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The World Is Breaking My Heart Today

15 Nov

I swear if it weren’t for the intense connection I share with one Mister John Humphrys , I don’t even know if I could face the headlines these days. So I’ve decided to respond to recent events with appropriate levels of hyperbole and/or sarcasm.

Of course, there’s more news today re: the BBC scandal. The whole thing is absolutely shocking and disgusting—both the alleged actions of the perpetrators and the alleged inaction of those who seemed to have known. Obviously my heart goes out to the victims, but I also acknowledge the feelings of those who are learning unsavoury details about celebrities they grew up listening to or watching. Thankfully, I’ve never had that experience myself, but I’m sure it must be unpleasant in its own way.

Then I heard more from Mitt Romney (wasn’t he supposed to have gone away now?), who thoughtfully explained that the reason that Obama won the election is because the President was using the government’s money to give gifts to people to lure them to the Democrats’ side.  What gifts were these—tickets to concerts, dinners or cruises? No, says Mittens. It was even more outrageous than that. Obama was giving them health care and education, through the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act and the Dream Act (oh my!). Plus he was actually trying to help people get access to the vote. Tell me it ain’t so! And who were these dodgy gift receivers? Latinos. Blacks. Immigrants. Women. Young people. Wait, wait, wait there, fella—you’re trying to tell me that Obama was actually using his government position to try help those people[i]? What the? Now obviously, there is just no reason why the president of any nation should give a shit about women. We can cross them off the list of who matters immediately, no argument there.  And trying to help Latinos, black people and foreigners—that just doesn’t make sense, because those groups don’t include you, do they, Mitt? How can that even be legal? And lastly, young people? Come on now, that’s just going too far. Why should any American be concerned about young people? It’s not like they live in our homes or came out of our bodies or will play any role whatsoever in our futures. Right, Mitt?

Romney, of course, doesn’t believe in “gifts.” Unless you mean money and tax cuts for kajillionaires. But those “gifts” don’t count, do they, because rich, older, white men (like say, Mitt Romney himself) deserve those things ergo they’re not “gifts” at all. Easy peasy!

Speaking of rich assholes, I then read about what’s going on at the Hostess company in the US. Workers there are striking and the head Hostess honchos have said, quit striking by close of the day or we’re liquidating the whole operation. So there. Cue outrage from the American public. Why? Because Hostess makes Twinkies and Wonder Bread. Never eaten a Twinkie? Don’t worry, you will, as they and the cockroaches will be the only things left when you, against all odds, awake to realise you are the only human to survive the nuclear holocaust. Twinkies may taste sweeter, but injecting bleach straight into your veins will pretty much produce the same effect on your body as Twinkies do.[ii] Yet Americans feed them to children. Even my own mother fed one to me once! Yes, it’s true! As for Wonder Bread: in my fifth grade health class, our teacher skipped out one day (the day we were going to discuss menstruation, though I’m sure that was purely coincidental). The substitute the school booked was a youngish man, who, when he took off his suit coat, already had his shirt sleeves rolled up (why that fact stuck with me and what exactly it implies, I do not know).  He silently opened a bag of Wonder Bread, took out one slice, moistened it and slapped it against the blackboard where it stuck. He then announced that the class time would be spent in silent reading (our choice of book). It was. Just as the bell rang an hour later, the sub pointed to the slice—still clinging to the blackboard—and said, “That is what Wonder Bread does inside your body and that is the greatest health lesson I could teach you today.”

So Hostess announces, hey America, you’re going to lose these great chemical-laden delectables unless these selfish strikers get their shit together. And sadly many Americans fall headfirst for it (luckily as their heads are clearly empty, this is less dangerous than it sounds). In fact, one clever Yank tweeted, “Great, now I’ve got to stockpile Twinkies because the world is full of fucktards.” The workers are striking because they are being asked to take an 8% pay cut and lose some healthcare and pension benefits. And apparently that makes them fucktards. Yet a kajillionaire who refuses to pay a little more tax to benefit others, he’s not a fucktard. He’s a good American.

