Anglo File

Beyonce has Sasha Fierce; Bruce Banner, The Hulk. I have Ermintrude Devonsby-McKibbinsworth. I have a deep-seated desire to be British, probably stemming from a steady childhood diet of Benny Hill, Monty Python, and Masterpiece Theater that played in heavy rotation in my household.

Everything sounds so much more dignified when you speak the Queen’s. If I’m peckish, I’ll enjoy pint and perhaps a dish with rocket. If I’m knackered, I’ll have a bit of a lie-in. Even near-disaster is adorable, I’m almost chuffed to come a-cropper. Hugh Grant isn’t a pervert, he’s a just a prat.

I’d prefer to go to the loo or sit on my bum; chivvy along eating crisps. If I think an idea is crap, I just say, “Hmmm” or “Interesting.” I can ring your mobile and go for a nosh up at the pub for a few quid.

I can whinge instead of whine, ban the letter zed, consider words like “data” and “team” to be plural nouns, not the collective singular; develop an abiding love of all things clotted, and take my holiday–a fortnight at the sea.

I have a few things going for me already: I love the Beautiful Game, and I find the British version of “The Office” far funnier than the American version.I’ll just revert back to Barbara for a few things: dentistry and the Frito Pie.

 

 

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