Summer In The City

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Being a Scotsman living in the land of London, I just love Summer. This is the best time of year to see England, and the English, in all their glory as this season seems to confirm all the prejudices people have about the country being stuck in scratchy black and white celluloid and portrayed as the old, infirm, matriarch with a stiff upper hip and vowels more rounded than Beyonce’s sitting gear.

English summers may be quaint, but they work. Back home, this is the time when we Scots have the odd Highland Games meeting in the rain or throw open Edinburgh Castle to rampaging military bands who show off the musical baton twirling and dog acrobatics that have the world’s terrorists trembling in shock and awe. We even put on the Festival to give theatre groups and arty farties a chance to watch each other perform Shakespeare on unicycles for three people in cagoules.

But when we organise these events we always do it with one eye on the tourist dollar and the other on deposit rates. The land of Adam Smith and Andrew Carnegie loves the tradition of making money, and so our tourist traditions tend to be simply functional and cash generating, whereas the English have turned theirs in to an art form that would have Toad throwing his bowler hat in the air with a quick Hoorah while steering his punt away from Toad Hall over a river of pink champagne.

The English are very good at keeping the tourists happy, ignoring ridicule and sniggers. I’m not thinking here of the Changing Of The Guard at Buckingham Palace or the kicking of the guard at the Tower of London to see if he reacts, but more of the summer traditions which are everywhere just now.

We’ve just had Royal Ascot, which for those of you reading this in far off places is where a bunch of horse faced people get very drunk on champagne while watching their relatives race round a course for a few days. The Simons and Ashleys of England take their Taras and Nigellas to the Ascot racecourse each year in a chauffered limo while more cars follow behind with their wallets and hats. The event starts with Ladies Day which is a highlight for press photographers who look for skirts flying up or hats blowing off, while Simon and Ashley sit in the champagne tent, blowing off too.

Over at the summer Henley Regatta, deckchair manufacturers use off cuts of material to run up blazers and caps for the male spectators who wear them like a Sixth form boarding school outing accompanied by lashings of lemonade and oodles of cake. Foul mouthed cries of “Gosh”, “Golly” and “Cripes” greet any rowing crew which loses, and then it’s back to the picnic and a visit to matron for upset tummy.

Sticks figure heavily in English summers. Morris dancers, who are bearded men dressed in pyjamas and wearing hats stolen from Spanish donkeys, hit each other with bits of wood while their mate stands by ready to wallop the loser with an accordion.

And sticks feature in Cricket too. This is the summer sport invented by the English to confuse Americans, and trying to explain the rules is akin to detailing the complete DNA breakdown of a parasitical mite whilst reciting the periodic table, backwards. Basically someone throws a ball at some sticks while his opponent protects the sticks with a bigger one. After five minutes they break for tea, then start again for a few minutes before stopping for elevenses, lunch, siesta, afternoon tea and tiffin, with any clouds in the sky halting proceedings for a scone and clotted cream break. After a game lasting several months, it can still be declared a draw.

Of course the English tradition the world is watching just now is Wimbledon, perhaps the pinnacle of English summer madness, and when I visited last week the sun was blazing, a chance to see the straw hats and flannels sup their Pimms and eat strawberries with colonial efficiency on the lawn whilst watching the world pass by. Most had probably come fresh from the Hay Festival, a gathering of book people in faded khaki T shirts with thinning hair and beards. It’s not all sexist as some men go too. They exchange recipes for organic pulse lasagne, sign a few copies of their latest book on mediaeval knitting, and then back to the tent for a sing along before bed time.

This is just one of the many festivals over summer and, as I wasn’t made for camping, when I want the authentic pop festival experience, I sit on the grass in my garden with my kids pouring buckets of water on me while I drink Red Bull and squint at a band on my tiny iPod screen which is hanging on a fence a hundred metres away. Occasionally I get up and go in the kitchen where my wife charges me ten pounds for a bottle of water and a jam roll.

I cannot fathom events like the very English Glastonbury Festival which has just ended. At Scottish festivals bands are booked only if their decibel levels directly correlate to their testosterone levels with rock bands competing in bad behaviour and macho posturing. Glastonbury had Gilbert O’Sullivan, Neil Diamond and Shakin’ Stevens and the organisers must have been gutted that they couldn’t get The New Seekers back together to close with a rousing I’d Like To Teach The World To Sing.

So the English, and their summers, are madder than a stalker in sandals but the world would be a sadder place without them. Quaint, bonkers, old fashioned and completely daft.