All of this is enough to distress any sensible, clear thinking person, let alone one so elegantly-coiffeured as my good self. I think I shall retire to my chamber to nurse my broken heart and curse the dastards who walk amongst us.

[i] According to the 2010 US Census:

Hispanic or Latino=16.3% of American population
Black or African American=12.6% of the American population
Foreign born=12.9% of American population
Female=50.8% of the American population
Young (ages 18-24)=9.9% of the American population
 

[ii] This is probably a good time to remind you that I am not a scientist.

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Who Would Jesus Kill?

26 Oct

On the upcoming election day, Americans are going to make a lot of important choices. They’re going to choose a President, some governors, senators and representatives and other more local officials. They’ll also be voting on some propositions and laws. In honor of election day, my Facebook fans can even vote on which hat looks most fetching atop my head. November 6 is going to be a very crucial Tuesday!

As you might guess, I’ve got a few words to say about the Presidential election, but I’ll share those next week. Today, though, I wanted to say something about a specific proposition which will be voted on in California, Proposition 34. Here’s a summary:

  • Repeals death penalty as maximum punishment for persons found guilty of murder and replaces it with life imprisonment without possibility of parole.
  • Requires persons found guilty of murder to work while in prison, with their wages to be applied to any victim restitution fines or orders against them.
  • Creates $100 million fund to be distributed to law enforcement agencies to help solve more homicide and rape cases.

I know many are amazed that the death penalty still exists in America. When we look at the wide world, what countries share the death penalty stage with the US? China, Afghanistan, Egypt, Iraq, Iran are a few—all famously countries the US really respects on a human rights level, yes? No. The US is happy to get up in the faces of these guys with “You’re bad,” “You’re mean,” etc, yet Americans enact the same ultimate punishment as these countries. What up with that?

Now before you start saying, “Oh, Agatha, don’t be so soft on criminals,” please let me clarify. There are lots of criminals who do horrible things and these things should not go unpunished. Not unlike Wolfie Smith, I personally have a list of those I’d gladly put first up against the wall come the Glorious Revolution and, quite frankly, not all of them have even committed illegal acts. But those who do murder, rape and torture—no doubt about it, those people deserve full punishment.

But what is full punishment? The Eighth Amendment of the US Constitution prevents “cruel and unusual punishment.” Here’s where it gets a little sticky. Is murdering someone cruel? Look at a murderer—I’m guessing you’d probably describe his act as cruel. So if murder is cruel, then murder is cruel, n’est-ce pas?

Many would say the difference is the murderer didn’t have a good reason to murder whereas the death penalty is a good reason to murder, because it acts as a deterrent. Yes, definitely. This is why in places where the death penalty is legal, there are never any murders.

But surely the death penalty is cheaper, you may say. Why should we pay to house those bastards—giving them three meals a day, health care and a television? Okay, first off, it ain’t cheaper. Look it up. Secondly, what does it say about a person that they see access to a television as a good life? Yes, I know that the person will never see the light of day again, never get to hug his child or go to his parent’s funeral, but he gets to watch television so life’s not that bad for him. Hmmm . . .

Of course, we cannot ignore the victims and their families. No one deserves the pain they have to suffer. I understand their desire for vengeance. I think we all do, even the Pope (I doubt he’d admit it). I’m going to be bold and even suggest that perhaps the desire for vengeance is human nature. Yet, should that desire be law? When do we draw a line? If we say a life for a life, do we also say an eye for an eye? If someone shoots me in the eye, should it be law that I get to shoot him in the eye (or the state can do it for me)? Would that really be the right thing to do even if we really, really wish it were?

Many Americans have one definite moral compass: the big G-o-d and his son, JC. The Bible is pretty clear that only God can judge. Jesus himself met a few murderers in his time—can you remember what he did to them? Did he strap them to a table or electrocute them until their blood boils? I’m no biblical expert, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t. I know you aren’t Christ, I know judges aren’t Christ, I know victims’ families aren’t Christ. I know it would be pretty damn hard to face a murderer and forgive, even if they’re sentenced to life in prison. But those bracelets remind us to consider ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ and I don’t think there’s a caveat that says “unless it’s really hard, then kill the person if it makes you feel better.”

