Thursday 13 August 2015

This Is Ours Now



XXII




Once again, I woke up at 3 am because of this terrible, supposedly stress-related rash. I had scratched myself whilst being asleep so I decided to soothe my skin with some aloe vera cream. Having dragged my sleepy self to the bathroom, I stared at the mirror, all moody and blurry-eyed, and opened my thick turtleneck jumper to apply the cream. What was that? Was I still dreaming? No, it was definitely there and even though I had never seen one before, I recognised it immediately for what it was: a creepy-crawling, turd-brown and horrid bed bug, sneakily trying to escape from its finished work on my sore cleavage. After I had overcome my initial shock, I hurried to brush off the vermin. Panic-stricken and horrified, I screamed in a high-pitched voice I didn’t even know I possessed, threw my jumper onto the floor on top of the bug and trampled on it like an elephant. When Dan came into the bathroom, pissed off for having been woken up, I looked up at him in horror. I lifted an edge of my jumper to show him the bug corpse. However, there was no brown splotch, no sign of a squashed vermin – the bastard had successfully escaped my stampede. 

This was the last night in our first London flat.


***


When it comes to finding a place to live in this city you will soon find that people have similar experiences to the one described above. There is never a shortage of exotic pets such as mice, bugs and flies which will make your life not happier but definitely more exciting. And it's not only those you have to share a house/flat with - it's people from all over the world. We have been living with Italians, English, Spanish, Belgians, Portuguese, Nigerians, South Africans and Mexicans and this only over a period of two years. When you get on with your housemates you will find yourself celebrating pre-Christmas with Roast Turkey, playing charades or having BBQs and house parties in summer. Alternatively, you could be going on a holiday to Lisbon together. I find it absolutely fascinating how people from such different backgrounds with completely dissimilar views of life can still hang out with each other, become friends and manage to live in a very confined space.

As nice as this experience has been and as much as I have loved being reminded of my student life, I am also extremely happy that this period is now coming to an end. Dan and I are finally daring it: we are going to move from a room that is roughly 13 square metres to our own 1-bedroom flat with a massive lounge. Austrians would probably not understand what kind of a big deal this is. Just to give you an idea, rents in London are so high you are forced to share a flat with other people. That is, if you don't have an extremely well-paid job or aren’t a professional DINK couple (double-income-no-kids). 

Even so, it means that you will have to cut back on other expenses and save everywhere you can. It is painful considering that you could get a huge uber-modern flat in Vienna's best districts for the money we're going to pay for just one bedroom. But hey - it's the price you pay for living in this great city, and we do live only 30 minutes away from the city centre.

Having dreamed about having my very own place for seven years since having moved out from home I already have a list of things in my head what I want to do with this place - how I want to personalise it and make it feel like our real home. No more coming back to an untidy kitchen with flies circling over unwashed saucepans, no more waking up at 4 am when people are returning from a night out, no more waiting half an hour for the bathroom when you really, really need the toilet. Instead, I'm looking forward to extensive weekend breakfasts, long games nights and dinner parties with friends and, to show that we are not that old and bourgeois, massive house parties where we get absolutely smashed and find the flat in ruins the next day.

I cannot wait for having a place other than my bed to sit down on to read a good book, for building up my personal library, for getting back to band practice and recording sessions. Also, it will be amazing to know where things in the kitchen are stored away. This sounds so mundane and unimportant and I have always laughed about my parents' habits and attitudes. Apparently, I have aged substantially in the last few years and found this is actually vital to lead a comfortable life. Just to put things into perspective, I'm still up for adventures and I loved my flat mates, but somehow I'm just sick of this complete mess around the house which you don't even bother with when you're a student.

Finally, and what cannot be ignored, is the privacy you get in your own place. Visitors won't have to stay in a cold lounge any longer which I've always felt embarrassed about. Jamming won't disturb anyone as quickly, and neither will the fact that we'll be walking around naked at any time of the day. 

O home sweet home - I'm embracing you with all my heart.



***



This blog is dedicated to all my former flat mates.

