9601220060
DETROIT FREE PRESS
960707
Sunday, July 07, 1996
METRO FINAL
1E
MITCH ALBOM
Copyright (c) 1996, Detroit Free Press
FORTNIGHT IS MORE LIKE 40 DAYS AND 40 NIGHTS
LONDON -- Now I know the real reason our forefathers left this country:
the rain.
I'm not kidding. The way it's been coming down, I'd have been on a boat,
too. "America? Yeah, yeah, fine. Just get me outta here."
This has been the wettest week I can remember. At Wimbledon, they have a
budding tradition: play a game, run inside, play a game, run inside. It's not
strawberries and cream anymore, it's strawberries and skim milk.
Excuse me, I have to help pull the tarp over the grass . . .
Did I mention that the other day the rain was so bad they asked Cliff
Richard, the old pop icon, to take a wireless mike and sing to the bored
tennis crowd? Now I know that once upon a time Cliff Richard was a teen
heartthrob, but so was Peter Tork. These days, Cliff looks like Dudley Moore
and sounds like a lounge lizard -- although, in Cliff's defense, it's not easy
to perform to umbrellas.
Excuse me. I have to bail out my chair . . .
Anyhow, Cliff sang all his hits, such as, well, whatever his hits were.
And the Brits sang along. Which brings me to another observation about our old
mother country: They have no rhythm. Also, they will do anything during bad
weather, except leave, which is what Americans would have done. Not wanting
to waste the tickets, the English crowd hung around the rain- soaked Wimbledon
for hours, doing the wave, the twist, the Freddy, you name it. One section
formed a conga line. Another began a patriotic chant which, to my ears,
sounded like this:
All a chord for England,
England, England!
I'm a Ford in Englaaaaaand
Let's eat some dinosaurs -- HOO HAH!
And they said these folks were stuffy.
It's bedtime for the BBC
Of course, England's singing is nothing compared to its television. Not
too long ago, they didn't broadcast anything during the day. Then they grew
to two channels, BBC1 and BBC2, the only difference being one does
documentaries about dolphins and the other documentaries about bees.
Now British TV has four -- count 'em, four -- channels, and has blossomed
into programs such as "Carnal Knowledge," a game show that airs at 1 a.m. and
features giggling, blindfolded women trying to guess their boyfriends by
squeezing their rear ends.
"All right, Jane, give the cheeks a jolly good try."
"Will do."
"Well? Is it Roger?"
"Dunno. Can I 'ave anotha 'int?"
There is also a show on each morning that just astounds me, an interview
program along the lines of "Regis & Kathy Lee" -- only the show is conducted
IN BED! That's right. The guests get in the bed with the host and have a
discussion. IN BED! The other day I saw Salman Rushdie on this program! So I
guess, as far as Salman is concerned, the coast is clear.
Coming soon: "The Satanic Pillow."
British people seem particularly preoccupied with bedrooms, nighties, bosoms
and sex. Their tabloids have seminude girls on Page Three, and seminude guys
on Page Seven. (The seminude golden retrievers are on Page 33.) They are also
very big on reprinting cheesecake photos of famous people. There are shots of
Sarah Ferguson sunbathing in the nude, and actress Emma Thompson sunbathing in
the nude. The other day, they ran a closeup of Steffi Graf's neck, which
appeared to have a red mark. The headline asked, "WHO GAVE YOU THE HICKEY,
STEFFI?"
Personally, I think the whole country needs a dose of saltpeter.
Excuse me while I start the sump pump . . .
But the police are nice
None of this compares to the experience I had last week. A bag of mine
was stolen from a taxi, so the driver took me to the police station. "Wait
here," he said. "I'll get somebody."
He'll get somebody?
Sure enough, he went into the station and came out with a police officer.
I felt like saying, "What? No french fries?" The cop got into the car and
listened to my story. He was very nice and suggested I file a report inside.
The police station resembled a doctor's office, everyone very calm,
waiting their turn. A female officer would yell out, "Who's next, please?"
They even had magazines.
Of course, when my turn came, the officer wrote down my story with a pen,
then ripped off a little corner of the paper and wrote a number on it and
said that was my "official" police report. So I have no hope of ever seeing my
bag again, but I do know a fine place to read Time magazine.
I went back outside.
And it was raining.
So I will shed no tears to leave Mother England, although I might be
dripping a little. And I now understand that old expression, "Mad dogs and
Englishmen come out in the midday sun."
Around here, you take what you can get.
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LONDON; COLUMN