The best part about America being the most overweight nation on the planet is that, boy, can America make superb beef burgers. God damnit, why do I have to be mean even when I’m being nice. I tell you, I should have called this blog “Things other people apart from me do badly”. That way I could be persistently negative and snipey without really making any constructive effort to remedy the situation, which is my favourite thing.

If you walk into a random bar in the United Kingdom and order a beef burger, you can guarantee some things about it. Firstly, it will be black and hard around the edges, as though it has been fried more than once in its tortured life. Second, it will be strangely soggy in the middle, as though it was finally put out of its misery in a microwave oven. If it’s an upscale bar, you’ll probably get a large piece of wizened-looking tomato to go along with it, and if it’s a really fancy joint then you’ll get a pickle. Generally a burger you bought in a British pub can be regarded as a good one if it’s possible to tell the meat from the bun.

The first time I ordered a burger in America, the waitress asked, “And how would you like your burger?” I peered back at her. “I beg your pardon?” “How would you like your burger, sir?” I tried to sneak a peak at the menu to see if I’d accidentally ordered the Kobe special. The waitress tried to help, “For example, sir, medium rare?” I looked at the waitress and back at the menu. A burger medium rare? Are you nuts? At that sort of temperature the eyeballs and toenails won’t even have melted. “Umm… medium,” I said, and waited for her to ask whether I’d like my chips cooked or not.

As to why Americans are so good at burgers, I can only assume that it comes down to the fact that America actually has a lot of space in it. A cow reared in America owns its own piece of land and has a tree-lined driveway and a hot tub. A cow reared in Europe is sharing a room with another cow in order to pay the exorbitant rent, and turning tricks in the evenings to make ends meet. She’d stop smoking if it wasn’t for the coke habit, which has made her udders practically disappear and left her gaunt and emaciated. How cows are supposed to cut coke with no fingers I’m not sure. This post needs some work to be believable, but it’s getting late now.

Today, my friends, I am complaining about condiments.

In America, the way in which you receive your condiments will depend a bit on the sort of restaurant you’re in. If it’s an extremely expensive restaurant, you obviously shouldn’t be asking for condiments at all. If it’s a fairly expensive restaurant, you’ll get a rather nice silver dish cointaining your condiment of choice, with a dainty spoon in it. If it’s a reasonably-priced restaurant, it’ll be the bottle the sauce came in. If it’s a really cheap place or an on-street vendor, it’ll be one of those industrial-sized vats of condiment with a shampoo-style dispenser on the top, and you’re left holding your dinner under it and squirting at it. Consider yourselves lucky, Americans.

In Britain, in a really expensive restaurant, you’ll get the nice silver dish with a spoon. Treasure this because, pretty much anywhere else, you will get a miniature individual sachet of sauce. These sachets are around 8cm long and 2cm wide, and are made of a strange metal/plastic composite originally invented for protecting components of the Hubble Space Telescope. A note on the side says “tear here”. This is sarcastic. You can tell it’s sarcastic, because there is a tiny picture of a pair of scissors. No tearing for you, bucko. The only way these things are intended to be destroyed is by an intergalactic singularity.

To open the sachet, you must grip the corner next to the “tear here” nick as tightly as you can between your front two teeth, and then pull the packet away from your mouth. The packet is covered in your sweat, from the period a few moments earlier when you really thought you were going to tear it with your hands. It is more than a little slippery. You’re going to have to hold it pretty tight. Those space telescope scientists may not know how to make a mirror, but this sucker was designed to withstand re-entry. Get ready for a rough ride.

At this point, your dinner companions may start to pull away from the table or run to the loo. This is normal.

Those telescope scientists no doubt have friends in the rocket business. They all hang around together, joking about how rocket science isn’t all that hard anyway and making puns about quarks. Anyway, their rocket friends will tell you that any container, when squeezed as hard as possible and then split, will propel its contents vigorously in the direction of the breach. These sachets should come with some sort of written warning, and perhaps a set of protective eyewear. At the very least, they should say “not for use in densely populated areas” in clear lettering on the side.

And why do the Brits insist on serving condiments like this? I can only assume it’s because there is empirical evidence that one in five males has, at some time, stirred a pub tomato ketchup container with his John Thomas. Or perhaps some people have a penchant for opening the shared mustard, sneezing in it, then replacing the cap. It’s just the way they roll. Are we honestly that untrusting a society that we fear constantly that other pub-goers have been putting ricin in the tartare sauce? Are we really that germophobe that we can’t stand to eat something that’s been touched by another human being?

And, well, I hate to jump on the popular bandwagon, but isn’t this rotten for the environment? Whenever you ask for ketchup in the UK, you can be sure that they’re not going to give you only one space sachet. They’re going to give you six. And you just try giving back the ones you didn’t use. They’ll eye you with a suspicious look. They certainly won’t touch them. Who knows what you’ll have done with them. Heavens, they’ve probably been up your arse twice.