To Mama, Papa and Mike, who had no other choice than putting up with me as a flat mate for 19 long years.
To Alex, my first voluntary flat mate; the tidiest and chattiest of them all.
To Roisin, the most musical and fun flat mate there ever will be.
To Jules, the flat mate with the best bar keeping skills.
To Bernie, the most easy-going flat mate.
To Nieves who provided us weekly with fresh falafel.
To Josue, the chili and coffee lover.
To Bridget: thank you for the wonderful chats.
To Ine whose Charade skills I admire.
To Fabrizio, who made sure the house smelled of fish or chicken and introduced us to the real prosecco.
To Claudia, a flat mate you definitely want to party with!

Special thanks go to Ralf, who accidentally provided me with the title of this blog and who’s kind of lived with us when we had our band. Good old times. Never to be forgotten.

And finally, to Dan, who will now be putting up with my good and bad habits all by himself. 
(At least I don't have to watch the Fails on YouTube any longer.)







Sunday 26 July 2015

Why not have a .... near-death experience?






XXI



‘Get a bike. You will not regret it ... if you live.'
Mark Twain


Me, cycling in the safe English countryside, on a better day.

It's quarter past four on a Saturday afternoon. Imagine a crossroads near London's centre. One road leads from the Southeast towards London Bridge, the other road from the South towards Tower Bridge, hence called Tower Bridge Road. There is quite a lot of traffic but it could be worse. Now let's have a closer look on the road. Can you see the female cyclist going along the first road, approaching the crossroads fairly quickly? She sees the green traffic light ahead of her and goes for it, hitting the pedals hard. She enters the crossroads whilst the lights are still green.

'I am fast, and I will get to yoga on time. It feels good to finally be able to get to places quicker since I've bought this amazing road bike! It's still green. Let's be quick. What's that? A car. No indication so it will be going straight. No, it's not. It's turning. It's turning and blocking my way. Fuck.'

From up above we can see a black car that is supposedly going straight but then turning right at the very last moment. The driver doesn't seem to be noticing the female cyclist coming towards the car, wanting to continue straight. Unaware, the driver completes its turn.

'I can see it all before me. The pain, the crash, me lying on the floor. It's all so very clear. The mess it will cause. The broken bones. Hurting for ages, not being able to live a normal life. Crutches. Whatever. I curse loudly. My brain reacts as fast as it can to keep the damage low. It tells my hands to pull the brakes like they've never done before.'

The inevitable happens. The cyclist crashes into the back of the car, just as the car has turned and blocked her way. The handle bars slam into the cyclist's stomach, bending them to the right. The young woman falls off the bike, landing on her knees and hands. Like in a trance, she crawls and makes it to the middle of the road to the pedestrian island and lies down on her back. Cyclists and pedestrians, who have witnessed the accident, are approaching.

'What's just happened!? This can't have happened, can it? I'm on the floor and where is my bike? Where is the car? There's people around me, taking off my rucksack, asking me if I'm OK. I can't breathe, something is pressing into my stomach and I pull up my T-shirt. No bruises, so far. I tell them my name. Someone is calling the ambulance. Fuck. I've just had an accident. Was it my fault?'

The driver of the car and her boyfriend have parked their car in a side street and ask if the woman if she is alright. She finally gives them her name, holding her stomach; breathing hard. She is grimacing, apparently in agony; her face as white as chalk.

'My breathing gets easier but I feel terrible. Cars are driving past but friendly-looking people are there, looking after me. I am sorry, I say. Feeling embarrassed. Yes, I think I'm fine. I can walk. I walk to the pavement with my helpers whilst we are waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Was it my fault? What do I do if the car is ruined? What's going to happen? Are the police going to come, too? This is so surreal. The woman next to me, a fellow cyclist, tells me that it wasn't my fault, that she's seen everything and put down the number plate of the car. That it will be alright. A weight drops off my shoulders.'

People have carried the woman's bike across the road and put her rucksack next to her. One of them offers her a bottle of water; she accepts gratefully and drinks. Still pale from the shock, she leans against the fence, then sits down. An ambulance arrives and two paramedics get out, checking if the woman can walk and then helping her inside the ambulance.