I know not everyone who reads this will agree with me. I forgive you for that.

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Apologies: The Good, The Bad and The Tuneful

22 Sep

Apologies should be rather simple affairs. A good apology needs to do three things:

  • be genuine
  • admit responsibility
  • indicate a willingness to change

At this point, you’re probably with me. You’re probably thinking of all the times you’ve been wronged and how you deserved an apology which embraces the three concepts outlined above. However, just hold up there, Nelly. Let’s talk about you for a second here. When was the last time you gave a real apology? When you said sorry for bumping into that old man on the bus, were you genuinely remorseful? I actually saw you and could tell that you didn’t mean it at all. So maybe you shouldn’t get up on your high horse and actually listen and learn.

Nick Clegg should have listened and learned as well. By now you have seen/read about/ridiculed/sung along with his recent apology video.

You know I have a bit of a soft spot for old Cleggers—I can’t help it, I tend to take pity of the pathetic and lonely in our society. But if he was intending to win back supporters with a heartfelt mea culpa, he failed miserably. Let’s analyse!

We made a promise before the election that we would vote against any rise in fees under any circumstances. But that was a mistake. It was a pledge made with the best of intentions, but we shouldn’t have made a promise we weren’t absolutely sure we could deliver. I shouldn’t have committed to a policy that was so expensive when there was no money around, not least when the most likely way we’d end up in government was in coalition with Labor or the Conservatives who were both committed to put fees up. I know that we fought to get the best policy we could in those circumstances, but I also realise that isn’t the point. There’s no easy way to say this: we made a pledge, we didn’t stick to it, and for that, I am sorry. When you’ve made a mistake, you should apologise. But more important, most important of all, you’ve got to learn from your mistakes. And that’s what we will do. I will never again make a pledge unless as a party, we are absolutely clear about how we can keep it.

Here’s why it’s crap:

Is it genuine?
No, I don’t believe it to be. Why not? Because I don’t believe what Nick Clegg says anymore. Sorry, liars, but this is what happens when you lie. It’s hard for others to believe anything you say after you prove that you say things that aren’t true.

Does he admit responsibility?
No. He blames it on his innocence, his confusion about how the government machine works. “There was no money around”? Really? There was enough money for seventy four launches of the Big Society, there was enough money for loads of bullshit, because that’s how government works. Everyone—even the Lib Dems—knows that’s how government works.

Also, by claiming “the most likely way we’d end up in government was in coalition,” Clegg is saying the Liberal Democrats never had a chance. That wasn’t what he was saying before the election, and it’s not what people believed after the debates. I know it’s hard to imagine now, but many people voted for the Lib Dems because they wanted Nick Clegg to be prime minister. For him to now say, ‘we didn’t know how hard government is, the big boy rules are way tougher than we thought,’ well, that’s just poor, Nick.

Does it indicate a willingness to change?
No, even though he wanted it to. If we look closely at the “learn from your mistakes” section, we see that what he’s really saying is that he won’t make pledges anymore unless he’s sure he can keep them. But nothing in politics is ever guaranteed. What he should have said is in future he will keep his promises.

As I’ve said before, it’s wisest to avoid having to apologise by not fucking up in the first place. But we’re all humans and humans do mistakes. It’s never easy to make a public apology—from Jimmy Swaggart’s to David Letterman’s—it’s a difficult act to pull off. Perhaps Nick Clegg should have studied the master of the political apology: Richard Nixon.

It’s clearly genuine as the regret is written all over his face. By repeating “I let down,” he shows he is taking full responsibility for his mistake. And was he willing to change? Well, he never tried to cover up any break-ins ever again. In fact, in 1982, when he had to bust out his car window because he’d locked the keys inside, he took out a full page ad in the New York Times detailing the entire event. Nixon’s apology changed his legacy forever. Did you hear those tributes that poured in after he died? People were able to forget about his criminal actions, the thousands of people killed by his military decisions, and the tons of other damage he did to American society and democracy. The flags were at half mast for a whole month, for Christ’s sake!

That could have been you, Nick!

