The 'Britionary'

Note to self: When talking to American friends/colleagues, never, EVER say: “I’m just popping out for a fag…”

While my English friends will understand the true meaning of this sentence, people here will take an entirely different meaning from it.

And believe me, it’s not good.

Not a day passes when I – as a Brit – seem to say something which is deemed to be a). ridiculous; b). hilarious; or c). just plain weird.

For the past nine months living and working here in San Diego I’ve been a constant source of entertainment – which probably explains why I’m on TV.

Language is the very glue which holds society together.

Without it, things break down, so you have to adjust.

And I, hosting not one but two TV shows to an American audience, have had to adapt to survive.

It’s no good looking the part if no-one actually understands you right?

I must admit, I rarely get recognized out and about in San Diego but when I do those people often say something along the lines of “that’s that guy on the TV that talks weird...”

I can’t tell you how annoying it is, day-after-day, to be told that the way I talk, write or spell is “wrong”.

I’m a journalist – an award-winning one at that. I’ve been writing articles for like 16 years so I’m used to having my copy edited for print.

I’m not ‘wrong’ in the way I communicate, I just do so differently.

And I’m not just talking about the way I communicate in work. It’s at the supermarket, it’s in the phone store, it’s on the bus, it’s in a bar or in a Subway. It’s everywhere.

Sometimes I feel like pointing out that the ‘English’ language originally came from… (I’ll give you a clue – it wasn’t Mississippi).

But then of course I’d come across as being a typical Englishman thinking I’m better than the rest.

*swimming against the tide here pal.
Anyhow, like I said... I've had to adapt and incorporate certain 'Americanisms' into my own language.
So if you do notice me stumbling from time to time while reading the news, you'll understand that it's because I'm saying words I've never said before, in an order I've never said them!

It seems even my keyboard which I’m typing this very blog on, is against me.

With each new sentence or word it wants to correct me because it thinks the English words I’m writing are meant to be spelt in the American-English way.

Grr.

Living and working in the U.S. is just not easy for a foreigner.

The British and the Americans are very similar, but we’re very different at the same time.

Everything I’ve ever known is almost the same… it’s just called something different or it’s labeled differently.

Here they have ‘T.J. Maxx’, not ‘TK Maxx’ as we know it.
'Nike' is pronounced 'Nikee'.

Firefighters ‘put down’ flames rather than ‘put them out’.
A house isn't 'burgled' here, it's 'burglarised'.
'Bangs' is a 'fringe' (as in hair).
A 'gas station' is the equivalent of our 'petrol station'.

An 'ATM' is a cash machine. 'ATM' is also... oh... never mind.
A 'cell phone' is a 'mobile phone'.
The date is written in a way that has the month FIRST rather than the actual day's date.
More often than not the Americans seem to pronounce them ‘vee-hickles’ rather than simply ‘vehicles’.

The term ‘scrummage’ in rugby is called ‘scrimmage’ in American football.

A hashtag, or ‘#’, is known as the ‘pound sign’ when of course we British know the ‘pound sign’ as being !@#$%^&*()_ - nope, my keyboard doesn’t actually have the pound sign installed as a key.

Another thing I’ve learned about our U.S. cousins is that they simply don’t understand the concept of ‘mushy’ peas.

“So… they are peas that have been flattened and ‘mushed’ up right?”

Um, yes… I guess.

“Why not just buy normal peas and flatten them with a fork?”

They’re not the same.

“Why?”

You know, I just don’t know.

In the States people also measure weight in pounds.

This led to a rather bizarre, but funny, conversation last month when someone asked me what we British weigh ourselves in.

“Stones,” I said.

“You actually weigh yourselves in STONES?!”

Er… not the stones you’re thinking of mate… we have progressed a little since the Stone Age.

I can imagine that the move to the States a few years ago suited David Beckham more than most as he never really had a grip on the English language in the first place...

Oof.

"Our problem is our ignorance," an American colleague told me.

"Living in the 'United States of America' we don’t really need to adapt. Generally we all talk the same… We're just not really used to looking anywhere else but within.

"We don't generally deal with anyone else. And that makes us ignorant."

We laughed and joked about it, but he's ultimately right.

And the same can be said for the English.

In one of his celebrated shows the British comedian, Eddie Izzard, made light of the fact that the English are known to travel abroad to places like Spain and France and simply talk ‘English’ expecting the local people to understand and reply.

Of course when the local people don’t understand, the English response is typically “well, you’re just not trying are you…?”

In a bid poke a little fun at my own expense, and to educate a few people over here, I invented the ‘Britionary’ a little while ago.

We did a whole series of them on U-T TV.

Here are a few:
- www.youtube.com/watch?v=znjs_lkw_Ho
- www.youtube.com/watch?v=hSF_8110DQU
- www.youtube.com/watch?v=d6De7kWlIEk
- www.youtube.com/watch?v=wR7kpqlQZBE

As frustrating as this language barrier can be, it is - like I said - a constant source of amusement as I and my American pals learn from each other.

There is also no end to banter, especially after a few drinks.

Cheers!

Or Salute!

Or bottoms up!

Or whatever the hell it's referred to here.

Happy new year everyone.

Twitter: @tristan_nichols

The universal language

IT’S fair to say that wherever you are in the world if there is a communication breakdown between languages, it’s wise to speak the universal language of football.

Since arriving here nine months ago I’ve often found myself being stared at, blank-faced, by a Mexican wondering what the hell I was going on about.

However if my ignorance – or indeed stupidity – in grasping the language has taught me one thing it’s this: if all else fails mention Manchester United, David Beckham, or Christiano Ronaldo.

Smiles, laughter and nods of approval will be forthcoming.