'Will people look after my bike? Yes, the police are there now - I can see them questioning the driver through the window. I am checked through by the lovely paramedics. Blood pressure is fine and the pain in my stomach is getting better now. Blood sugar levels are OK, too. Only my knees are a bit grazed. No need to go to hospital, thank God. I will be fine. I will live. Realising the meaning of these words makes me shudder. I could have died today. If my brakes hadn't worked so well the crash would have been worse and I could have hit my head or broken my neck. Bloody hell.'

***

Yes, this woman was me and the accident happened just yesterday. I wanted to write about it while memories are still fresh and emotions are still high. The shock has finally worn off now. I've never had an accident like that before and it made me realise several things: 

Firstly, London is a terrible place to cycle in but this accident could have happened in any city. It won't make me stop commuting on my bike but it will make me even more cautious. It means that I will never again trust any other road user but myself.
Secondly, people in London are great. If you need help you can be sure you will get it immediately.
Finally, all these petty little things we complain about are so meaningless. I love my life and the people in it and I want to embrace it all. As I have only this one life I'd better start living every day as if it was my last.

The message to my fellow cyclists in London is: PLEASE TAKE CARE! Eight people have already died this year and I could have easily been number nine. Please follow the link for further reading on how dangerous cycling in London really is:








Wednesday 8 July 2015

This Drug Called London



XX



"London is a fantastic creator of jobs - but many of these jobs are going to people who don't originate in this country."
Mayor Boris Johnson on jobs in London




Fellow Austrians keep asking me this rather uncomfortable question about whether I miss my native country. Whether London is not too big for me. I then go, well, yes, but, you know, sort of, though, actually, no. Utter bewilderment. On both sides. Why am I being so vague in my response? Why am I never prepared to answer this question properly?

Because I don't have the slightest clue how to explain to someone who’s never had the privilege to live in a city like London what it’s really like. All they get to see is tourist crowds, British flags and pictures of the Queen, Oxford Street and our house in Southeast London, with the cold lounge. If they have never been here, they think of London as the monster city à la Sherlock Holmes where it always rains and the smog creeps into the gaps of the horribly moist houses and slowly suffocates you in your sleep. If the bedbugs don't kill you first, that is. Honestly, London's image doesn't seem to have improved that much, despite extensive social media efforts and two cute-looking Royal babies. But then again, the Royal family isn't London.

When Austrians first arrive here (and I am quite confident that this applies to many other citizens from smaller countries) they tend to get slightly nervous and I don’t resent them for it. I was exactly the same when I came here as a tourist and even more so when I arrived fresh off the ship (plane). Moving here meant that it wasn't just a trip after which you go back to what you know and what you're comfortable with, but a long commitment that will haunt you forever. I was a nervous bundle; a wreck - not at all used to this boundless and seemingly mad metropolis.

In fact, we Austrians are usually not used to any big cities in general. Vienna’s population has not yet passed the 2 million mark and the remaining 6 million people are spread all over towns, villages and hamlets. The capitals of the Bundeslaender such as Graz just about exceed 300,000 people. You see...there is space. Breathing space. Space to build comfortable detached houses. And, in many cases, we get to decide what the house will look like – the architect designs and the owners, including family and friends, actually build it! Backwards, you will spitefully tease. Traditional, you will sarcastically mock. Before you do, please have a look at the size of these houses. In Austria, we don’t measure in bedrooms: we measure in square metres. Because, and I’ll happily say it again, there is space.

There also seems to be a lot more time in Austria than there is in London. Summer days stretch endlessly into wonderful nothingness, so you decide to indulge in delicious (and cheap) Gruener Veltliner in one of the rustic Heuriger restaurants, spend days tanning next to one of the hundred crystal-clear lakes and get high on immaculate oxygen streaming through your lungs (this sounds more like Sound of Music than it actually is!) Fact is: there is definitely a slower pace of life in Austria and it's only when you move away that you start appreciating this.

London, on the other hand, hardly ever offers you this peace and quiet. It's a city to get your brain cells whirling; to exhaust you every day from the early morning until late at night. The city is like a drug you can't stop taking because your body and mind crave for it. It tears all confidence out of you and then, randomly, injects it back at once so your hormones are all over the place. It leaves you totally wretched and depressed with the rain pouring down on you when, at the next shop, a stranger pays for your umbrella because you haven't got enough money on your debit card. It has you squeeze into trains that are overcrowded to the max or wriggle on your bike through the thick London traffic where your life is at an even higher risk (so far, 8 cycling deaths in 2015). It offers you little space at a high price and usually something different to what you have known as comfort.

