A funny thing about having lived in the UK for six years but not having changed my accent (much) is that sometime when people meet me for the first time and they don’t know how long I’ve been around, they very kindly but unnecessarily explain special British things to me, like the differences between the north and the south or the offside rule in football or what to do with custard.
It can be difficult to interrupt, when people are kindly but unnecessarily explaining these things, and then when they pause I have to either nod as if I’ve learned something, which is awkward for me, or I say, ‘ah, actually, I’ve lived here for six years’ and then everyone feels awkward. I mostly opt for the first response.
But that said, there is one particular British thing that no one has ever been able to explain to me, that six years in this country has remained completely incomprehensible: the Eurovision Song Contest. Yes, I understand that it is meant to be so bad that it’s good, but I have tried to watch it - I have - and as far as I can see it is just regularly bad. And yet the Guardian has mentioned it 13 times in the last seven days alone.
Dear English people, if any of you could please explain to me why you - or any of your compatriots - would logically to watch this evening of execrable music when you could be reading a nice book or lying in a mud puddle, I think I might even give you a prize. For until I understand, I fear I will forever be an outsider.
