at that, the most powerful fireworks on sale are positively foetal compared to what my lovely British neighbours set off.

These geniuses not only don't know where they live ('basinstoke')
but they've also used the wrong aspect ratio

So, the folks in this video are seriously just dicking around with major explosives in their back yard(/garden).  At home.  With close neighbours.  But understand this--they're gonna do this every other week or so for months and months and so will about a quarter of every shitting neighbourhood in the country.  So, on any given autumn or winter night in Britain you probably won't be able to hear your television.  I know, poor me.  But I'm severely hyperacusic, so a single unexpected firework makes me feel like I'm dying.  My rage is medically justifiable.  (Also, if you have a pet, GOOD LUCK.  I have a cat.  With ears.  And claws.)

Britain, seriously--America loooooves explosives.  (Don't get me started.)  But we get it out of our system all at once in July.  Plus, what's so great about standing outside at night in the cold?  Y'all are obsessed with it.  Get it together, GB.  Anyone got earplug recommendations?

Warning:  What I say, I say in love and jest.  Get bent if you don't like it.

A Weally Weally Bwitish Way of Speaking

Warning:  What I say, I say in love and jest.  Get bent if you don't like it.

Let me say, right off the bat (AMERICA!), this post is in no way making fun of people who speak in the manner I am about to describe.  While I am lucky enough to have never spoken with a speech impediment (though, if you're British you may well feel that a western Kentucky accent is a HUGE speech impediment; piss off, if so), that doesn't mean I don't notice when other people speak in what is not considered a 'normal' or 'correct' way.  AND I'M JUST POINTING THAT OUT, ALL RIGHT?  Calm down.

Okay, so, here's what I've noticed:  the British are extremely prone to something in their speech called rhotacism.  More or less, that means one's R's come out as W's.  I'm not a linguistic expert, so get over it if you wanna tell me I'm wrong.  K?  I'M JUST HERE TO BE CURMUDGEONLY, dude.

Here, in a delicious nutshell (any time I can work in Benedict Cumberbatch, eh?), is what I'm talking about:

Jonathan Ross is probably the most famous person with rhotacism, from where I sit at least.  His twitter handle even cements his rhotacism-tastic nickname:  Wossy.  The R->W thing actually, in Wossy's case, creates a lot of hilarious moments.  He embraces it.

But . . . who else has such a speech quirk?  Well, WHO DOESN'T?  It's just such a freakishly common thing here.  WHY?  I honestly couldn't tell you.  But here's a fun little selection of people with rhotacism.  ENJOY!

I'll be honest, I have caught myself making fun of Lucy Worsley's speech.  That's beneath me.  But as an historian who does NOT respect her historical work . . . I couldn't help myself.  Sorry.  I'll be better in the future.  Pwomise.

There was a bit of a hoo-ha when Roy Hodgson was appointed because so many newspaper headlines made fun of his rhotacism.  To be honest, his isn't awfully noticeable (to me).  I think maybe he's worked to improve it.  No need though.  We're all just people, right?

To be fair, some Americans have rhotacism too.  Our most famous example is fictional though.  BOOM.  (And the only American I've ever known personally with rhotacism had it as a child, received speech therapy, and effectively got rid of it.)

I genuinely don't know why the British tend to get all Bwitish.  In fairness, it is a small minority of British people who do this.  So if you're British and reading this, don't get all uppity on me.  Also, I've noticed that rhotacism seems far more common in the southeast and in/around London.  Is that just me?  I'd say that the young uns in south and east London (where I do a lot of research) have a ridiculously high rate of rhotacism.  Just saying.

Okay, this post has not had nearly enough vitriol.  I'll remedy that next time with a hitlist of Things I Wish The British Didn't Do.  There are so many of these Things that this will likely be the first instalment of many.  I mean, I love you Britain but FUCK ME you get on my nerves sometimes.  

Bonus:  I can't leave this post without posting my favouwite example of rhotacism ever:  

Warning:  What I say, I say in love and jest.  Get bent if you don't like it.

How the British Enjoy Punishment: An Essay on the Horribleness of British Bathrooms

Warning:  What I say, I say in love and jest.  Get bent if you don't like it.

I'm so incensed by the 'horribleness of British bathrooms' that I feel the need blog/bitch about at some length.  For your reading convenience, I've broken it down into an enumerated list.  ENJOY.