Back to my initial question: Why am I into this drug called London? Why do I not prefer living a nice, comfortable life in a smaller, but supportive community? Because I get something even better in return. Currently, I feel that any kind of stagnation and routine would gnaw away at my youth. London, however, changes you constantly, radically; transforming you into the person you really are at heart. It offers you a plate of exotic things you have never seen, heard, danced, tasted and experienced before.


Take a spontaneous Sunday afternoon Swing dancing class in Shoreditch; enjoy Iberian steak in an amazing Spanish restaurant when, out of the blue, Star Trek and X-Men celeb Patrick Stewart sits down behind you. Where else in Europe can you watch Kevin Spacey live on stage for £10? Which city offers Shakespeare galore, stunning gigs and concerts every day of the year?  Shopping from 6 a.m. until midnight and on Sundays does make life so much easier. It's only 1 hour to the next beach (Brighton), 4 hours on the train to Edinburgh and two hours to Paris on the Eurostar... I should probably start working for the London tourist board!



Moreover, London is there to get your career going and to introduce you to people you would have never chosen to hang out with but who have become your closest friends. The city confronts you with plain beauty on one street corner and hair-raising distortion on the next. In short, it will shock you, and never leave you bored because there is always something else to do, to see. And then, all of a sudden, you discover a quiet spot with no-one around. You sit down in the sunshine, watch the Thames slowly flowing past and you feel utter bliss.






Monday 25 May 2015

Cutting the Strings




XIX


I'm on a fast train now. After all those years of looming in busy waiting rooms; of slouching over coffee on a gorgeous, but inevitably slow, 19th-century steam train; after all this changing of directions by choosing regional trains that never take me anywhere and the feeling that my train has been parked at the virtual abstellgleis, which is the track for non-functioning carriages, my journey has apparently come to an end; or maybe it is only just beginning.


***


About 4 years ago, when I was still a student, I felt like Pinocchio, a wooden puppet on strings, who is literally stuck and directed by its makers; who wants to prove he is a real person so he can achieve whatever he likes, but whose dreams always seem to be too far from reality. I realised only later that this was even more the case than I had imagined: the strings stayed attached for a long time, even though I had moved to a different country.

This is why I didn't accept at first that I had already proved to myself and, which has been so deeply rooted since childhood, to my parents, that I could be a high-achiever. The lack of inspiration of what to do with my life and which talents to use made me choose a degree which was amazing, but nonetheless useless when it came to selecting a career path.

Going away from Vienna was a choice I had to make if I didn't want to get stuck in my part-time life or end up doing something I absolutely loathed. But studying another degree at a renowned London university was always going to be a matter of prestige. I didn't understand for a very long time that I was still looking for some kind of recognition. I was afraid that failing to do so would show to everyone that all those years of hard work had been an utter waste of time. That my life so far had been a waste of time.

And so I ignored that all I wanted was already there before me - ready to grab. Why the heck had I never grasped that publishing books was a job that was so clearly up my street? Reading and writing had always been my favourite hobbies from when I was very little but over the years I had buried my dreams of becoming an author in favour of mere recognition. The hope that studying something business or politics-related could lead to a sparkling career in an important field. I pressured myself into something I was not just for the sake of pleasing the ones I loved. My self confidence suffered badly from it and frustration bloomed inside me.

Of course, this low self-esteem is not our own fault; I fully blame society for it. People of my generation thought we could do anything when we were kids but only now we learn how hard it actually is to build up a career. We finish school, we graduate from university and feel we could embrace the world - and then find ourselves at the bottom of it all. If we're not unemployed, we have to do work experience after work experience, which is essentially working hard for free, before someone glimpses some potential in us and gives us a chance. While we feel that our high expectations of life have not been met, modern social media puts the nail in our coffins: our so-called 'friends' portray themselves in a way that puts further doubts in our head. We ask ourselves the ridiculous question: What have I actually achieved so far?

