Another expat Brit recently turned me on to Wikipedia’s List of British words not widely used in the USA. Now, other than perhaps queueing, there’s very little more likely to thrill me on a rainy day than a good, solid list with plenty of references and trivia, and I’ve spent the last couple of days devouring the whole thing.

There’s a handful of words in the list I hardly even recognise, such as “French letter” for a condom, or “jam sandwich” for a police car – although if it was speeding along I would be much more likely to use blues & twos than the USA’s awkward ‘lights & sirens’ or ‘code’. What is more surprising, however, is the sheer volume of words that I use on at least a weekly basis which have made it into this list and which I’ve recently ascertained a good portion of my American friends have no definition for. Perhaps this, rather than my Cardiff-English accent, explains the blank looks and non-sequitirs I get in response from them from time to time.

I’ve educated some closer friends on knackered and jumper (in the US, a sleeveless dress), and whilst other entries such as launderette and [five dollar] note sound a bit off, they’re close enough to be understood, but there are still a few which I had no idea are utterly baffling to folks over here. I found it amazing that strop is nearly unknown and that I would be completely incoherent were I to say that someone mincing around was a bit camp. Let’s examine a few more though:

If, feeling a bit peckish I put some petrol in my motor and popped off for a pukka hot pasty, no-one would think me a plonker, but things might go a bit pear-shaped if I asked for some Spotted Dick – they might think I was a bit of a ponce (not to be confused with a nonce). If I then suggested some toad in the hole, they’d probably think I was just another pisshead out on the razz and chuck me out into the street arse over tit.

The roads, though, can be a curious affair. If, just past the motorway, the flyover, or the dual carriageway you were to be waiting on the pavement under the Belisha beacons at a Zebra crossing, then Americans would think you were talking codswallop when you mentioned cats-eyes, sleeping policemen or suggested that, because of the roundabout, perhaps it would have been better to take the subway to cross the tarmac instead.

The bedroom could be an infinitely embarrassing source of confusion too, given the British predilection for social-awkwardness and the number of sexually-themed words appearing in our fine list. On the plus side (questions of chivalry aside), a Page 3 quality bird probably wouldn’t have the nous be upset if you called her a slag or a bint but, she might think you a bit twee if you asked her for a snog or tried to get her kit off. My mother reads this, so I won’t avail myself of the rest of the sexual entries, but I will just let my American friends know that blower, cack-handed and suck it and see wouldn’t have made it into this paragraph, whereas copping off and topping are indeed precursors to rogering some totty.

Honestly, I find it amazing I’ve ever managed to have a conversation over here.

Xx

One of the highlights of any trip back to Cardiff is listening to my Mamgu (grandmother) speak. A consummate storyteller, with over 80 years to perfect her art and countless exotic adventures throughout her life, it’s always a pleasure simply to listen, and it’s rare that I leave without knowing more than I did when I arrived. The story locations vary from diplomatic trips to Russia and beauty salons in Paris to the real old Cardiff, but the setting remains constant – her tasteful Art Deco living room, with light jazz in the background and endlessly flowing champagne presented to her by the innumerable friends and students she’s accumulated and enthused over the years.

If there’s no good champagne left in the fridge dear, then there’s always some nicely chilled out in the garden

Putting the thrilling and exotic tales aside though, my very favourite stories are those she tells about Cardiff as it was way back when she was growing up, and of her Uncle Boyo Driscoll, a world famous boxer who was also a perfect gentleman, and who once drank champagne from the Belle of New York’s slipper when he was fighting over here. I’ve never quite worked out exactly who the Belle of New York was (or, for that matter, why one would drink from her slipper), but an 1897 musical comedy on Broadway bears the same name and is in roughly the right period.

Uncle Boyo grew up dirt poor in the Irish neighbourhood of Cardiff, Newtown – that part of our family having arrived unexpectedly in Cardiff docks after giving all their money to a merchant who promised to ship them from the famine-struck island to the land of opportunity and wonder, docking at New York City. Well, Boyo made it there eventually as a fighter, and I’m here now, and I can only be grateful to that duplicitous entrepreneur for the childhood in Wales his mischief granted me. This was apparently a common trade, and an Irish priest would wait at the docks to greet the Irish immigrants who insisted that they were just changing boats for a steamer to New York, explain what had happened and guide them down to old Newtown.