1.  TWO TAPS IN EVERY SINK

If there's a bathroom sink anywhere on this island that has a single tap, I've yet to find it.  They all look something like this:

Gee, I get to choose between frostbite OR 2nd degree burns?  Maybe both:  one for each hand!  Spoiled for choice, I say.  Honestly, Britain.  Y U NO HAVE ONE TAP WITH ADJUSTABLE WATER TEMPERATURE?  You're penchant for self-inflicting pain is cute, except when I HAVE TO LIVE WITH IT.  

2.  PULL CORD LIGHTING

Here in Blighty, the law enforces a particular quirk when it comes to bathroom lighting:  the switch must be a pull cord.  Apparently the scaredy-cat British think it's dangerous to have a traditional light switch in a bathroom.  I reckon you gotta be trying pretty damn hard to electrocute yourself or otherwise be causing damage to make that a reality.  Truly.  What?  The British do know that they can put wiring inside walls and ceilings and such.  The wires need not be IN the bath/sink/toilet.  Just sayin'.

3.  NO ELECTRICAL PLUGS

Related to 2, the lily-livered Limeys have banned themselves from installing electrical plugs/outlets in bathrooms.  I understand why you might not want to put one under a showerhead or some such, but . . . there are other places in a bathroom, y'know.  To be fair, we ARE allowed a 'shaver socket' in a bathroom, which is the most useless thing on the planet:

Honestly, British readers, do any of you ever USE this?  And . . . why the hell are you making me dry my hair in my bedroom?  Cruel bastards.  Your nanny-state is normally doesn't bother me that much, but when it extends to where I poo . . . YOU'VE GONE TOO FAR.

4.  TOILETS DON'T FLUSH (VERY WELL)

I have an ENORMOUS privilege by living in a flat in which the toilet almost always flushes on the first try.  But I remember only two (JUST TWO) public toilets in all of my 2.5 years here where I didn't have to linger for a second, third, etc., flush just to make the blimmin' toilet paper disappear.  [I will continue using the term 'toilet paper'.  'Toilet roll' is just so horrible sounding coming from an American mouth.]  I'm sorry, but . . . toilet paper is manufactured specifically to be flushed easily, etc. etc.  And YET, the British somehow managed to foul that up.  Is the plumbing in the UK just old and temperamental?  I really don't understand it.  And I have more important things to do than linger in public toilets flushing and flushing and flushing just to avoid the embarrassment/shame of whomever uses the cubicle after me.

4.B  PUSH BUTTON FLUSHING

Look at this thing:

These things abound.  Can anyone explain to me how these work?  I get you push the button to flush.  But.  There are two; they are different sizes; you can press one or both.  I've experimented but can't tell a difference.  WHAT MIND GAMES ARE YOU PLAYING WITH ME BRITAIN?

*****

Well, there are more things to be annoyed by here, but I'm growing far too angry to continue writing this without throwing my laptop.  So, here is a list of honourable mentions (and I reserve the right to blog again at a later time about MORE horribleness inflicted on the world by British bathrooms):

• Lack of shower curtain(s)
• Lack of cabinetry 
• Slugs, spiders, and all sorts of unwanted fauna (and flora, for that matter)
• Electric showers (pictured below); I still have no idea how to work one

Okay, I have to stop typing.  Next time, I lament yet another very British type of speech impediment:  widespread rhotacism.  Bye for now.

Warning:  What I say, I say in love and jest.  Get bent if you don't like it.

6th, Sixth, S-I-X-T-H: England, ARE YOU LISTENING?

Warning:  What I say, I say in love and jest.  Get bent if you don't like it.
So, I promised in this edition of listen-to-an-American-bitch my blog that I'd tackle that thorny issue . . . correct the English when they can't properly speak their own language.  That's hella awkward, so let's get right to it.  

I first noticed this a while back when I was watching a BBC series on the history of British kings.  The presenter of the programme continuously referred to Henry VI (Henry the Sixth) as Henry the Sixh.  That's not a typo.  SIXH.  I thought, maybe this woman has a speech impediment.  She kept saying sixh.  Like, the -th sound is gone and there's just a bit of an aspirated H at the end of six.  Sixh.  What is that?

But lo, there was the presenter, interviewing someone who ALSO says SIXH.  They're not related; they're not from the same place; there's no reason they should both have the speech impediment.  

The Dr Janina Ramirez goes 'SIXH'; so does her friend

So, that was that and I forgot about it quickly enough.  Some months later, I overheard someone in a shop, from yet another part of England, using the adjective 'sixh'.  Except . . . she meant 'sixth'.  WHY, ENGLAND, WHYYYY?!