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A Wild Garden Can Be A Lovely Garden (An Allegory)

5 Aug

Quite an unsettling afternoon at the Garden Club!

Today we were to vote on the first round of the Lovely Garden Competition. We had a record-breaking twenty-three entrants, I’m happy to report. However, the one at the bottom of the Close was described, on its application and by the judges, as a “wild garden,” which drew the immediate wrath of the other ladies (and one gentleman) on the committee. The edict was to eliminate it from the contest. I confess, troublemaker that I am, I felt compelled to question this stance.

I was told that a Lovely Garden must be planned and manicured—it must be controlled, not wild. When I asked why, one woman nearly fainted with shock and disgust:  “Because that is how it always has been! This contest has been running for over fifty years. Those are the rules that we follow, and you know that, Miss Agatha!”

I can relieve your minds that I did not rise to such bait. Instead I calmly made my case.

“Is it not true, Mrs Tartuffe, that when the Lovely Garden competition started, the Club President banned all gardens that grew Edelweiss?”

“Yes. Mrs Smith’s father had been killed in the war and she was worried about associating with anything German.”

“And do you suggest that we begin banning Edelweiss again because anyone growing it is most certainly a Nazi?”

“Don’t be silly,” she retorted. (Note: I was not unaware that her own garden exhibited said flower.)

“And is it not true that in the 1980s, both bachelors and those who grew pansies were excluded from the competition?”

“I am afraid so,” she said, shamefacedly.

“And do you know why?”

“Yes, we all know why.”

“And do you suggest that we now exclude any gardeners of the homosexual persuasion?” I knew this would drive home the point as her very own son, a practitioner of man-on-man love, was hoping to take home the blue ribbon this year. Her red face provided her answer.

“So when you look back on the Club’s past,” I said,  “you can see rules or policies that now seem just a little bit ridiculous. My question to you is this: in 2052, when the Club Contest Committee meets to look at applicants, how will they view our ban on wild gardens? Will they say, yes, that’s entirely sensible, or will they see our ignorance and bigotry the same way we see Mrs Smith’s or Reverend Lance’s? If you do not rate the wild garden, do not award it points. However, should we deny this young man” (who looks quite fetching in his gardening gear) “a chance? Should we deny him his right to participate just because his beliefs about gardens differ from yours? Thinking of those gardeners of the future, which side of history would you prefer to be on?”

I am pleased to say that the wild garden will be considered for this year’s honour. Hurrah for the triumph over close-mindedness! And if the young, wild gardener on Blackbird Close is reading this, I would be happy to join you for tea amongst your Tufted Vetch and Creeping Thistle anytime.

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Gum: The Devil’s Chew Thing

12 Jul

I don’t like to get on my high horse in these situations, but chewing gum is a subject I feel quite strongly about. I don’t want to make too fine a point of it, but suffice it to say, I hate it and would gladly lay down my life to stop its manufacture.

I grew up a kid in America so, yeah, I experimented with gum. But the more I learned about the lives it’s destroyed, the more grateful I am that I’ve not touched a piece of it since my teens.

In my day, gum came in many guises, deviously designed to appeal to all sub-groups of the culture. Children whose parents didn’t love them were given gum with hard shells. Gumballs were dispensed for a coin from machines or kids broke their teeth on Chicklets. This company even went so far as offering gum geared specifically towards infants with their “Tiny Size”; children under 5 didn’t bother even chewing these, but just ate them as their suppers.

Slightly more up-market gum could be found in flat sticks. Wrigley’s (I believe in naming and shaming) was the brainbox behind this travesty. Many adults fell prey to stick gum, especially because its tastes were distinctly grown up: mint varieties, cinnamon and Juicy Fruit, with its “fascinating artificial flavor” of soggy cardboard. Sadly, the invention of Fruit Stripe gum, with a cute rainbow-striped zebra as its logo, attempted to turn children on to stick gum as well. No one was safe.

As with all things, adult gum eventually became “sexed up” with the discovery of Freshen-up, a small square of gum marketed as an aphrodisiac: the initial bite down sent forth a gush of gluey goo which gummed up one’s molars and was very unpleasant to swallow. How this made it past the Christian Right I will never know.