I will not hide the fact that I took on professional help. I was depressed, completely hopeless and, for a long time, I didn't see a way out of my dilemma. Accepting neutral support was the best thing I've ever done. It didn't turn Pinocchio into a real person but it helped me find the scissors to cut loose the strings. It made me realise that my parents were already very proud of me and that they just wanted me to be happy. They welcomed the fact that I would choose the path that was right for me. And - this was the most important thing I learnt from counselling - I started to learn how to be proud of myself and have faith in who I am. 

And this is what this current blog is about. I'd like to give the 'generation quarterlife-crisis' some hope and distract them a bit from deceitful facebookish comments and instagrammish pictures.

There might be a stretch after graduating when you have not the faintest idea of what to do - my advice is to get to know yourself. Is the direction you're going really the direction you would have chosen for yourself? Travelling or working abroad might open windows you have never even thought about and might introduce you to people who will show you the backdoor to a brilliant job.

Perhaps you know your path already but it's a long way up. Hang in there, guys. I've waited for two years for a junior level position in publishing to come up that fits my skills and dreams perfectly. All my temporary contract work and internships have eventually paid off. Rejection after rejection hit me hard and yet, it is important to keep going until your personal chance presents itself.

The last advice I want to give you is to open up to people. Not only will you realise how many are in the same boat as you but also, the tips you get are often extremely useful for a future job. If you know that you are depressed, seek professional help. Fortunately, we live in the 21st century, where psychotherapy should no longer be a taboo. If you feel that people close to you might judge you for your emotions, a counsellor will not. They will throw a rope into the deep hole you are in and tell you how to climb up safely.


***


I might be scarred from the past two years and sometimes, I might still find it hard to be proud. Then it's important to remind myself of what I've already achieved and how grateful I am for the people who have been there for me. Thank you.
















Tuesday 24 February 2015

Are you having a laugh?


XVIII


"I’m not from these parts. I'm from a little place called England – 
we used to run the world before you lot." 

Ricky Gervais at the Golden Globes




© L.Courtney 


Erst vor kurzem wurde mir bewusst, wie überfällig dieser Eintrag ist. Bevor ich nach London kam, hatte ich keinen blassen Schimmer, wie sehr unsere generelle Einstellung und unser Denken von der jeweiligen Kultur abhängen. Das gleiche traf auch auf den Humor zu, der uns zu dem macht, wer wir sind und wie wir uns, andere und das Leben sehen. Dabei wurde ich in London nicht gerade, wie man hier sagt, ins tiefe Ende des Wassers gestoßen, sondern musste bereits in Wien in den bitteren Marmite-Toast des britischen Humors beißen. Um ehrlich zu sein, habe ich mich jedoch in ihn verliebt und diese Liebe hat sich hier nur noch verstärkt.


Der folgende Blogeintrag soll also dazu dienen, dem berühmt-berüchtigten British humour einen Spiegel vorzuhalten, um den Nicht-Briten unter euch eine Überraschung zu ersparen. Dabei mӧchte ich zunӓchst einmal ein paar Regeln vorstellen, die im humorvollen Umgang mit den teeschlürfenden Insulanern unbedingt zu beachten sind, um Zusammenstöße und Missverständnisse zu vermeiden. Ansonsten könnte man durchaus vermuten, das britische Gegenüber sei entweder stupide oder zutiefst böse. Ihr beginnt wohl zu erahnen, warum man den britschen schwarzen Humor nennt.

  1. Briten werden oft versuchen, sich selbst abzuwerten oder lächerlich zu machen.
  2. Briten machen Witze über Dinge, Personen oder Themen, über die man eigentlich nicht scherzen sollte.
  3. Wenn man Briten nach der ehrlichen Meinung fragt, wird man nie erfahren, was sie wirklich denken.
  4. Der Humor der Briten ist mit Wortspielen durchsetzt und meistens komplexer, improvisierter und spontaner, als vermutet.
  5. Briten werfen anderen Beschimpfungen und Beleidigungen an den Kopf.