The more and more I paid attention to the way people talked, the more I realised everyone here says 'sixh' instead of 'sixth'.  Well, that's not strictly true.  I have heard a few interesting accidents that render it something more like 'sith' rather than 'sixh' or the actual word 'sixth'.

Now, let me point to that most English of English institutions:  the Oxford English Dictionary.  Here is what they say about this ordinal:  

s - i - x - th

IPA	Sounds like
s	s	as in see
ɪ	i	as in pit, hill
ks	x	as in oxen
θ	th	as in thin, bath

Okay, English-friends.  Take a moment to soak that in.  Take another moment to say 'sixth' out loud.  What have you said?  If you've not said as the bloody OED has said it . . . I got news for you.  YOU'RE SAYING IT WRONG. 

And if you think that's too formal of a parameter to be followed in casual conversation, look what the BBC says:  it's INCORRECT.  (To be fair, they render it as 'sikth', which is basically the same as what I'm arguing.)

Now, if someone wants to get fussy and tell me I'm too prescriptivist and that English is a language that's meant to be experimented with, etc etc, then you can fuck the fuck off as far as I'm concerned.  'Cause, if you've actually paid attention to the way I write you'd know I pay very little heed to the supposed rules of proper English.  BUT THERE IS NOT A QUESTION WHEN IT COMES TO HOW TO SAY 'SIXTH'.  Okay?  It's pretty straightforward.  Get on it, England, AND SORT THIS OUT.

Yeah?  

Yeah.

So, next time, I'll lament the pitiful state of British bathrooms.  Seriously, why do they suck so bad?  You people ran an empire but you can't make a bathroom worth a shit.  (SWIDT?)Warning:  What I say, I say in love and jest.  Get bent if you don't like it.

I Wool Always Love Ewe

Warning:  What I say, I say in love and jest.  Get bent if you don't like it.

Right, so I promised you a rant about yarn and you're gonna get one, slut puppy.

I'm a crocheter.  I fucking love to crochet.  If you're a knitter, piss off.  Kidding.  Solidarity, sisters and brothers of the fibre arts.  [Yeah, the British spell it 'fibre'.  Ew.]  My beloved, late grandmother taught me how when I was 8 and I've always felt like crocheting connected me to her, even after she died.  THEMS FEELS!

So, when I moved here in September 2011, I came armed only with two suitcases and a backpack.  Obviously, I had to be quite choosy about what I brought with me over the pond.  My mini case of crochet hooks made the cut.  (My grandmother had incidentally co-owned a crafts shop decades ago; when it went under she kept the entire stock of crochet hooks.  Hundreds.  I got them when she died; let's just say I'll never have to buy another crochet hook!)

My case looks a lot like this
(Incidentally, I brought my Golden Girls dvds, too.)

Unfortunately, I couldn't bring my massive stash of yarn with me from the States.  JUST TOO MUCH!  So, after a while of being in Britain, I realised yarn wasn't a readily available commodity.  I'd have to seek it out.  I asked around and someone said, 'try Hobbycraft'.  Oooh, 'sounds like Hobby Lobby; except hopefully less Bible-thumping', I thought, and off I went.  Two buses and two very lengthy walks later, I finally made it to Hobbycraft.  (I'll bitch about how hard it is to get around this island another day.)  I raced around, searching for yarn.  Where is it?  WHERE IS IT?  Upstairs, you say, Madam Sales Associate?  Upstairs I went.  THERE!  THERE IT IS!

It was the most disappointing moment of my life.  Or at least of that day.  I have no perspective.  There were just few measly shelves of shitty, shitty yarn.  Well, the British tend to call it 'wool' even if it contains no wool.  What's that about?

The yarns they had were SO EXPENSIVE, and so cheaply manufactured.  And not a recycled cotton to be found!  (This was, and is, my favourite type of yarn.)  I dug around in the tiny bins that day and walked away, nearly weeping, with three tiny skeins of hideous rose-pink 70% acrylic, 30% cotton blend.  It was the cottoniest thing I could get and I NEEDED my crocheting fix.  Oh, wait, did I forget to mention that I'm allergic to wool?  Like, wool wool?  BAH BAH BLACK SHEEP, STOP GIVING ME HIVES.