And, of course, there was bubble gum. Bazooka Joe gum, a pink rectangle of the hardest substance known to man, was sold in individual pieces, each of which was accompanied by a comic featuring an evil little shit with an eye patch who enticed children into “joining his gang.”  Violence was also a theme with the selling of Hubba Bubba, a softer cube that encouraged young people to engage in “gum fights.” Another cube-shaped bubble gum was Bubblicious, which contained granules of what most assumed was sugar (I’ve never seen this verified in print) and was marketed using words like blast, blowout, and bomb. Clearly the act of gum bubble blowing must give rise to a hitherto untapped source of human brutality, because god knows, I’ve never seen someone do it without my instinctively slapping their face.

These days, you’ll find many more variations and I don’t doubt new brands are cropping up each minute. I do my best to avert my eyes at the shops but I know those dastards continue to develop new sizes, shapes and colors; one afternoon, I swear I saw nicotine flavoured gum behind the counter at the chemist’s. Have we sunk so low as a society? It truly makes my heart ache. If consumers would just stop to think of all of the harm gum has done—the broken dreams, the lost fortunes, the families torn asunder—I know they would resist its lure and we could shut down gum factories once and for all.

I don’t cry often, you know that. But when I do, it’s usually because of gum.

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Has Shirley Jackson Taught Us Nothing?

18 May

In an effort to drum up business, Camelot has completed research on what new millionaires spend their money on. They interviewed one hundred of these big winners and charted their responses in this picture:

Your money paid for this picture.

I am not against playing the Lottery. I think it’s sweet to pay a pound to play a game of chance—presuming that pound isn’t earmarked for food for your family, what’s the harm, I say? However, I am extremely distressed by the choices these people are making once their prize money arrives.

If you have money, you should use it to make your life happier. However, these purchases are not about more joyful lives; they’re about other people’s perceptions.

For example, putting a hot tub into your house: stupid. In reality, wealthy people do not have hot tubs in their houses because it’s a well-known fact that hot tubs are disasters. They breed disease; they leak, doing serious damage to weight-bearing walls; and hot tubs are cited in more divorce proceedings than manufacturers care to admit. Quite frankly, nothing should be done in tubs besides bathing.  If you want to have sex in water, do it in the ocean like everyone else does.

Seventeen per cent have snooker tables (which I’m assuming they have put in their so-called games rooms). These are also silly. Winners don’t enjoy snooker; no one does. I think you’ll find that these rooms and the games in them are only for show; the owners think they portray a life of leisure, but they do not. Within weeks, the baize will be stained by coffee cup rings and no one but no one will be bothered in the slightest.

The only reason gyms exist in the first place is so that unfit people can claim they are too busy to go to them, so putting one in your home blows that excuse for your fatness out of the water.  Think about it, people.

The bar doesn’t surprise me but it does concern me. Here’s the thing about recreational drinking: to do it, you need a glass, ice and liquor. You do not need a bar or bar stools to enjoy a refreshing G & T. Bars are places where horny businessmen, depressed alcoholics and off duty policemen meet to pretend that their misery is normal; why anyone would want to put a place like that into their own home is beyond me.

A home cinema? An electric gate? Your numbers come up and all of a sudden you’re Phil Spector?

If you do get lucky in the lottery tonight, do yourself a favour and make better choices than your predecessors. Invest your winnings wisely. Do some travelling. Set aside enough savings. Fund a number of charitable organisations. Use the money to make your life and the lives of other happier and more fulfilled.

And for god’s sake, don’t be stingy with your love: get a cat and a dog. Otherwise it means you’re racist.

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Freedom Is Just Another Word

31 Mar

It’s not that I’m against freedom. Freedom’s great: without it, no doubt I would have done a lot more jail time. However, it’s all got a bit stupid these days.

For example in America, some so-called people argue President Obama is trying to destroy religious freedom because he’s kind of keen on Americans having equal access to healthcare. They also say any proposed tax increases are assaults on our God-given economic freedom.