There were shops, pubs (five in one street alone in the early years) and two churches – the Roman Catholic St Pauls’s which was permanently full and dominated local life almost as much as the drink did and the Welsh All Saints which scratched a congregation from somewhere, just. There was smoke and unsurfaced streets, steam and roofs which leaked, the roar of the steel works and the clank and clatter of a thousand passing trains. Newtown was never silent. you could always hear your neighbour breathing. There were tiny back yards made from uneven flag and rough grass. There were no trees. Not one.
~ Real Cardiff

As the fantastic article about old Newtown goes on to say, there was only one man more respected for his fighting prowess back then than Boyo Driscoll, and that was ‘Peerless’ Jim Driscoll, Featherweight Champion of the World. When he died in 1925, over 100,000 people lined the streets for his funeral cortege. The statue below stands near where Newtown once was, an area now brimming with trendy new developments. My Mamgu tells that when Boyo died, the doctor performing his autopsy said he’d never seen or imagined such a broken and fragmented body, and that Boyo must have spent his years in absolute agony after all his time in the ring. He did indeed, she tells, but a strong Cardiff lad, he would never complain about it. The eternal glory these men won with their fists came at a harsh price.

My very favourite story about these legends in my lineage, however, comes not from my Mamgu, but from the various online research I did into their careers. In 1910, Peerless Jim fought Abe Attell in New York City for the title of Undisputed Featherweight Champion of the World, but despite dominating the fight and winning by decision, under the old rules he could not take the belt without a knockout. A rematch was scheduled to decide the matter, but Peerless Jim, an honourable gentleman above all else, had made a prior commitment to box in an exhibition match back in Cardiff in aid of the orphans at St. Nazareth House, and would never break his word.

The most exciting breakthrough in my research came about when a friend with a subscription to the New York Times mentioned that this venerable paper had made available to their customers archives stretching back to 1851. At first, I only found a handful of articles about Boyo, and none about Peerless Jim, until I discovered quite by chance that back in those days, ‘Jim’ was actually quite an uncommon abbreviation for James, and that ‘Jem’ was much more common. A new search for Jem Driscoll yielded many results, and I eagerly sent these back to my Mamgu for her pleasure, and began reading them myself.

I’ve uploaded some of the old articles for your browsing pleasure, and whilst it’s thrilling to read the round-by-round summaries of these fights from the turn of the century, some of the text around the edges proves equally enthralling.

A petition for divorce was filed here to-day by Edward (“Rube”) Waddell, the baseball pitcher. The document charges that Mrs. Waddell showed a “violent and ungovernable temper” at times, and also “that on one occasion, when plaintiff threatened to leave defendant on account of her association with persons distasteful to the plaintiff…defendant caused plaintiff to be attacked by a pair of vicious dogs and seriously wounded and lacerated.

It’s further interesting to note the real strength of the Irish community in Cardiff’s Newtown. Despite being born there, both Boyo and Peerless Jim are often described in the papers as Irish (or occasionally English, which no doubt left some editors with a black eye once the boxers noticed).

I’m very proud to have both of these men in my past, and whilst I doubt I’ll ever live up to their physical discipline or iron-cast codes of morality, I still see them as role models from afar to aspire to.

Xx

This Christmas, rather than heading to New Jersey to spend Christmas with the wonderful family that took me in for the last two years, I headed back to Cardiff to be with the family & friends that have been treating me just as kindly since the 80′s. I experienced a very strange set of emotions upon arriving. First, I was – perhaps surprisingly – somewhat nostalgic and sad that I wouldn’t be seeing the Watson family, helping out in the kitchen and finding out how their year had been. I managed to write and fail to post two separate Christmas cards to them filled with thanks & stories, both of which I can’t currently find, but I’m hoping the third time is a charm, and that they don’t mind the slightly late date of arrival.

Secondly though, I experienced quite a strong case of homesickness. This was not for the city that never sleeps, but for the place in which I’d just arrived. When in NYC, it seems I’m so constantly distracted and entertained that I never actively miss home too much. But, being surrounded by stout, no-nonsense Welshmen with the voices of angels at the rugby; seeing the inimitably beautiful Welsh girls walking around town; and chatting with the superlatively dear older Welsh ladies that it would be a mortal crime to fail to tip your hat to, I almost wished I’d never left.

