Evil Intents of the English Scholar

One of the closest friends of mine down here is a foreign citizen; he's a stranger here, just like me. I guess there IS a reason why we've become friends in the first place, and even for our being it for such a long time; as you should know, his name is Fowl Marker©. I wouldn't say he's "English", yet he was born in England, and of course he bears the genetic English standard.

This evening at my "English course for unemployed people" I've had my first "lesson in conversation" with a jolly good Londoner named Harry as a teacher; he promptly admitted -or, should I say, he bragged about- his weak point, that of course couldn't be anything else but drinking. Because that is the standard, actually the status of English people. That is their main drug, which i know and often used to name as "the Mother of all drugs". Mr. Harry speaks a great English, and he speaks it out loud and clear; and that is a clue, about being English, and proud of it, a behaviour that doesn't depend on having drunk something, but on the habit (or genetic mark) of drinking. That is a kind of a centrifugal behavior, opposite to the centripetal opiate behaviour, where the cannabinic one stands in the middle, and (now, to me) that is close to some sort of balance to which I'm very used to...

Strangely enough this very blogger, this anti-mechanical walker who derogatorily defines all of the drivers as "car people", has been able in the past century to get his driving license legally, after a regular series of driving lessons. Even though I already hated cars AND driving, I had to prove myself that I could do it. And I did it. I just had to swallow a couple of pints, before getting into that hideous, stinking, poisonous wheeled kettle that they used to call a car.

I've never driven one of those things ever since, but I had the freaking license.

The fact is that alcohol gives you a particular modification of your conscience, which is easily mistaken with courage; if one looks at most of the "heroic" actions and all the "brave" people in the past, one could actually believe that all of them were totally drunk.

This "looking brave" (that comes from feeling so) is what I'm calling here English Standard (I know, that's a good pun, too), and a brick -if not the cornerstone- of the genetic United Kingdom Rampart. As you may have noticed, I'm not particularly fond of it, except for our daily domestic gin&tonic; but I guess I could get the most from any kind of meeting, out of idyllic Potland, if I'd bend my elbow a little more. Especially if I must speak the language that I'm using mainly with myself, and in my dreams. And especially if I CAN.