Fear And Loathing In Basingstoke

BASINGSTOKE, England -- It turned out that in my three days in England, I didn't see much outside of the inside of a conference room at the Motorola office here.

But, with a walk around town and a trip to a proper English pub, I did manage to get a healthy dose of local flavor.

What really struck me is how incredibly polite and cheerful everyone is. They'll gladly stop what they're doing to answer any question; they call you "brilliant" for any little thing you do well, even something as simple as having your credit card ready at the hotel check-in.

At first it was flattering, especially the “brilliant” part. Then, it quickly grew stale, especially the “brilliant” part. Not because it was cloying (I was OK with that) but because it made me feel too much pressure to act the same. We all know that at some point I'm going to revert to my true self and be a total -- well, let’s just say "American," although I actually had another a-word in mind -- and such a display would be greatly maginified in this company.

Perhaps the worst part of the incessant pleasantry was that everyone is far too nice to tell everyone else how dreadfully awful their food is. It's hard to understand why it's so bad; the English have the same basic ingredients as us but seem to have been extremely innovative in completely fucking them up. No amount of honey is going to save a pudding made of rice, people. “Back bacon” is sub-ham, for crying out loud. And everything is slathered in this mysterious white goop that I suppose more than anything resembles mayonnaise, but brother, it ain't mayonnaise. Or if it is, everyone's too polite to tell everyone else that they appear to have spilled a giant vat of cream of tartar in their mayo.

On the plus side, though, at the prices they charge for somewhat modest-size portions, you can really drop quite a number of pounds in no time. (Sorry, little British humor there. Very little, in fact.)

All kidding aside, in many ways England is much like the U.S., or at least what the U.S. would be like if everyone spoke with a mouth full of molasses and we measured our currency in backwards question marks. There are just minor differences -- the pubs have no stools at the bar itself; if you're not at a table you stand and drink your pint. The hotel room clock was on the TV instead of the radio; for the first two days I hadn't the foggiest what time it was.

Speaking of foggy, I was struck that the weather wasn't. Despite several dire reports of rain and fog and general dreariness at all times in Britain, throughout my stay the temperature was balmy and the sunshine was -- well, for lack of a better word, brilliant. I even teased some of the local birds that the myth of the famously bad weather is just a ruse to keep England for the English: “Oh, don’t bother coming here today, love. It’s terribly rainy. We couldn’t have you visiting on such a nasty day. Right, go on back home to the States, then.”

All things considered, I think it was a win that I lasted three whole days in England without once supergluing myself to the prime minister. Next stop on Kevin's Motorola World Tour is Singapore, where I'm actually sitting as I hit publish. (I wrote some of this in England and most of it on a plane high above several countries that end in "-stan".) I'll be here a week and hope to post a couple times, along with some decent pictures, assuming of course that I see more than the inside of a conference room on this leg.

An American View Of This Curiosity Known As Cricket

Walking through the town park on a typically glorious British evening, I caught a glimpse of one of those minor differences between the U.S. and the rest of the English-speaking world: the game of cricket. It was being played by four young children, but as it was my first first-hand experience with the game, I was understandably interested to see how it transpired at any level.

Apparently the way this works is, when the batsman makes contact with the ball, no matter what else is happening, he frantically runs back and forth between the little girl playing bowler and the little girl manning the other wicket. Not even in a circle, mind you -- just back and forth. So it's like an even more pointless version of baseball, at least until they all hit puberty.