Across the Pond

by Mark Bastable

In these islands from which the Pilgrims set sail, there abide certain journalists who forge a lucrative career from no more than making gentle fun of the Americans. And I am using the word 'gentle' here in its very narrow sense of 'violent'. These commentators take delight in mocking the citizens of the fifty States. They deride superciliously. They sneer and they cavil. And all for twenty pounds per column inch.

I am not one of those careerist scorn-pourers. I have many American friends,

and I spend a lot of time at dinner parties defending the Land of the Free against the barbs and hoots of the less-charitable sort of British social commentator. "Ferchrissakes," I point out, "there are three hundred and fifty million Yanks between Ellis Island and the Golden Gate. They can't *all* be Roseanne Barr."

Despite the shouted derision of my fellows, I list the enduring and influential icons of your nation. Philip Roth. Jesse Owens. George Gershwin. Chuck Jones. Buster Keaton. The Silver Surfer. (No - I'm not being facetious. I'd take any of them in front of Erica Jong or Henry Kissinger.) Standing my ground, I marvel in admiring tones that a country could be founded on the precepts that are defined in a paragraph beginning, "We hold these truths to be self-evident..."

There are times, though, when you make it tough for me. Some educationalist

in North Carolina takes up arms against the harmlessly mischievous Harry Potter books ("...pure evuhl..." apparently). Or McDonalds gets sued by a lady who wasn't expecting the coffee to be hot. Or you name an airport after Ronald Reagan. When anecdotes such as these are raised over the port and cheddar, it's difficult for me, the measured Yankophile, to make myself heard over the guffawing and spluttering and the clatter of my hyperventilating compatriots sliding helplessly beneath the table.

Of course, we Britons carry a facile stereotype of you, just as you carry one that is supposed to represent us. I mean, I live in London but I swear to God I have never in my life, when taking my leave from an acquaintance, said 'Toodle- pip', 'Cheerio' or 'Parting is such sweet sorrow'. Nor, even in my cups, have I performed any dance that involves hooking my thumbs into my lapels and kicking my feet like a stabbed frog. And I don't drink warm, flat ale, either. Well, not unless I'm clean out of vermouth.

By the same token, I should imagine that, as you read this piece, you are not wearing a loud check jacket, driving an eighty-foot pale blue Pontiac or exclaiming 'Gee willikins!' at the end of every sentence. Moreover, I don't suppose you're called Hiram or Lindy-Sue. Though please accept my deepest condolences if you are.

So - here's the deal. I will continue to protect your interests in this Sceptred Isle. I shall pursue the line that not all Americans are born with a camera like a Sherman tank slung around their neck. I'll hold fast to the argument that you don't all consider Garth Brooks the apex of musical genius. I'll decry the empirical theory that none of you are allowed into Florida unless you are of such a girth that you generate a perceptible gravitational field.

And in return, I would ask only one small thing. Please, when you call me on the telephone, and I ask if I might call you back because I'm in the middle of my dinner, please, please, don't harrumph knowingly and say, "Ah - *fish'n'chips*..."

Will you do that for me? Will you? Cheers - Gawd bless yer, Mary Poppins.

Mark Bastable is a regular contributor to the British edition of Esquire, and also writes for TV. His first novel, ICEBOX, will be published in May this year. He would love to hear from you. E mail him at mbastable@hotmail.com and let him know what you think.