Stop! ruft ihr. Wann, fragt ihr, haben denn die Briten gelernt, so gehässig und pessimistisch zu sein? Hatten wir in Österreich nicht immer das Bild des Gentlemans, jenes der feinen Dame, im Kopf? Eine übertrieben höfliche und zuvorkommende Gestalt? Ich werde euch keine Illusion nehmen: diese Fassade existiert wirklich, aber es ist, wie gesagt, nur eine Fassade. Die Höflichkeit maskiert nur den offiziellen Auftritt. Briten haben gelernt, besser keinen schlechten Eindruck zu hinterlassen (und sind daher die besten Kundenbetreuer).


Bei engerem Kontakt legen sie jedoch diese Maske ab; manche früher, andere später; und dann lernt man endlich ihren feinen Humor kennen. Wenn man sich darauf einlässt, kann man sogar bald in ihrem Spiel mitmachen (was sie ungemein freuen wird!). Denn genau das ist es: ein Spiel, das etwas Spannendes und gleichzeitig Entspannendes an sich hat; etwas sehr Menschliches und Gemütliches.


Wie reagiert man nun als Nicht-Brite auf diesen Humor? Hier ist eine Anleitung dazu, wie man sich Briten gegenüber verhalten sollte, wenn sie augenscheinlich verrückt spielen, bzw. wie man ihren Humor erkennen und interpretieren kann.



Ad 1. Wie man sich selbst verarscht und dabei trotzdem gut dasteht


Wenn Briten sich selbst niedermachen, soll dies auf keinen Fall ein Anlass dazu sein, sie zu bemitleiden. Die richtige Methode liegt darin, sie in ihrem falschen Pessimismus anzufeuern und in ihrer Lächerlichkeit zu bestätigen. Hierin liegt nämlich der Humor! Wo steht geschrieben, dass man das Leben immer ernst nehmen soll? Wäre es nicht viel schöner, wenn wir über unsere Schwächen und Unzulänglichkeiten gemeinsam lachen, anstatt daran zu verzweifeln? Angeblich hilft dieser Humor Briten, ihre Partner zu finden: wer ihn drauf hat, kommt lockerer, selbstbewusster rüber. Dies ist jedoch einfacher gesagt, als getan!

Um an diesen Punkt zu gelangen, musste ich mich zuerst einmal geistig verbiegen - fast wie bei einer Yoga Stellung; musste in so vielen Hinsichten über meine rigiden, kulturell verketteten Hemmschwellen klettern. Es ist ungewohntes Terrain für jemanden, der immer versucht hat, korrekt zu sein. Beim self-deprecating humour spielen viele Faktoren mit, wie beispielsweise der Charakter der Beteiltigten und der Kontext der Situation. Die folgenden Beispiele illustrieren das hoffentlich:



  • "I always wanted to be somebody, but now I realise I should have been more specific." (John Cleese)
  • “I’m in shape. Round is a shape, right?”

Und wenn ihr denkt, ihr habt es endlich geschnallt, entdeckt ihr plötzlich, dass diese Art von Humor auch andersrum funktioniert: ein großartiges Beispiel von Selbstbeweihräucherung stammt von einem der wunderbarsten englischen Dichter, nämlich Oscar Wilde:

  • “I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying.”


Ad 2. In jedem Briten steckt ein kleiner Borat

Dies ist wiederum ein Hinweis auf die verkrampfte Haltung, die im deutschsprachigen Raum oft eingenommen wird (obwohl wir uns damit brüsten, unglaublich offen und liberal zu sein!) Habe ich in meinem Text auch wirklich gegendert? War alles, was ich gerade von mir gegeben habe, politisch korrekt? Habe ich auch garantiert niemanden beleidigt? Und das Endresultat heißt Paranoia, so weit das Auge reicht.

Briten sehen diese Dinge weniger engstirnig: Bilder werden grob verzerrt, niemand und nichts wird verschont. Wie sonst, frage ich mich, kann man über einen Charlie Chaplin in Der große Diktator lachen? Wie sonst bleibt man in einer Welt wie dieser, in der Katastrophe auf Disaster und Krieg auf politische Unruhe folgt, psychisch halbwegs stabil? Das Ziel bei dieser Art von Humor liegt darin, zu zeigen, wie lächerlich diese Dinge sind, wie das Leben selbst doch eigentlich ein ausgekochter Wahnsinn ist.