Let me illustrate this with the transcript of a telephone call I had in London whilst trying to arrange the servicing of my car.

Garage: Yes, Mr Rae, we can certainly do all that. If you drop the car off we’ll be happy to get started.
Me: Splendid. When would you like me to drop the car off?
Garage: Any time between nine and five.
Me: Okay – I’ll bring it in on Saturday.
Garage: Oh no [laughs], we’re not open on Saturdays. Goodness me.
Me: I imagine Sunday is out.
Garage: [hearty laugh] My wife’d kill me. Sunday, haha.
Me: The thing is that, well, those times are pretty similar to the times when I am required to be at work.
Garage: At work?
Me: Yes.
Garage: Every day?
Me: Every day except Saturday and Sunday. I get those off.
Garage: Oh! Well, maybe your wife –
Me: My wife also works.
Garage: Every day?
Me: Yes. Perhaps I could leave it outside and put the keys in your letter box or something?
Garage: One second.
Garage: [muffled] Bob, this guy can’t bring his car in.
[inaudible response]
Garage: [muffled] He’s working all that time.
[inaudible response]
Garage: [muffled] Yeah, every day. Well, except, apparently he gets Saturday and Sunday off.
[inaudible response]
Garage: [muffled] Well, get this… apparently she also works.
[inaudible response]
Garage: [muffled] Yeah, every day. He’s wondering if he can leave it outside.
[inaudible response]
Garage: Alright, look mate. We think you can probably leave it outside.
Me: Okay, great.
Garage: So just any time, I suppose.
Me: Wonderful. Where shall I put the keys?
Garage: Probably best if you drop them off while we’re open. They’ll get nicked otherwise.

The same conversation is being had daily across the UK, and pretty much across the entire spectrum of service provision. Parcel delivery, fridge repair, license renewal, escort services. Contrast that with the US – I just dropped our car off at the dealer for its service – I could drop it off, they tell me, any time between 6am and 9pm. Seven days a week. It’s true that things are starting to change in the UK – some supermarkets are open late, and more and more busineses are open at the weekend. However, your chances of getting anything done after 5pm on a weekday or at all on a Sunday are somewhat minimal. If you want to make a killing in the UK, I suggest you start a business which is open at times convenient for your customers. Your competitors won’t know what hit ’em.

If I could put this one in bold, I would, as it’s possibly the most spectacular thing the Americans have ever done.

To me, landing on the moon was always something humans had done ages ago, and barely even in colour. I knew my parents had lived through the event but they never implied that it was an important part of their lives – it wasn’t nearly as important as, say, that time my great-grandfather drove his car through the back of the garage by mistake.

A while back I read Andy Chaikin’s splendid book, A Man on the Moon. The book is an amazing account of the Apollo programme and the moon landings – Andy Chaikin is British, so it’s pleasantly devoid of chants of “USA! USA!” and trite tales of how Neil Armstrong’s dog fell in love as soon as he landed, or similar such Independence Day-esque bollocks. It’s just an honest account of an extraordinary feat of mankind.

The extraordinary feat, if it can be summarised, was this. In 1959, America had no rockets other than missiles. In 1969, they landed someone on the moon, had them potter around for a while poking at stuff and brought them back again. Of course there are all sorts of technological wonders going on here, but perhaps the most interesting part of this is in the numbers. The moon is 385,000km from earth. That is one fuck of a long way, whether you have a rocket or not. In 2005-dollars, this programme cost the taxpayer $140bn. That is the entire GDP of Pakistan and represents a thousand dollars for every American citizen. One fifth of the world population watched the live transmission of the first moonwalk. At its peak, 400,000 people were directly employed by the Apollo programme.

Every so often, we as human beings need these sort of dangerous, expensive, unjustifiable follies to be brought down upon our country by those in power. We need this to feel like we’re progressing as a species, even if on most days we are more worried about traffic and healthcare. Responsibility to the people through democracy makes things like this harder – my ancestors will sadly not be touring Castle Obama a thousand years down the line – but Kennedy proved that it doesn’t make it impossible. When the people have a genuinely inspirational common goal, a nation can unite behind it and enjoy a collective euphoria and sense of purpose so splendid that they hadn’t realised it existed.

It strikes me that the Kennedy-esque aura that surrounds Obama right now and the downturn of the economy is going to leave a situation ripe for a “grand plan” when America’s finances start to pick up.Once he’s pulled out of Iraq and turned it into a new bloody dictatorship, the American people are going to be clamouring for something less horrific and more exciting to pull together and spend money on. Ten years seems like a good watermark (it worked for Kennedy) but what to do? Tallest building? Man on Mars? Zero dependence on fossil fuel?