Here’s the thing about freedom: there are limits. Try walking down your street naked swinging a dead rat over your head. Try grabbing a box of macaroni and cheese off a shop shelf and walking straight out the door. Try drinking two litres of ice cold water in less than thirty seconds. Try eating an entire Chrysler Town and Country station wagon.

If you think you have absolute freedom, even in Land of the Free, you don’t. If everyone were totally free to do whatever they wanted to, well, it just wouldn’t work now, would it?

I am a very moral person—ask any of the thousands I’ve slept with and they’d rush to agree.  My judgment is pretty sound. Does this mean I should have the freedom to slap the face of anyone who acts like a prick? Alas, it does not.

The problem is that while most people acknowledge that there are limits on freedom, they’re going on the assumption that the limits should only affect other people. They’re okay with telling Muslims they can’t do this or that, but how dare the Catholics be challenged. They’re okay with Trayvon Martin being shot because Zimmerman was “standing his ground,” but would they make the same defense if their child had been killed? They’re cool with crack being against the law, but would they support similar bans on the scotch and sodas they down each evening before driving their daughters to ballet practice?

This is why, despite my ace marks in morality, I have to accept that sometimes society will place some limits on what I can do. I may not always like it, but it’s a relatively good system overall. Perhaps instead of crying about the freedom they think they’re losing, the Republican candidates should appreciate the one they do have: the freedom to illustrate their total twatness on a national stage and earn quite a lot of money doing so.

God bless America.

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I’m (Not) A Believer

10 Mar

I’m still coming to grips with the loss of my dear friend, Davy Jones. I remember fondly our first meeting; I was just a young girl in high school, busy working on our Prom’s planning committee. As president of the local Davy Jones Fan Club, I was sure I could get him to play the gig. After a series of hilarious hijinks, Davy came through for me and actually accompanied me to the dance. Wait, that wasn’t me, that was Marcia Brady. Nonetheless, his death was a real blow.

So imagine how I felt when I saw this headline this morning:

As you know, I am a fair weather fan of science. Yes, things like electricity are great and all, and I respect most in the medical field, especially whoever it was who invented the pills I can slip into Christopher’s tea whenever he really starts trying my nerves.

But you don’t have to be a supersymmetric quantum mechanics physicist to be able to see that a lot of science is bunk. The world does not need to know at which part of a woman’s menstrual cycle she can most easily identify members of the reptile community—or at least certainly not before science shows us how to beat cancer, create environmentally-safe energy or handle documents with no threat of a paper cut. Perhaps there’s a hierarchy in the science research world of which I am unaware of: maybe the dumbos who somehow manage to get degrees are secreted into labs where they’re given little experiments to conduct to keep them busy while the big boy scientists are out doing important stuff. I don’t know. And confess I also don’t really care.

All I know is that in the last 48 hours, there have been incredibly important things happening in the world—including natural disasters, civil unrest, economic updates and the funeral of a lovely Manc who had beautiful lips—yet the “scientific headline” above was deemed newsworthy?

That said, if those wacky Japanese researchers had got a certain other lovely Manc with beautiful lips to inform me about the ovulation-snake connection this morning, I would have felt less let down by science. Especially if he did so after snuggling up next to me in bed. Then I’d have been willing to throw all my faith (and a surprising amount of early morning stamina) behind modern science.

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The Show Shall Go On

19 Feb

“Agatha! The Musical” is good to go—roles have been cast and rehearsals begin next week. The week of auditions was exciting and surprising, as I’m sure you’ve read about in the local papers, but it has paid off dividends. We had applicants from all over the world, and the competition was literally brutal. However, the producers were unable to find a lead actress for the Agatha role: some actresses were beautiful but fell apart in the more cerebral scenes. Others could pull off the complexities of the character but were flawed in their physicality. In the end, I’m afraid that the director decided that the only woman in the world who could be convincingly Agatha Whitt-Wellington is Agatha Whitt-Wellington herself so it looks like, for the first time in oh so many years, I’ll be treading the boards again.