On previous trips back to the UK, I’ve dashed around the country from city to city trying to see as many old friends as possible and ensure that I don’t miss out on any opportunity to catch up. This time, however, all I wanted to do was head home and see my mother and my cat. Other than seeing my family, and my best friend’s family (the fact that she’s in Australia did nothing to deter me from popping around for a cup of tea with her parents and endless tickle-fights with her adorable niece and nephew), I only managed to catch up with two of my friends back in the UK in the 10 days I was there, and that was only on the final day which I spent in London, before my early flight.

I still love New York, and I’m glad to be back. But this trip really brought home to me that a large part of my heart will forever remain in Wales, and that however exciting the latest adventure I’m on, however exotic my next destination, there’s really no place like home.

Merry Christmas.

Xx

Having never owned a car in the USA, I’ve – quite surprisingly – nearly never heard an American radio station. The majority of times I’ve taken a road trip with friends: out to such exotic locales as IKEA, New Jersey and upstate New York to race through various degrees of mud, we’ve been listening to iPods or singing, and even the bodegas and supermarkets seem to have their own playlists.

It was somewhat of a novelty, then, that I spent last Monday night at The Bell House in Brooklyn – whither I had celebrated my first Ameriversary with a Guy Fawkes party – listening to the live taping of Ask Me Another.

Given the location, the company and the blurb of ‘word games and trivia played in front of a live audience’ I expected some poor cousin of I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue or Just A Minute, neither of which could possibly be imitated by an American cast, or appreciated by an American audience. The handful of friends here I’ve shown Mornington Crescent or similar games to have simply looked on in bewilderment, unaware whether the comedy or trivia has even yet begun.

Fortunately, Ask Me Another is a show distinct from my assumptions, and whilst I can’t speak to its general quality, this episode airing on January 4th was fantastically entertaining. Audience members, rather than professional comedians, make up the contestants for the trivia games, ensuring that questions actually get answered rather than just made the subject of endless quips and punning, and the cast add the occasional comic relief.

The contestants represented the créme of Brooklyn, with one lad (named, bizarrely, Jeremy Lin) excelling in the Grain, Pokémon or World Currency round because he “used to be in a co-op that was, you know, really into heritage grains”. This wasn’t even the highlight of the evening, that came from the show’s special guest, Dr. Ruth, an 84-year old American sex therapist and radio personality. This lady has written 18 books on sex, served as a sniper in the Haganah (precursor to the Israeli Defense Forces), and is both completely frank and positive about sex, whilst maintaining a pure old-school mentality.

Plenty of old episodes are available in the Ask Me Another archive for my foreign friends to get a taste of American radio, and the show itself will be airing again in January for any New Yorkers who still know how to work a radio.

Plus, if anyone else wants to head back to the Bell House for another taping, just let me know.

Xx

When I was a teenager, my girlfriend had a piano, and just sitting and watching her play Rachmaninoff, Liszt & Beethoven made up some of the most mesmerizing experiences of my youth. By Kind Permission Of was to me, the pinnacle of human achievement, and I’d beg to her play the various pieces it samples. Her piano was in a room facing the road, by the front door, and if she was playing when I went around the corner to call on her, I’d stand outside the window and listen until she noticed me. Sometimes I’d be standing out on the street for 10 or 15 minutes listening before actually going inside and saying hello.

I’d mess around on her piano whenever I got the chance, making her wince at my timing as she gave me the easiest possible arrangement of a duet; or trying to imitate her father and pick out the melodies to Beatles songs with my right hand whilst my left played the closest approximation of the written chords that I knew. But, frankly, however much I enjoyed it, I was never much good. And so, at University, when spare time was limitless and I was exploring music in every which way with various bands I played with, from a really quite good jazz band down to some less well-advised ska and prog ensembles, I ended up buying myself an electric piano.

Not just any electric piano though, I did my research and talked to some fantastic pianists who played them, and ended up getting a second-hand Fatar SL-880 for far less than it was worth from a musician a couple of hours’ drive away in London, who had so much fancy equipment he was practically giving the thing away at a few hundred quid just to make space. Unlike more traditional keyboards, this has fully weighted hammer-action keys, which means it really feels and responds like an actual piano, and whilst I used to get a decent sound by running it through my computer, I now have a beautiful midi module which, whilst nothing like the real thing, provides a nice approximation of a range of quality pianos.

