NS August 6th, 2009

Dear Nameless, Soulless, Tesco PR Executive,

As a Tesco customer who regularly uses your online shopping service, I was very disappointed to recently discover that you have begun handing out the Daily Mail with every order delivered to a customer’s home. I’m assuming you have some kind of partnership with them as I noticed that there are ‘spend and save’ vouchers for your store in some editions of said newspaper as well.

That you have chosen to align your business with such a racist, homophobic, xenophobic and misogynist publication as the Daily Mail speaks volumes about your ethics or, at the very least, your company’s willingness to trample its ethics for the sake of PR tactics. Either way, I find it distasteful and disgraceful. The kind of vitriol and fear-mongering spewed forth by this rag on a daily basis is something that British businesses such as Tesco should be actively discouraging, not supporting by running promotions in its hate-riddled pages.

As a woman and an (perfectly legal and legitimate) immigrant, I am insulted that you think I would want such rubbish in my home. Just yesterday, along with my produce and tinned goods, I learned from its front page that the Daily Mail thinks teaching children about domestic violence is “silly” and a “waste.” The fact that 1 in 4 British women will experience domestic violence in her lifetime means that stories such as these, while perhaps merely sensationalist and annoying to some, are indeed very harmful as they contribute to a culture that places little value on the experiences and rights of those who were not lucky enough to be born male, white, straight and middle class in an English-speaking Western society.

Please can you clarify what the relationship is between Tesco and the Daily Mail and explain why you feel it appropriate to inundate your customers with irresponsible and utterly biased “journalism?”

Sincerely,

Noble Savage

• Britishisms , I Bitch Therefore I Am , Miscellaneous Missives
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NS April 14th, 2009

Things that stop me from becoming a citizen:

Things that make me think it would be quite nice to be a UK citizen:

So what do you think: get that citizenship or just keep coasting along as a permanent resident? Is the £700 and paperwork worth it?

• Britishisms , Expat Life , Funny Ha-Ha , Miscellaneous Missives
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NS March 4th, 2009

I had a call from the bank last Friday. It was the fraud department and they were wondering if perhaps my husband was in Ghana, trying to purchase items worth £79, £88 and £10 respectively. Seeing as TNH was safe and sound at his desk in Victoria and not anywhere remotely near Ghana, we mutually agreed that someone must’ve gotten hold of his card details and cloned it. Turns out it was done at a Sainsbury’s, of all places. Interesting…Of course, this meant putting a stop on his card and issuing a new one, which takes 5-10 business days. This was a bit of a pain because it meant loaning him my card on Monday so he could buy his monthly travel card and getting cash directly from the branch for myself.

Now, I hate banks at the best of times, particularly British banks, but standing in a queue with a baby who needs a nap and a toddler who is hopped up on sugar that you wouldn’t be surprised to hear she’d injected it, is not my idea of fun and particularly not when I ended up having to go back in the very next day (yesterday) because one of their cash machines ate my debit card with no explanation and just refused to give it back to me. At the second trip into the bank in 24 hours, I was told they had no idea why the machine had taken my card but that they couldn’t give it back to me and would have to – you guessed it – cancel it and order a replacement for me. Again, this takes 5-10 business days.

This brings us to the present. Here we sit, cardless. Debitless. Functionless. It was payday on Friday and I had some online shopping to do this week and now I can’t. I have to go to the (gasp!) ACTUAL SHOPS this weekend and physically obtain my purchases. To quote the Queen, we are not amused.

I had to go into the branch today for the third day running to get more cash and wanted to poke myself in the eye with a sharp stick by the end of it. The clerk wanted to see my card, first of all. Uhh, lady, I just explained to you that your stupid machine ate my card and my husband’s is now residing in Ghana somewhere and until you get your act together and get new cards sent to each of us, we have no plastic!

“Okay, fine,” she said. “I’ll just need to see some ID and a bank statement.”

I pulled out my driver’s license but didn’t have a bank statement on me (who would?) and asked what she needed it for.

“To get the account number,” she said.

