Blimey!

Recently a friend told me that we, as Americans, secretly wish we were British. I can’t speak to any broad generalizations like that. I can only speak for myself. And I secretly wish I was British.

It’s hard to track down when this first began. I have vague recollections of seeing old Tom Baker Doctor Who serials on PBS as child, and much more vivid memories of watching Monty Python’s Flying Circus anytime it came on BBC America. I think the appeal of British culture comes down to the tiny differences. Watching TV that comes from “over the pond” is like a glimpse into a parallel universe filled with social tolerance, highbrow humor, and inexplicable turns of phrase. It’s like America with class.

Soon enough, I started drinking tea. I would catch myself slipping an extra “u” into words like “armor” or saying things like “Bob’s your uncle.” I was worried I would wake up one day with a full-fledged accent, and I would have to tell everyone no, I did not have a stroke; I just listened to too many BBC audio dramas.

This was not helped by the email I received several weeks ago telling me a story I wrote would be included in a British micro-fiction anthology called “Exposure”. Not available in America. This was as British as it gets. If I wanted to purchase extra copies, I would have to pay in pounds sterling.

When I was asked to provide a brief bio, my first impulse was to try to disguise myself. My first few attempts started out like, “Brian C. Baer was a lowly stable boy when he pulled Excalibur out of the stone…” or “When not traveling through space and time in his TARDIS, Brian C. Baer…” That’s when I realized that, despite all of my obsessions, I don’t have any idea what British people are actually like. I am the cultural equivalent of the drunken girl who throws herself at anyone with an accent.

I hung my head in shame and wrote, “Brian C. Baer lives in America.”