For the past three years, with varying levels of discipline, I’ve been teaching myself to play piano on that. Various friends, band-mates, girlfriends and so on have given me tips, but it’s mostly been a solitary affair with infrequent feedback, and so I’ve doubtless picked up some bad habits. Most of these – using the wrong fingering, pedalling too much – are noticed and subsequently resolved after I play in front of a more experienced pianist, but one I’ve noticed myself and, despite some effort, haven’t made many inroads on fixing as yet.

When I play, I nearly always play for my own pleasure. This doesn’t mean I don’t practise my scales, arpeggios and the endless horrifying pieces from Hanon’s The Virtuoso Pianist in 60 Exercises, but it has meant that I only learn any given piece just enough to make it sound wonderful to me. One of the most stressful experiences of my adult life was playing piano at a small exhibition in a church in London, and even in that I ended up making a couple of small slips during the recital.

I used to be a hero on Guitar Hero. My console was filled with 100% ratings on songs at the Expert level, and the rush of adrenaline as I got finally got through the solo and towards the end of a song without having made a mistake was exhilarating. Trying to play a piece on piano flawlessly approximates that, but knowing that there’s no real benchmark of 100% and that even if I hit every note at exactly the right time, I’m still far away from achieving the grace and feeling that I hear on professional recordings, takes away some of the joy from that. In the spirit of external motivation though, I’ve started recording my attempts, and sending them to a couple of friends, and I’m tentatively sharing one of these below.

I’d like to make a slue of excuses: that I’ve lost the sheet music for this piece; that I was tired; that the recording quality of an iPhone and some computer speakers is always going to be terrible — but having done that I also have to admit that this recording was probably the 10^th or 11^th attempt that evening, and probably the best of the lot.

Right now I can’t listen to this recording without all my focus on the mistakes. Hopefully not everyone will feel that way.

Xx

In a perfect catastrophe of sympathetic fallacy, I recently stepped out of a yellow cab with I Left My Wallet in El Segundo on my iPod and, well, you can guess what I left lying on the back seat.

After the incident in New Jersey wherein some charming gentlemen requested I hand over my wallet and I chose to refuse their kind offer, I stopped and considered what the loss of my wallet would have meant to me. And so, when I got home, I removed from there the handful of pictures and sentimental notes that I’ve stored in wallets since around age 15, adding and subtracting over the years as my affections varied; and I also removed a few backup cards too. As such, I’ve spent the last year without the ability to open my wallet on a whim and see the imperative “smile” scrawled on a scrap of paper or pictures of loved ones, but losing my wallet was really no great loss or hassle.

After my calls to 311‘s Lost Property Line proved fruitless (happy hint kids: remember to get the medallion number of your cabs), I wondered how realistic my hopes of getting my wallet back really were, and it turns out I’m not the first person to come up with this question.

The Reader’s Digest performed a worldwide study, dropping 1,100 wallets in the interest of science. Inexplicably they failed to include New York in their target set of cities, but the US fared well at 67% of wallets returned. Cardiff’s performance, 4 out of 10 wallets returned, puts Wales near the bottom of the map, but in defence of those 6 lucky souls who profited from science, they probably thought the wallets belonged to an Englishman.

Students at Barnard tried a similar experiment dropping wallets in every neighbourhood of New York City. They were somewhat foiled by the population density of the city, often having people chase them down to return the wallets immediately, and claim that only 2% of wallets were clearly stolen (although 13% were left unnoticed). Heartwarming, but I do slightly wonder if their choice of neighbourhoods was as diverse as they imply. That said, a separate ‘sting’ study by ABC News, hoping to generate a juicy story, wherein wallets were handed to LAPD and NYC cops to see if they’d be turned in untouched showed a 100% integrity rate too, so maybe I shouldn’t be so harsh on the Barnard students’ results.

Back in the UK, CPP ranks Cardiff a little higher in their experiment with over 200 dropped wallets, with their study placing my University city of Birmingham bottom of the barrel. They dampened my hopes even further though, suggesting that locale played a significant impact in the matter, with no wallets whatsoever being returned from public transport, compared to a whopping 47% coming back from museums and 33% from shopping centres.

Finally, Prof. Richard Wiseman (who has a fantastically interesting set of publications) dropped 240 wallets – albeit, cashless ones – as part of a more focused experiment into how the contents of wallets affect the likelihood they’ll be returned. For the record, the best headline on this popular-in-2009 story was “Scientist Finally Discovers A Use For Babies”.

Maybe I should have left those sentimental photos in there after all.

Xx