Sadly, though I am a woman of many talents, singing is not one of them, so we’ve had to drop the “musical” aspect of the play. Unfortunately, our PR committee’s enthusiasm means we are already in possession of two thousand t-shirts bearing the “Agatha! The Musical” logo so we’ve got to stick with the current title. Therefore, we’ve set up an urgent Anti-Litigation Committee to head off any possible problems. Anyone with a background working with the CAP Code is asked to contact Bernard at the Village Hall as soon as possible.

Samuel Richardson said, “Calamity is the test of integrity.” Despite our slightly tricky beginning, I know our show will go on and be the theatrical triumph I’ve threatened it would be.

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Divided By A Common Language, Part One

1 Feb

It’s time.

Despite being an internationally respected woman and writer, I still get some grief about “speaking American.” Guess what? I’m American so, to those people I say, duh. But I’m British, too, so I also say fuck off, you twat.

However, in the spirit of being more welcoming, I’ve decided to supply a British-American dictionary for my less worldly readers. Here’s the first section.

But I’m telling you right now: I don’t want any quibbles. I don’t speak for all Americans. I don’t speak for all Brits. I only speak for myself: Agatha Whitt-Wellington. Got it?

A

Abattoir:  Slaughterhouse
Abseiling:  Rappeling
Abroad:  Overseas
Accelerator:  Gas pedal
Action Man:  G.I. Joe
Accumulator (bet): Parlay
Advert:  Commercial
A&E, casualty:  ER (emergency room)
Aerial:  Antenna
Aeroplane: Airplane
Alight: Get off
Aluminium: Aluminum
Alsatian:  German Shepherd
Angry: Mad, pissed off
Anti-clockwise: Counter-clockwise
Articulated lorry, juggernaut: Semi, tractor trailer, big rig, 18-wheeler
Arse:  Ass
Athletics: Track and field
Aubergine:  Eggplant
Automatic (car): Standard
Autumn:  Fall

B

Backhander: Kickback
Bagsie: Dibs
Balaclava:  Ski mask
Bang to rights: Dead to rights
Bank holiday: National holiday
Bap, cob: Hamburger bun
Barrister:  Trial lawyer
Bath: Bathtub
Bedsit: Studio apartment
Beefburger:  Hamburger
Beermat: Coaster
Behind: In back of
Benefits:  Welfare
Bespoke:  Tailor made, custom made
Bill: Check
Bin: Wastebasket, garbage can, trash can
Bin liner: Garbage bag, trash bag
Biro: Pen
Biscuits: Cookies
Bloke, chap, lad: Man, guy
Bogie, bogey: Booger
Boiled sweets: Hard candy
Bonnet: Hood
Booking: Reservation
Boot:  Trunk
Bottle: Moxie
Braces:  Suspenders
Break (school): Recess
Boiler (central heating): Furnace
Box (men’s athletic protection): Cup
Bum bag: Fanny pack
Bungalow: Single-storey house
Bum: Butt, booty, fanny
Burgle: Burglarize

C

Call box: Phone booth
Candy floss: Cotton candy
Car park: Parking lot
Canteen: Cafeteria
Caravan: Trailer, camper, RV
Caretaker: Janitor
Car boot sale: Yard/garage sale
Car side lights: Parking lights
Car wing: Fender
Catapult:  Sling-shot
Cellar: Basement
Cheeky: Ornery (cheeky monkey=ornery critter)
Chemist: Pharmacy, drugstore
Cheque: Check
Chips: French fries
Chuffed: Happy
City centre: Downtown
Cladding: Siding
Clean your teeth:  Brush your teeth
Cling film: plastic wrap, Saran wrap™
Coach: Bus, Greyhound™
Condom: Rubber
Consultant doctor:  Specialist
Cooker: Oven, stove
Coriander: Cilantro
Cotton: Thread
Cotton bud: Q-Tip™
Cotton wool: Cotton balls
Courgette:  Zucchini
Crash (a car): Wreck (used as a verb and noun)
Crisps: Potato chips
Crumpet: English muffin
Current account:  Checking account  