Ah, you’re in luck, I told her. I have it memorized. I started to recite it and she got a panicked look in her eye.

“No, no, no! You can’t tell it to me, I have to see it on paper,” she hissed urgently.

Do you want me to write it down, then? Hand me a slip of paper.

“No, I mean I’m supposed to see the account number on some kind of official document. It’s a preventative measure.”

Oh, you mean to prevent my card from, say, ending up in Ghana, or in the jaws of a cash machine? Yeah, I think it’s a little too late for that. All that’s being prevented now is one of your customers getting her money and from being happy. So get a move on, sister!

She looked around her like she was in mortal danger and cased the joint suspiciously. Turning back to me in her swivel chair and with her nametag a little crooked, she leaned in so that I choked on her heavy perfume and whispered “Okay, go on then.” She looked exactly like my toddler does when she’s done something a bit naughty but that she’s incredibly pleased with herself for doing. I had to restain myself from saying “There’s a good girl!” and then giving her a sticker on a reward chart that I whipped up right there at the desk, with one of those pens-on-a-chain and a deposit slip.

After I left (finally) with my cash, I stopped by the store to get a few things I’d forgotten in the big load up a couple days before. As I approached the entrance I saw an armoured van employee emptying the cash machine — you know, a guy in a blue boiler suit and bulletproof, bash-proof helmet with a thick visor who collects the money from cash machines and busineses and transports it from one place to another, all while trying not to get beaten, carjacked or robbed. My first instinct was to race over and beg him to open the locked box and give me my card back but as I started to open my mouth, I thought better of approaching a man with thousands of pounds in his hands and his back turned to me. I don’t like getting Tasered on Wednesdays, if I can avoid it. Or going into a bank twice. Especially not going into a bank.

I think I’ll dust off the chequebook tonight.

• Britishisms , Funny Ha-Ha , I Bitch Therefore I Am
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NS March 2nd, 2009

I was recently asked to review a book written by a bloke (n. – ‘guy’) named Chris Rae. He’s written a guide for Americans visiting or moving to the UK, built largely around a British-to-American dictionary he’s been putting together online for some years now. Seeing as I have vast swathes of time on my hands and was looking for a way to fill my empty days, I relunctantly and begrudgingly agreed.

Actually, I felt pretty flattered to be asked and jumped at the chance to write a review of a book that a million other people hadn’t already read, but let’s not tell him that. We don’t want Mr. Bigshot Book Writer getting a head so big that it won’t fit through Borders’ sliding glass doors when he arrives for book signings up and down the land.

So anyway, I told him to send it on over and I’d give it a fair and honest write-up. Unbeknownst to Chris Rae, his fate now rests in my hands. He likely does not understand the magnitude of this undertaking and how what I say about his work could either make him or destroy him. My hordes and legions of followers cling onto every word I write, you see, and they will either summarily dismiss or wholeheartedly embrace the book based solely on my appraisal. With that in mind, dear readers, I give you the first official, shamelessly solicited book review here at Noble Savage with the understanding that I was not remunerated, monetarily or otherwise, for doing so. Obviously.

At only 115 pages (85 of which consist of the A-Z dictionary translations), The Septic’s Companion is not meant to be a comprehensive guide for tourists, by any means. It’s more of a cultural Cliff’s Notes on life in Britain and what differences an American can expect to observe when amongst our former colonial overlords.

The first thing I speculated about was the title; It didn’t strike me as particularly catchy and being called a Septic Tank (Yank) always feels a bit like being insulted. However, this illustrates a rather big cultural difference that Americans need to know about the Brits straight off the bat: their insults are often quite humourous and their humour can be rather insulting. While this takes some time and tenacity to get used to, I highly recommend learning to relax about it and appreciate British humour for its unique style, form and delivery. It really is an artform. The most important thing to learn is how to dish it out right back. This will either earn you enormous respect or cause your tormentor to shut his or her trap. Either way, you win. Protesting about how unfair, untrue or socially unacceptable it is will only get you five new nicknames, all of which will be much more derogatory than ‘Septic’.