Ein populärer zeitgenössischer Brite, der diesen Humor übrigens exzellent beherrscht, ist natürlich Sacha Baron Cohen. Als Borat, Bruno, The Dictator u.ӓ. Unholde zieht er munter Konfessionen, Nationen und Traditionen durch den Sand; lӓstert über sexuelle Orientierung genauso wie über den Irrsinn der Politik - kurz: er lässt kein Haar ungekrümmt.

Verständlicherweise wird es immer Menschen geben, die sich dagegen wehren und wie uns vor kurzem ein gewisser Vorfall in Frankreich gezeigt hat, sind wir keineswegs in einer Welt angekommen, in der Redefreiheit selbstverständlich ist. Im Gegenteil, diese Art von Humor kann extrem gefährlich werden und sollte daher nur entweder von comedians oder unter Freunden gebraucht werden.


Ad 3. Sehe ich in diesem Kleid dick aus?


Zugegeben ist dieser Punkt nicht unbedingt ein britisches Phänomen, sondern eher ein geschlechterspezifisches. Dennoch wollte ich es erwähnen, da es mir erst hier in England besonders aufgefallen ist. Wenn ich meinen englischen Partner nach seiner Meinung frage, was mein Aussehen betrifft (und wir Frauen suchen ja ständig Bestätigung; man nehme z.B. die berühmt-berüchtigte Frage "Sehe ich in diesem Kleid dick aus?"), werde ich garantiert nie zur Antwort erhalten, "Oh darling, don't be ridiculous, you look absolutely stunning!", sondern eher etwas wie "Well, fat is a strong word..." (Dick ist vielleicht ein bisschen übertrieben)



Ich erinnere mich daran, wie mein Partner diese Art Humor kurz nach unserem Kennenlernen an meiner Kusine ausprobierte (und noch dazu in Deutsch!). Für einen Moment dachte ich, sie würde ihm eine verpassen - ich konnte das Schlimmste grade noch verhindern. Seitdem warne ich Nicht-Briten schon einmal im Vorhinein, wenn sie das erste Mal mit ihm in Kontakt kommen, ihn doch bitte nicht zu ernst zu nehmen!


Zur Verteidigung der britischen Männer muss ich dann aber doch sagen, dass sie sehr wohl unglaublich charming sein können. Überhaupt bin ich der Meinung, dass Männer es uns sowieso sagen (oder eher zeigen), wenn sie uns attraktiv finden, ohne dass wir ihnen eine aufgesetzte Antwort entlocken müssen. Der beißende Humor weist wiederum auf diese Lächerlichkeit hin: auf die menschliche Sucht nach Anerkennung und Bestätigung.

Britische Frauen sind in dieser Hinsicht weniger humorvoll und sogar steifer, wenn auch empathischer (es sei denn, die Kommunikationspartner kennen sich so gut, dass sie die Wahrheit vertragen können). So heißt es dann: Das neue Kleid ist AMAZING, du siehst WONDERFUL aus; aber nein, die Hose passt dir REALLY WELL! Klar, wir Frauen wollen Gefühle nicht verletzen, sondern vielleicht den anderen jene Anerkennung schenken, die wir von den Männern nicht bekommen. Trotzdem bin ich allen Frauen dankbar, die mir nicht ins Gesicht lügen und mich darauf hinweisen, dass mein Augen Make-up komplett verschmiert ist.



Ad 4. Schalt das Hirn ein!


Oh, das Wortspiel! Oft wünschte ich, der spontane, geistige Witz wäre auch im deutschsprachigen Humor mehr vertreten. Hatten wir nicht einmal die besten Philosophen der Welt, wie Kant und Nietzsche? Andererseits haben sich diese Herren vielleicht weniger mit Humor und zu viel mit Gott und dem Ernst des Lebens beschäftigt. Wiederum haben die Briten also Recht: weniger Seriosität an den Tag zu legen schadet nicht; noch besser ist hingegen, wenn man der allgemeinen Tristesse ein bisschen geistige Würze verpasst! Es geht bei dieser Art von Humor vor allem darum, Assoziationen zwischen den Wörtern zu kreieren und das Gegenüber anzuspornen, sogar noch bessere Wortspiele zu gewissen Themen su finden. Hier sind ein paar davon:



  • “My pencil keeps breaking every time I sharpen it, I’m giving up now, it’s pointless.”
  • “I used to eat doughnuts every single day, but then I got tired of the hole thing.”
  • “I always wanted to learn how to juggle, but I just don’t have the balls to do it.”
  • “My desire to be a dermatologist was only skin deep.”



