A London bbq

Oh, Britons are so weird!

Their classy and composed speaking, their messy and uneducated eating, their stone cold behaviour and aggressively drunk manners along with their unstable position in relationships – distant, indifferent, uninterested. Sometimes you wonder about what they feel like, if they feel something; how they handle their daily life, their BBC, their afternoon tea, and that thing they call ‘latte(y)’.

LATTE(y)???
Yeah, apparently they’ve discovered some evolution of cappuccino for us still unknown.

Speaking of which, our friends threw a bbq a couple of days ago to celebrate a mate’s bday.
With the rare fantastic weather being the perfect background – steaks, burgers, sausages and much more flipping on the grill, diffusing a drooling flavour that accompanied the entertaining tunes played through the Bluetooth speaker – 30ish people were swallowing cans of beer like they were nuts.
And sure thing, they were really nuts!

Among the number of countries that showed up on that day, I can recall Spain, Brazil, Austria, Germany, Peru, Slovakia, Italy and, well well well, England. Yes, one of the sophisticated Britons had honoured us with his presence. And whether it was for the alcohol making them sociable or the folks there just being naturally friendly, all went along with each other – judging by the loud Spanish-blasted laughter and the Italians-led group dancing.

You know London itself is practically a huge bbq – a place where different types of meats are cooked on the same irons creating a unique taste.

With a closer look though, I realised that we strangers were the ones who were grouping up per country/language, setting the others aside. The English dude instead was the only one who was ping-ponging from group to group to socialise with everybody.

Wait a minute.
We often talk about Brexit, about being left apart from a number of Britons who are segregating us for being immigrants. Whereas, sometimes I feel like it’s us who are exiting them – taking ownership of a space that doesn’t belong to us and we should appreciate more, and not being excluding individuals who are giving us the opportunity to remain.

So while I was totally zoned out having this random thought, I turned towards him and he was sitting there choking himself with a stripe of steak he hadn’t cut.

“Oh, dude, I can’t take you anywhere.”

Jim
The Britalian Post

The apology

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

If you’ve ever been in the UK, you’ve heard this word innumerable times.

Every time people do something, say, inappropriate – like unintentionally bumping into someone while walking, asking to quickly move aside, opening a door when one is coming through, doesn’t matter what it is – the word ‘Sorry’ will be always echoing sharp.

It must be a sort of a local habit type of thing, that kind of politeness that mainly expresses fake and uninterested platitudes rather than truly kind intentions. That is, people don’t really mean it. It will always be a mean ploy, a shitty apology to veil a repellent so-what attitude. It’s a lie!

But then though, you figure it’s not a cultural thing at all; and it should be clear by now that I’m not referring to Britons or their manners. As all people just act alike. All people can build a rather good apology to beautify their lies – the truths they seek to convince themselves with in the first place.

A lie.
She who manically dancing and partying for her birthday – her infinite beauty that hits so damn hard on everybody. The night is feisty, and so is she. Given so, she keeps quaffing alcohol rashly, sticking her deadly lips deep in bottle tops – just to feel happy, to kill that loneliness, that emptiness somebody dug in her. To feel like feeling nothing, to stiffen those muscles that cause emotional pain: love.
She gets lost in all that, she lets herself go on the dancefloor, she abandons her cause the same way it abandoned her. She embraces that positive vibe and goes down pretty hard. 

She rubs against many, and then against him – modelling her body on his shapes, adapting her curves to his lust. And he doesn’t miss the chance; he knows it’s the right time to take advantage of her.

She turns, they kiss – arousal, she feels it.

Everybody though turns the other way. Nobody wants to watch. Nobody wants to be carrying the burden of what they see happening. Nobody wants to have to lie.

But then though, as soon as she regains control, she starts draining alcohol through her thick tears. She runs away – she knows that it was a mistake. She dashes into her friend’s arms. Shuttered. Crying. 

Now she has to lie. Quickly.

She gains compassion. Empathy.
“Poor little thing. She only wanted to forget him, to go over and start over. She was just in pain. She didn’t mean to let herself go. She was just in love.” 

And she with a trembling voice, “It’s because I love him and he just rejects me! It’s his fault damn it! He made me want to do it. He dragged me into that. I didn’t mean to… Sorry! Oh, I’m sorry!”

You know. Every time people do something, say, inappropriate, the word Sorry will be always echoing sharp.

Bitch.

Jim
The Britalian Post

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