The second thing I noticed about the book is the overall tone which is employed throughout. It is distinctly British: hilarious at times, dry as a mouthful of crackers after doing a bong hit, self-deprecating to a point approaching self-loathing and brutally honest, with just a whiff of superiority. Rae drops quite a few references to being a bit crap or only being in it for the money (as evidenced by the back cover) with his tongue planted firmly in cheek. I like it.

Overall, I thought the sections outlined were very good: concise, informative and funny. I especially liked the mini-chapters on the European Union, Eating Out, Driving and Drinking, which is, appropriately, the longest section in the book at 4 1/2 pages. There is more written about the subtle nuances and hard-and-fast rules of drinking than there is about the political geography, governance or languages of the UK. If you are from or live here, you will know why this is. If you are about to come to the UK or have just arrived, you will find out within the first 24 hours.

The dictionary is excellent, very detailed, and made me snort with laughter a few times. I even learned a few new words myself! I thought I’d heard them all before but some still sneak up on me every once in awhile. When I first moved here I had to be incredibly observant to absorb all these new terms and phrases or ask my husband to explain. This is why a guide such as The Septic’s Companion is so useful, particularly for stupid, lazy and fat Americans who want information at their fingertips immediately. Or, quite possibly, it is useful to those who come to the UK regularly, have expatriated here or are planning to immigrate. I could also see real Anglophiles and tourists desperate to look un-touristy (mainly students and those in their 20s) soaking up this info like sick on a sponge. That is to say, enthusiastically.

I have just a couple small criticisms, so bear with me. First, there is what I’m sure is a mistake in the Telling The Time section. It informs us that the Brits say “ten after three” but I’m fairly certain that Mr. Rae has officially been living in the States for too long now as I’ve only ever heard Americans say this. Most Brits say “ten past three.” I also noticed that there is a slight propensity to assume the readers are male and angle things towards them a bit, which is a little annoying but not a big deal in the grand scheme of things. I let it go when I saw on his website that Rae is buddies with the fantastic feminist and comic Kate Smurthwaite of Cruella-blog. He must be alright then, if she hasn’t eaten him alive. I suppose I must let him live as well. Lucky man.

My final verdict? A useful beginner’s guide to UK culture and slang with the added bonus of being an entertaining read that doesn’t take itself too seriously. In short, it’s British. And what’s not to love about that?

****

In addition to buying his book, check out Chris’s clever blog, called “America.” The drawings that accompany each post really add to the funny factor.

• Britishisms , Funny Ha-Ha , Reviews and Recommendations
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NS November 25th, 2008

I don’t know if it’s because it’s getting colder or because I’m getting older, but I’ve been quaffing hot drinks like they’re going out of style. Whereas I used to have one, maybe two cups of coffee or tea a day, I’m now up to four. I have to restrain myself from drinking five or six because I so easily could. Since I’m breastfeeding I’m not “supposed” to be drinking much caffeine but that’s one rule I bend a little. I’ll have two regular coffees in the morning and then switch to either tea, which has less caffeine, or decaf. And I don’t have the third cup until after lunch and the last just before bed. That’s how I justify it, anyway.

It’s a sad state of affairs, really. I used to think about relaxing with an alcoholic beverage or two after a hard day. Now, my first thoughts turn to tea when I’m stressed or bored or happy, or any other emotion that warrants a drink. One evening last week I had to write a note to myself to remember to finish off the last of the red wine before it went off. How terrifyingly un-Noble-Savage-like is that?! I wonder if it will wear off once TNB is a little older and I can have more than one drink again, or if I’m resigned to a life of hot water bottles, talk radio, down quilts and heat rings on my bedside table. Tucked up in bed at 9.30pm, doing my crossword and maybe a bit of knitting while tut-tutting at the immoral young people who call in to my favourite radio program, shouting downstairs to anyone who will listen: “Put the kettle on, love!”

I may have been made in America but I’m aging in England and its obviously making its mark on me.

*For my non-British readers perhaps not in the know, an explanation

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