So, yeah, England.  You are such a disappointing place for a crocheter.  I miss my big chain craft shops where you can find ANYTHING.  I miss my tiny craft shops where you can get mega-deals.  (I've seen a couple of mum-and-pop [SHUT UP] craft shops here and they've all been mega-shit.  Sorry, but they are.)  I weep.  I weep.

If and when I'm Prime Ministress this will be the first thing I throw huge pots of money into.  Y'all need better yarn provisions.  I mean, YOU try putting an acrylic-cotton blended scarf around your neck and see if you don't get a rash.

Next time, I will analyse (i. e., COMPLAIN LOUDLY about) the British inability to pronounce the ordinal word 'sixth' correctly.

Warning:  What I say, I say in love and jest.  Get bent if you don't like it.

Introduction to my Observations

Warning:  What I say, I say in love and jest.  Get bent if you don't like it.

I remember reading O Henry's short stories when I was young(er) and impressionable(r) and thinking, 'wow, this guy:  he watches, he observes, he shows us ourselves in his words. . . .'  

This blog will be nothing like that.

Well, I do observe.  And I'll be doing that in my annoying, snarky way.  Welcome to Bodell-world, SUCKERS!

Now, here's the thing.  I moved to Britain on 15 September 2011.  Previous to that, I had lived a quarter century in the United States, primarily in Western Kentucky.

But now, I call the West Midlands home.  I guess.   I dunno.  I'm pretty peripatetic as it goes.  Got no roots, and all that.

Anyway, on 15 September 2011 I bought a phone.  Over the past two odd years I've jotted down notes about things I've seen on this bloody weird island in my phone.  I've recently acquired a new phone, so I gotta write this faeces* down right-stat-now or else risk losing its genius forever.

[*I employ British spellings.  I kind of have to; I'm a PhD student in History.  British history.  Kinda gotta do as the Romans do.  Though I have to say, why are they so scared of the letter 'z'?  They're so scared of it they can't even call it 'zee'--they call it 'zed'.  THESE GUYS!]

So, here's the first little nugget of weird Britishness for all you outsiders.  

The Rag-and-Bone Man

What is that you ask?  Well, we do have a sort of equivalent in America--the junkyard.  Except that's a stationary place.  The rag-and-bone man comes to you!  Except, here's how he comes to you:  by shouting some weird chanty chant (does anyone know what he's saying?) and squawking a loud horn while endlessly driving around your neighbourhood in a purpose-built truck (lorry?).  Have a look:

I saw one of these fellows on the first day I moved to Britain.  My landlord quickly pointed it out keen to play cultural interpreter to Outsiders.  

Yeah, so, that's about it.  It's just such a weird yet excruciatingly British occurrence.  Or at least it is to my eyes and ears.  Maybe they exist everywhere EXCEPT the bit of American where I lived.  If so, piss off.  I don't really care.  THIS IS STILL HILARIOUSLY ODD. 

Next time:  I complain about yarn.  Or what the British would (annoyingly) call 'wool'.

Warning:  What I say, I say in love and jest.  Get bent if you don't like it.

Another changing of the guard

Well, this is the third incarnation of this blog. I keep recycling this blog because I don't think it's necessary to have multiple blogs that center around travel.

The first, of course, was Cornell Bodell and it still bears that name in the URL. It chronicled some of my time in Ithaca (and upstate), New York. It petered out fairly quickly.

The second was Bodell and Feist in Perú. It did just what the tin said; it chronicled our trip (belated honeymoon) to Perú. That also spectacularly fell by the wayside as I failed to write anything, really, about our trip. But I did post some lovely videos and such.

Anyway, THIS time. It's for real. Or at least, I won't set my sights very high. At all.

We're moving to England! Yeah, that's right, I said moving. I got myself a scholarship. I will be attending the University of Warwick in Coventry for 2011-2012. In case you're not sure where that is, here's a map:

My sweet, handsome, and plain ol' awesome husband will be joining me. He's looking for a job. So if you know of any work for a software developer in or around Coventry, let us know! He is really good at what he does.

Anyway, the process of moving to the UK is pretty exhausting. It has been my full-time job for some time now. It is particularly gruelling as I've been in charge of moving not one person, but two. Mr. Spouse works so much that I've been doing 99% of everything required. Well, at any rate, maybe I'll blog about the process at some point because I've found the information online to be lacking/confusing/out-of-date!

But for now, I bid a fond farewell. I'm sure you'll be hearing from us. Eventually. Just don't hold that breath.

Cheers!