Die wenigsten Österreicher kennen übrigens Rowan Atkinson in seiner Paraderolle Blackadder. In dieser lustigen Serie wendet er seine ganze clevere, wortspielerische Kraft an, die beim Slapstick in Mr Bean natürlich nie zum Ausdruck kam. Hier merkt man, dass der vermeintliche Dodel Atkinson an der Oxford University studiert hat. Während wir also bei Mr Bean über den Clown/den Idioten lachen und uns dabei zurück lehnen, zielen Blackadder und viele andere britische Komödien darauf ab, durch Wortwitz und Improvisation auch an unsere anderen Gehirnzellen anzudocken und somit eine feinere, viel tieferliegende und wertvollere Schicht an Humor freizulegen. John Cleese in Fawlty Towers und Ricky Gervais in The Office sind ebenfalls Meister ihres Faches. Give them a try - ihr werdet es nicht bereuen.



Ad 5. Wie-du-mir-so-ich-dir


Nun kommen wir zur letzten und vielleicht wichtigsten Art von Humor. Wiederum ist diese Art von Humor sehr spontan, hat viel mit Improvisation und Schlagfertigkeit zu tun. Beleidigungen sollten von beiden Seiten im Normalfall nicht ernst genommen, sondern mit gleicher Kraft erwidert werden: das Wort für dieses humorvolle Spiel ist banter. In Wien würde man wahrscheinlich sekkieren dazu sagen, wobei dies auch nicht ganz zutrifft, da ja im Normalfall nur eine Person sekkiert wird, wӓhrend sich beim banter die Kommunikationspartner gegenseitig attackieren. Man beachte meine tolle Grafik:




sekkieren:                           1 Angreifer >>> 1 Opfer
banter:                  1 Angreifer (Opfer) >><< 1 Angreifer (Opfer)



Ein ewiges Hin-und-Her; ein Sich-Gegenseitig-Aufstacheln also, das durchaus Flirtpotential hat. Angeblich sind Frauen, die sich mit Mӓnnern bantern, heiß begehrt, da sie selbstbewusst wirken. Personen, die sich weigern beim banter mitzumachen, werden sich übrigens unausweichlich als Ausländer denunzieren. Das Spiel ist in beinahe jeder Situation möglich; in subtiler Art und Weise kann man sogar mit den Chefitäten diesen Spaß treiben (die britischen Manager haben meist den besten Humor von allen!)



Banter ist auch ein weiterer Grund, warum mein Partner Dan oftmals in Schwierigkeiten kommt, wenn er mit Nicht-Briten zu tun hat. In einem Hostel in Budapest zeigte er auf einen Whirlpool im Zimmer (den man ja nicht jeden Tag in einem Hostel findet!) und sagte zu seinem (männlichen) österreichischen Studienkollegen: "Oh look, that's for us later on!" Der Kollege blickte ihn unglaublich schockiert an, meinte: "Dan, I'm not gay!", offensichtlich irritiert und beleidigt und widmete ihn dann keines weiteren Blickes. Laut Dan hätte die korrekte Antwort auf seinen banter Versuch gelautet: "Sounds amazing, I'll buy the candles and bubble bath!"



***


Zum Abschluss lautet also mein Fazit: Der weltbekannte britische Humor ist weniger schwarz als tatsӓchlich vermutet. Zu Beginn mag es vielleicht so wirken, dass the British hundsgemeine, pessimistische und unsensible Gestalten sind; kratzt man jedoch an der Oberflӓche, indem man sich mit den Insulanern befreundet und sich auf ihren Humor einlӓsst, wird man sein Glück kaum fassen kӧnnen. 

Also, vielen Dank an euch brave Leser, dass ihr bis zum Ende durchgehalten habt, denn, wie Dan gerade sagt: "If they've made it this far, they've done bloody well."