D

Daddy long legs: Crane fly
Daft, thick:  Stupid, dumb
Diagonal: Catacorner
Digger: Backhoe
Dinner jacket:  Tuxedo
Diversion: Detour
Doctor’s surgery: Doctor’s office
Dodgems: Bumper cars
Draughts:  Checkers
Drawing pin: Tack
Dressing gown: Robe
Dual-carriageway: Divided highway
Dummy: Pacifier, binky
Dustbin: Trash can
Dustcart: Garbage truck
Dustman: Garbage man
Duvet:  Comforter

E

Engaged (phone): Busy
Estate (inner city):  The projects
Estate (area of new houses): Sub-division
Estate (car): Station wagon
Estate agent: Real estate agent
Ex-directory: Unlisted

F

Fag: Cigarette
Fag end: Cigarette butt
Fairy cake:  Cupcake
Fairy lights:  Christmas lights
Fancy: Like
Fancy dress party: Costume party
Fanny: Pussy (sounds somewhat cruder, doesn’t it?)
Father Christmas: Santa Claus
Fire brigade: Fire department
First, second, third, fourth year (at university & high school): Freshman, sophomore, junior, senior
Fishfingers:  Fishsticks
Flannel: Washcloth
Flask: Thermos
Flat:  Apartment
Flyover:  Overpass
Football:  Soccer
Football boots:  Cleats
Footpath: Trail
Freephone: Toll-free
Fringe: Bangs
Frying pan: Skillet
Full stop:  Period

G

Gammon: Ham steak
Gangway: Aisle
Garden: Yard
Gear stick (car): Stick shift
Gherkin:  Pickle
Give way:  Yield
Gear lever:  Gear shift
Glove box: Glove compartment
Gobsmacked: Surprised
Goose pimples: Goose bumps
Grease-proof paper:  Waxed paper
Green fingers: Green thumb
Grill: Broil
Ground floor: First floor

H

Hair slide: Barrette
Hand bag: Purse
Hand brake: Parking brake
Hash (#): Pound sign
Headmaster / mistress:  Principal
Hen night:  Bachelorette party    
High Street:  Main Street
Hire: Rent
Hob: Stovetop
Holiday: Vacation
Homely: Homey (homely actually means ugly, so watch yourself)
Hosepipe: Hose
Hundreds and thousands: Sprinkles

I

Iced lolly:  Popsicle™
Icing sugar: Powdered sugar
Identity parade: Police line-up
Indicators (car):  Turn signals
Inverted commas: Quotemarks

J

Jacket potato:  Baked potato
Jam:  Jelly (as in peanut butter and jelly sandwiches)
Jelly:  Jell-O™
Joiner:  Carpenter
Jumper:  Sweater
Jump leads: Jumper cables
Junction (motorway): Exit

K

Kit (sports, camera, etc.):  Gear
Kitchen roll: Paper towels
Knickers:  Panties, underwear
Knuckle dusters:  Brass knuckles

L

Ladder (tights): Run
Ladybird:  Ladybug
Lager:  Beer
Launderette:  Laundromat
Lay-by:  Rest area
Lead (dog):  Leash
Leads (electrical): Cords
Lemonade: 7-Up™, Sprite™
Let: Rent
Letter box: Mail box
Level crossing: Railroad crossing
Lie-in: Sleep-in
Lift: Elevator
Lift (give someone a lift): Ride
Lodger: Boarder
Loo, Toilet: Bathroom, restroom
Loogie: Goober, hocker (goobers are also chocolate covered peanuts)
Loft: Attic
Lollipop: Lollipop, sucker
Lollipop lady:  Crossing guard
Lorry: Truck
Lorry driver: Truck driver, trucker
Lot (material items): Bunch
Lounge, sitting room: Living room.
Love bite: Hickey

M

Manager (sports): Coach
Managing director:  CEO (Chief Executive Officer)
Mange tout: Snow peas
Mannequin: Dummy
Manual (car): Stick, stick shift
Mate: Friend, buddy, pal, chum
Maths: Math
Megaphone: Bullhorn
Mileometer:  Odometer
Mince (meat): Ground meat
Mobile library: Bookmobile
Mobile phone:  Cell phone, cellular phone
Motorway: Highway, expressway
Mum:  Mom
 

To be continued….

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