by Tait Foster
I am currently studying in London for a Master’s and while here I’ve been taking account of the true differences that exist between the English and Americans, the most jarring of which took place the other night. A good friend invited me to a dinner party, which she herself had been invited to by a classmate. Only after accepting this invitation were we informed that it was a ‘Safari Party’ with no explanation beyond that. Now, one has to worry about something like this because the British are fucking nuts for their themed parties. It’s not a costume party where you show up wearing a t-shirt that has been cleverly drawn on, or a sharpie-ed on mustache. No, these motherfuckers spend ungodly amounts of money renting and making costumes. A bachelor party in this country is not a night out meeting every stripper in Reno; rather it is about getting dressed up in funny costumes (so far I’ve seen men in Edwardian Dresses, fox-hunting outfits, and inquisition robes with fake plastic tits over them). This in mind I was unsure of what I had actually gotten myself into. Was I going to walk into some weird British version of a furry party? Or was I going to walk in and suddenly be facing somebody who looked like the dude from Jumanji? Unsure of where my night was going to go, I decided to just dress as English as possible (i.e. Argyll socks, checkered collared shirt, blue button up cardigan, and my cigar-size mustache).
I arrived at the pre-determined house, which it should be said was in the middle of what equates to the Upper East Side but in London. Pause and think about that. The pretension of the Upper East Side but in England. Hail Britannia and so on and so forth. I walked upstairs to see a fairly simple layout. In this swanky bachelorette pad were 4 women and 4 men (myself included) all casually dressed, at least for the English. It seemed like a fairly simple affair. Wine bottles were opened, dinner was served. Everyone settled into their seats and into conversation. Everything was great. My fears momentarily subsided. I may have even laughed at myself. ‘What were you thinking?’ I thought, ‘People dressed up as the guy from Jumanji?! Jesus Tait, that’s paranoid even for you. It’s just a dinner party, nice intelligent people, and hey that Brit talking about Sarah Palin is kinda cute.’
These were my thoughts when, after about an hour and a half or so, the phone rang and our hostess answered saying something along the lines of “Sorry sorry, we’ll hurry up.” About 5 minutes later the doorbell rang and in walked four of the biggest douche bag looking motherfuckers I have ever seen. Pinstripe suits, gelled hair - this was Jersey Shore come to merry old England. It was at this point where I was informed of what was going on. These 4 had been at a nearby house with another 4 women who were awaiting the arrival of myself and the 3 other guys to join them for dessert. Suddenly it dawned on me. This was English speed dating! This is the type of shit single people in their late thirties and early forties did before Internet dating. Now I realized what had been going on. I was being sent into another proverbial lion’s den, but this time fully aware of the mindset of all around me (ignorance had truly been bliss). To make matters worse one of the ‘new’ gentlemen introduced himself with the biggest shit eating grin I have ever seen, which wordlessly held all of the competition of this night that I had been wholly unaware of. This smile said, “I’m playing for keeps” and I didn’t even know there was (as Holmes would put it) a game afoot.
Upon arriving at the next house, I suddenly became aware of a further reason for the aforementioned gentlemen’s unsightly grin. The inhabitants of the next house were the textbook definition of the Seven Duffs. The 4 before us (a lawyer, estate agent, and two investment bankers, I shit you not) must have been doing some truly fucked up things to get 4 women so drunk in an hour and a half. It looked like a double power hour of wine had just finished. The drunken nature of the second house led to a more volatile conversation topics. Twice I was harangued over American politics and once again for tricking the British into fighting in Afghanistan. Yes I, Tait Foster, personally tricked the British into allying themselves with the United States in the War in Afghanistan. The mystery has been solved, according to the drunken Linguistics major from the University of Manchester.
After what seemed like a hellish eternity of this, the final act of this social farce reared its head. The other group joined us and then we went out to a bar. Again let me pause and allow that to wash over you. After being shuttled between two groups of girls and everyone (aside from myself) getting sloppy we all met up and went to a bar in the London equivalent of the Upper East Side…
HOLY HOLDEN CAUFIELD BATMAN! I watched as my fellow male compatriots jockeyed for prime positions, a shakedown the likes of which I hadn’t seen since the last song at a Middle School dance; a cruel synthesis of the Siena Palio and Ladies Night at Happy Ending in New York City. There was no room for famous English manners, nor was there room for small talk. These investment bankers knew the score and it was time to seal the deal. Gordon Gekko eat your heart out because these suave and perfumed gentlemen, these heirs of William the Conqueror, Churchill, Oscar Wilde, Keats, and Shakespeare were going to bring these ‘birds’ home if they had to pour the Sambuca shots themselves. I couldn’t believe my eyes, couldn’t believe the sheer sport I was witnessing. I had to get out. A swift and subtle escape is all I could hope for, all I could do to maintain a degree of dignity and sanity knowing I had to survive in this country for a few more months. I quietly backtracked out, bumping into the massive eastern European bouncer and mumbling something about forgetting my umbrella in the lift. Full sprinting to the bus I came out of that night like the ending of so many after-school specials - at home crying softly to myself in the fetal position as Born in the USA played on repeat.