In fact here in TJ, any mention of me supporting Club Tijuana (nicknamed ‘Los Xolos’) – as a Brit – will almost certainly be met with a hug, and the offer of dinner with the person’s family that evening.

Football is, and always will be, the universal language.

You can use it in any situation to get even the most hardened anti-foreigner to help you out…

Me: “Kay horra porvavor?” (pronounced in manner of English man trying to sound Mexican)

Mexican: “Que?”

Me: *point at wrist.

Mexican: “Que?”

Me: “Er… Christiano Ronaldo…?”

Mexican: “Ah… si, SI… FUTBOL!”

Cue nod, and friendly hand on shoulder.

Me: *points at wrist again.

Mexican: “Ahhh… cinco y medio.”

Job done.

Football here in Mexico is as big a deal as it is in England.

There is truly fierce rivalry and passion akin to something seemingly religious.

Los Xolos (pronounced ‘Cholos’) were only formed in 2007 and, in just five years, they’ve broken league and cup records for their efforts.

In 2010 they won the prestigious Apertura tournament, and last year they won the national Mexican premier league title – achieving the feat in the shortest time after promotion to the top flight in Mexican history.

A couple of weeks ago they beat the world club champions Corinthians, of Brazil, 1-0.

Such has been their meteoric rise to success, their stadium isn’t even finished yet.

Like the team, the stadium is in development

In the last few weeks Jacks and I have been lucky enough to catch a couple of games at Estadio Caliente, Los Xolos’ home ground.

Our first experience of 'Los Xolos'

For someone who is used to watching football matches in the driving rain in England, watching a game in bright sunshine with mountain views in the distance is simply magical.

Supporters take their seats at Estadio Caliente

The whole experience is nothing short of brilliant.

A carnival atmosphere is almost guaranteed with sections of fans having formed their own bands, complete with trumpets, drums and enough flags to rival those seen at The Queen’s diamond jubilee celebrations.

One of the most colourful and standout groups of fans are bizarrely known as ‘Masacre’ (translated in English as ‘Massacre’).

They take their seats in a kind of ceremonial pageant, which almost upstages the arrival of the players on the pitch.

Ti-juan-a dance?

Loud, proud and as flamboyant as you could possibly imagine, these guys are the die-hard fans who dance and sing through every second of the game – despite the score-line.

Parts of the crowd literally bounce up and down in time with the drumming, celebrating life like it’s the last party on earth.

Party time

The spectacle creates the atmosphere of an English FA Cup tie, but with a South American flavour.

Los Xolos test their opponents defence again

One of the most bizarre differences between English football and Mexican football is the technique used by companies to advertise their products.

Sure you have the advertising hoards surrounding the pitch, and the company stands within the ground, but these guys go to unusual lengths.

So picture the scene... the ref blows for a foul and play momentarily stops.

An announcer comes on the Tannoy system and, instead of asking for help in returning a key discovered in the ground to its rightful owner, he says this: “Hamburguesa con queso… ahora a Carl’s Jr en Tijuana”.

Yes, that’s right. Advertisers use every spare few seconds in the game to advertise their services and products – including cheeseburgers.

You almost expect to hear: “That goal was sponsored by Coca Cola…”.

Weird hey? If you ask me the FA is clearly missing a trick!

There are other more subtle differences between English and Mexican football.

When the ref blows for a free kick he marks the spot of the foul with some sort of white spray paint, and then again where the 10-yard point is where the opposing team’s player must stand.

The stadium scoreboards in North American football are also different in that instead of counting up to the game’s normal 90 minutes of playing time, they count up to 45 minutes during each half.

While there are no doubt many differences between English football and Mexican football, the universal outspoken disapproval of another team by fans is a global addiction.

And it’s no different here – but obviously the insults are in Spanish.

Even before the game has kicked off the banter starts with the reading of the players’ names on the team sheets.

“Numero uno for los Xolos…” – Cue loud cheers.

And then the opposing team sheet: “Numero uno for …” – Cue loud cheers of “PUTO” (‘faggot’ in English) for each and every name.

Once the game kicks off the goal kicks are also comedy gold.

 “oooooooooooooOOOOOOOO…. PUTO!!!!!!!!” shout the thousands of men, women and children crammed into Club Tijuana’s stadium as the opposing team take a goal kick.

I can’t help but laugh each and EVERY time, especially when they get louder.

It’s much like the “you’re shiiiiiiit AAAAAHHHHHHH….” heard in English stadiums across the kingdom during the same moment.

From comments made by Jacks during the last couple of games, I think I’ve got work to do in explaining the rules and ways of football.

“If it starts raining, do they stop playing until it stops?” she asked during last Saturday’s game.

Bless.

During a goal kick I questioned the thinking of the opposing team’s goalkeeper in wearing bright purple shorts and socks with a blue and white striped top.

“Which one?” asked Jacks.

“Um… the only goalkeeper playing on the other team…”

I think I’ll wait a few weeks before trying to explain the offside rule.

Los Xolos' Fidel Martinez fends off two opposing players

Raul Enriquez on the attack

As I’ve said before, Tijuana sadly has undoubtedly one of the worst reputations and images in the world – not helped by Hollywood.

So to me with the city’s team nicknamed after sacred Aztec dogs, metaphorically it speaks volumes of the team.

Like the city itself, they are almost ‘underdogs’.

The attitude here reminds me of my birth town of Plymouth which was almost completely annihilated during World War Two.

It too boasts that gritty sense of belief, togetherness and pride in being media outcasts.

So I’m proud to say that I’m now a Xolos fan. And possibly the only English Xolos fan.

I wonder if they’re in the market for a foreign striker?

I mean, I played English Sunday league football for a few years… (ahem).

Game on.