BRITAIN VERSUS AMERICA CONTINUES…

She Keeps Running From America But it Keeps Hunting Her Down

This time it’s the “Prom Culture”

Poor old British culture is being pursued incessantly by American culture and it’s becoming worrying.

For, little by little, America is inching forward. It is sprinkling its American-ness like fairy-dust all over Britain and her esteemed, historical culture. Dotting McDonalds Drive-Thru’s between thatch-roofed 10th Century Inns.

Once upon a time it was only Britain’s spelling of English words that was threatened by America, but now it’s so much more!

And the latest to taint the quaint old island is…Prom culture!

Yes, our sweet English maidens are now flapping around trying to buy the most beautiful dress to wear to the ball, never to be worn again, because that’s what you now have to do when you leave school.

Why?

Because America said so, of course!

Did we not have proms or any such party in “the olden days”?

Okay, I concede. Back in The Olden Days —or the nineties, the time when I was growing up and getting the hell out of school — we did have a posh, ticketed party laid on by the school. But it was neither called a “Prom” and nor did we “promenade” in fancy frocks to go there.

We wore a nice, smart outfit that we most certainly would be wearing on other occasions, rather than just the one. Because we’re British…and sensible…

And it was the least memorable of all of our end-of-school celebrations. In fact, I can only just recall getting on a boat on the River Thames for this hilariously overdone event that none of us knew how to play the part for.

After all — with the exception of the Royal Family, Brits are a loud-mouthed, ale-guzzling, crass bunch.

But we know how to PAAAARTEEEE!

And party we did! Mostly without the help of our school organising our parties for us.

In fact, the most memorable school-leaving celebrations were the low-key get-togethers that definitely didn’t involve posh frocks and high heels.

Quite the opposite.

Let me tell you about one such affair; the Picnic and Punt on the river that my (by now ex) form tutor, Carol, who had befriended all of us in her tutor group, organised.

Loud teens and fifty-something woman let loose on the river

The best thing about growing up in Oxford was getting to partake in the more “upper class” activities that the city boasted for its student population and tourists. One of these was punting on the river; getting to drift past many of the Oxford Colleges, the University Parks, and under the famous Magdalen Bridge.

Punting has to be as quaintly English and posh as you can get and some even dress the part with posh frocks and straw hats, sipping champagne and eating strawberries.

We didn’t!

Our form group was a tight-knit bunch and we had a lot of laughs together. I think Carol also had a particular fondness for us because she was going through a divorce during our final school year, and we kept her smiling through it. Hence, arranging this trip for us.

We rented three or four boats for the trip and we organised ourselves into the appropriate-sized groups. And off we set — a rabble of state-school-leaver eighteen-year-olds, and one woman in her fifties, let loose on the River Cherwell in Oxford.

You could fit up to 6 people in each boat and we would be assigned a punting pole and one paddle per boat. A great deal of trust went into the person in charge of the punting and we took turns to fill this role.

Now, you must understand that the typical punters that would be seen on the river had a little more dignity than us. In all probability, they were either tourist visitors from Europe or Japan, or they were students that had come from extremely posh public (privately-funded) schools, such as the famous and highly prestigious boys’ school, Eton College.

So, we stood out like sore thumbs on the river.

In addition, the banks of the river houses some of Oxford’s posh public schools, and we happened to be passing the playing fields of one of these schools — The Dragon School, a boys’ prep school — during their lunchtime break. Several kids gathered on the river bank to talk to us.

“What’s your name?”

“Where do you live?

“Are you at the university?”

The obnoxious little darlings shot us with fairly innocent questions to begin with.

My sweet friend, Arzu, was in charge of the punting at the time and was not overly confident. This crowd of posh kids with their quick-fire questioning was making her fumble all the more.

“Do you know how to punt?”

“Is this your first time? It looks like it is!”

“Careful not to get the pole stuck!”

Arzu was starting to crease up with laughter as she tried her best to ignore them. But that last taunt…that last taunt…

Too late!

The pole stuck fast in the bottom of the river bed.

Arzu held on and tried to pull it up as the boat continued moving with her feet on it.

And then, in a panicked moment, she leapt from the boat while still clutching the pole, and wrapped her body around it.

She started to slide and her feet became immersed in the river, the rest of her holding on for dear life!

“Oh you don’t want to do that!”

“There are 207 diseases in that river, and 53 of them are deadly!”

Thus came the taunting of the little shits from The Dragon School.

Posh little brats!

Arzu was half-squealing, half-laughing as her butt cheeks met with the river water. Her attempts to stay dry were clearly in vain.

Meanwhile, I grabbed the oar to guide the boat back to her, although I was laughing so hard that I struggled to make it happen quickly. And, before we could get the boat back there, she gave up and put one foot tentatively down to seek out the bottom of the river.

Suddenly, she stood right up out of the water, having made the discovery that it was only a couple of feet deep, and now had to hold onto the pole to steady herself, she was laughing so hard! As were we when we reached her in the boat. At which point, she pulled up the pole and dragged her soggy, silty self back aboard our ship.

“Bye-bye little shits!”

We waved goodbye to the Dragon School brats and went on our way to meet the others for a much deserved picnic.

That little event was so hilarious that it has remained etched in my mind ever since.

That was just one of the fun summer oh-so-English events that we shared in our summer of freedom.

Others included plenty of get-togethers in the various pubs that we frequented (another great treat about Oxford are its wonderful, old pubs), and garden parties. My dad even bought a croquet set for our very English garden parties, just to complete our attempts at playing posh, English grown-ups with all the hilarity of a bunch of crazy teenagers!

Back to the unmemorable posh party on the Thames

I literally had to rack my brains to try to remember if we really did have a school-leaver’s party in order for the memory of this affair to begin to trickle back. It’s still extremely vague.

Yes, of course I would have had fun and probably wobbled my way home afterwards.

But it was barely memorable.

And I guess that’s why the super-fancy dresses have been brought onboard, inspired by dearest American culture, and aptly named after its inspiration! To help to make the events more memorable for their participants.

But, you know what I think, American culture?

I think that taking your posh shoes off, using some of your God-given muscles to do something physically challenging, and sticking your feet in the mud, are the best ways to make real memories.

But hey, we’ll pretend to like your Prom Culture, just to keep you happy!

Author’s note: This was in response to KiKi Walter’s Quick Talk prompt “Running From America”, and inspired by an ongoing feud-in-jest between British English and American English with Michael Burg, MD (AKA Medium Michael Burg) and Gaurav Jain, with very useful input from Uvebruce. Read some of their stories below.

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And one more, of a different flavour, from yours truly: