Britishness is... gales, mud and Thai curry

WE’RE BRITISH, Innit, An Irreverent A-Z Of All Things British, by Iain Aitch, celebrates what makes us true Britons.

LIFE S A BREEZE Kelly and son William brave strong winds at Brighton beach LIFE'S A BREEZE: Kelly and son William brave strong winds at Brighton beach

It takes in everything from our love of allotments and bandstands to our fervent tea consumption and propensity to

apologise when other people are in the wrong.

Being a confirmed gossip and having a soft spot for dogs confirms my citizenship already but as a test to see just how patriotic I am, I chose six random entries from the book and indulged in a week of all things British.

R IS FOR RAMBLING

According to Iain Aitch, R is for everything from Readers’ Wives to Rude Vegetables. Luckily for me I opened the page on rambling: “A riot of kagouls, Thermos flasks and Ordnance Survey maps.” None of which made it into my handbag as I joined 17 retired men and women in a Surrey car park ahead of an eight-mile walk.

I had never rambled before but was concerned to see people in flip-flops when I pitched up in mud-caked boots. I was handed a pamphlet telling me about the group and its rules: coughing up for petrol money and not getting mud in other people’s vehicles being the two that most stuck out.

Having fun on Brighton Pier Having fun on Brighton Pier

The walk leader ushered me into his car and sped off on a journey which I spent apologising for the dried mud falling off my boots and lack of change to contribute to fuel. Very British.

At our destination all manner of serious-looking kit emerged from holdalls: boots, sticks, rucksacks. I clung on to my handbag (contents: lip gloss, phone, camera) and set off down a muddy footpath. Five miles in we stopped for a pub lunch, my Britishness going astray as I tucked into a plate of nachos but remaining intact as I knocked back a pint of bitter.

Future walks were discussed and a beer and toast breakfast ramble mooted. Fuelled by beer, we covered our last three miles and ended up back at our starting point. I was thanked for coming and asked to join them again.

Verdict: quaint and twee but lovely, charming and very British. I will definitely be returning.

L IS FOR THE LOCAL

Cited as an “important part of British life”, the local is truly an institution as well as a purveyor of that most quintessential of English tipples, pint of beer.

Accompanied by my friend Steve (whom I went to call for in torrential rain on my bicycle, which, I decided was Very British and probably took in two other entries: “Truculence” and “Blitz

Spirit”), we sought out a likely-looking hostelry.

As soon as we walked in, all eyes were on us. This could have been because we were soaked to the skin and leaving rivulets of water across the floor, or because we were “strangers”. I ordered a pint of bitter from an uninterested Australian and struggled to find a table at which to drink it.

Around us people ordered Thai green curry and chocolate fudge cake and custard washed down with bottled Belgian lager. A confusing mix all round. I ordered a second pint and a packet of cheese and onion crisps but by 10 we decided to call it a night.

British? Not very; more of an uncomfortable evening out in a room full of sportswear-clad “regulars” with eclectic culinary tastes.

M IS FOR MODEL VILLAGE

“A little bit of history that is forever England” says the front cover of the Bekonscot Model Village guidebook and “one of the finest” in the country, according to Iain Aitch.

I ask the manager what makes Bekonscot, in Buckinghamshire, so special. Why in the day of theme parks would a family want to schlep around a Lilliputian, Thirties-style Britain? Just because of that: it’s step-back-in-time Britishness, I’m told.

As I wander round, I can see why. I am struck by the sense of reverence people have for Bekonscot: there’s none of the pushing or running around found at other visitor attractions. No wailing children or raging mothers, just enthralled groups of people peering through tiny windows or leaning excitedly over bridges waiting for miniature trains to pass by.

Truly, madly British and altogether wonderful.

S IS FOR SEASIDE

With the book citing piers, deckchairs, pebbly beaches, B&Bs, beach huts and knotted handkerchiefs as good examples of Britishness, I decided to go down to Brighton for a day at the coast. Unfortunately it was blowing a very British gale, rendering the beach out of bounds beyond a quick totter along the pebbles.

As my skirt blew over my head in the style of a traditional saucy postcard, my five-year-old son and I struggled valiantly against the elements, taking in the pier and a souvenir shop before throwing in the towel and seeking solace in the Grand Hotel.

The restorative powers of an afternoon tea were a welcome respite from the wind whipping our faces and the sea-spray smarting our eyes.

Despite the weather and my son’s plaintive cries of “Where are the donkeys?” and “When can I build sandcastles?” it was a wonderful day. The terrible weather just made it all the more British.

F IS FOR FISH AND CHIPS

Being vegetarian, testing the claims of the fish and chip entry, “our national snack food... an affordable staple”, was always going to be a challenge, so it was with some trepidation that I ambled round to my local chippy to check it out.

To be fair, this particular chip shop bills itself as a fish and chip “restaurant” as well as a takeaway. The two, I’ve decided do not mix. Fish and chips are simply not restaurant fodder except perhaps at the seaside.

As an exercise in watching marital disharmony, false tooth removal and over-tired children going on the rampage with a pickled egg, it was a revelation. As dinner out, it didn’t work.

It was British all right, in a kind of embarrassing, should-I-really-be-doing-this sort of way. Next time I’ll eat my chips in the street, as nature intended.

A IS FOR AMATEURISM

To be honest, my book fell open on P for pantomime on my final day of Britishness but given it was August, pantos were thin on the ground, so I indulged in the next best thing (which also neatly covered the entry on “amateurism” too) by going to watch an amateur variety group rehearse.

For two hours I sat in a church hall and watched The Revelaires, a group of sprightly pensioners (and a 17-year-old boy) sing and dance their way through songs from the shows. Two minutes in I found myself humming along. After an hour I even wanted to join in.

Entirely British and irritatingly tempting; I want to join.

We’re British, Innit, An Irreverent A-Z Of All Things British, by Iain Aitch, is published tomorrow by Collins, priced £9.99. www.iainaitch.com

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