AUSSIE IN CHIPPY FROGGY TITTY SHOCK

We arrived in London last Thursday. The first thing I noticed was the sickly-savoury smell of hot chips, wafting and soaking entire stretches of street. Chip shops here as common as boulangeries in Paris, and while the warm greasy pall is perhaps not as exquisite as butter-pastry bouquet de baguette, it must have spoken to some deep need within, for my first meal here was fish and chips with a pint of Guinness.
“Oh la la, mais quel cliché, le fish and chips, c’est so British!” This was the next surprise: almost every second person you overhear seems to be speaking French. I had heard that there has been a massive influx of young frenchies to London, keen to gain experience in the anglo-saxon corporate world, but I was not prepared for the sheer number. Someone told me before leaving Paris that London was now the second French city in the world by population, and I find that utterly believable. It’s quite comforting to hear the familiarity of French all around, making the cross-channel transition softer somehow. But I’m ashamed to admit how often I feel a mean surge of schadenfreude when I see a poor frog-out-of-water grappling with English. See what it’s like? See?
Language is just one reason why I am feeling instantly comfortable here. So many unexpected idiosyncrasies seem to remind me of Sydney, from red-tiled terraces to the way shops are strung out along the high street. Sunday trading! Customer service! And – bright zenith of pleasure - fat weekend newspapers!
There are of course other aspects of life here which strike me as particularly British. Bosoms, for example. Our first night in London was a marvellous introduction to that unique “oo-er” naughtiness which is so very English. We went to a taping of The Sunday Night Project hosted by Alan Carr, the current Queen of TV innuendo, and his guest Barbara Windsor, of “Carry On” fame. We enjoyed classic clips of Barbara’s bra pinging off and giggled at character names such as “Doctor Nookey”. It may be a French(ish) term, but the double entendre is, to me, quintessentially English. Take this smutty gem from “Carry on Columbus":

Marco: I wouldn’t if I were you, miss. I’ve heard these waters are full of man-eating sharks.
Chiquita: Oh no! So if I fell in, do you think they’d swallow me whole?
Marco: No, I’m told they spit that bit out.

Ah, England. The land of Charles Dickens, tabloid headlines and Mrs. Malaprop. I feel at home already. Yes, we’ll miss Paris. Painfully. But so far it’s been an encouraging opening (fnar!) to our cross-channel odyssey.
Or, as the Rev. Spooner might have called it: “A Sail of Two Titties”.*

* With apologies to Monty Python.