It’s well known in Britain that the entire country is a great big rubbish dump into which you may cast your cigarette ends, crisp wrappers, used condoms and half-burnt mattresses. If you see someone on the street opening a new packet of cigarettes, I would say there’s about a one third chance that they’ll thrown the packaging in the street. As a result of this, British cities are – perhaps unsurprisingly – strewn with junk. Before I moved to the US, I rather thought this was the way cities were.

In the US, at least here in Seattle, it’s quite the opposite. There’s a real sense of civic pride about keeping the city clean, and as a result it’s much nicer walking around. I suspect this is something of a chicken-and-egg situation – if everyone else is throwing their crap in the street, why shouldn’t I throw mine? Assuming I am a pikey bastard with a dog on a bit of string and whose children have tattoos.

One pet peeve I have concerns the fact that most governments insist upon paying people to reproduce. When I am president of a country, the first law I enact will be to remove child benefits. I may even imitate my favourite government, that of the People’s Republic of China, and instate some sort of penalty for having children. Life will be great. House prices will go through the floor. There’ll never be any traffic. You’ll never be put on hold when you call tech support. Hmm, wait, maybe they’ll reduce the number of support staff. Scratch that last one. Anyway, the world will be a way better place, and all the people who decide to have children will pay appropriately for the privilege. Don’t get me wrong – I like children. In fact, I’ve been trying to persuade the wife to help me produce some. They’re just the least environmentally friendly thing we could be doing right now, and for some reason they attract government grants. It’s like subsidising Buicks.

This rant was intended to lead into an almost wholly unrelated topic. That unrelated topic was the fact that America is quite sparsely populated, although the rest of the world doesn’t really know it. Take a look at Wikipedia’s list of countries by population density. America is number 177 of the 238 countries in there. It’s less densely populated than Zimbabwe and Bhutan. There are ten times as many people in a square kilometre of Israel as there are in a square kilometre of America. There’s nobody here. For its size, it’s a ghost country.

This is good because I like hiking, and I like hiking without bumping into other people all the time. I used to go hiking a lot when I lived in London – you could get to the Peak District in four hours, but to get to any mountains higher than Trump Tower you’d be looking at the Lake District, which meant six or seven hours in the car. And even once you’re in the Lake District, it still has the trappings of a fairly densely populated place. You’re never too far from an Olde Worlde Tea Shoppe, or a McDonalds, or some roadworks. This, of course, is mostly due to the very high population density in the UK. As far as rating London against other cities goes, I don’t think population density captures quite what I’m talking about. I’ve developed a new unit of measure to quantify this. Which I will now explain. In the next paragraph.

Were I to start the car in downtown Seattle on a Saturday afternoon and drive purposefully out of town, I’d be in the countryside reasonably quickly. Of course, my idea of the countryside might not match yours, so in order to reliably measure this we need to agree on some sort of standard fixture that is present in the countryside but not in town. This is the cow. Seattle, therefore, has a rating of somewhere around thirty minutes to cow. In London I think I’d be looking at well over 90MTC. Edinburgh, where my family lives, is about 25-30MTC. Manhattan is probably 120MTC. Of course, Bumfluff Arizona is probably a mere 1MTC, but you wouldn’t want to live there. This is why you should be careful to bear in mind population size when considering MTC ratings. I tried to come up with a simple way to work it in, but I couldn’t come up with any measure that didn’t make Los Angeles seem like a dairy farm. Suggestions appreciated.

 

Americans have something of a tradition about the place they choose to work. Regardless of their particular position in the company, they generally choose to work in places where they like the end product. Financiers in the software industry are gadget-junkies; delivery drivers in the pet food business have a house full of dogs. Hey, why work towards the creation of something you don’t care about?

In Britain, being excited about anything to do with work is gay. If you are interested in not looking gay, you should actively avoid any job which runs a risk of interesting you. If you’re bulemic and allergic to nuts, why not get a job in the food industry? You hate men? Get a job in a strip bar! If Stevie Wonder was British, he’d be a parachute stuntman.

Personally I rather enjoy being permanently curmudgeonly about work. However, this approach does leave the United Kingdom with a service industry which is almost entirely useless. Let me leave you with a typical conversation between a member of the public and an in-store customer service representative.

Salesman: Can I help you, sir?
Customer: Well, yes, actually, you can. About this hifi system –
Salesman: Ah yes, the C9000. Beautiful system, sir. Sound quality is truly astounding. Blows your mind, the sound quality on this –
Customer: I was wondering if it has a radio. I’m guessing it does, but I can’t see any buttons for it.
Salesman: Oh yes, sir. State of the art, the C9000.
Customer: So it has a radio?
Salesman: We can also do you a two year warranty on this one – if anything goes wrong, you can just bring it back here, no questions asked, and – well, you know the rest. Not that anything goes wrong with these things. I don’t think we’ve had a single one back this year.
[Salesman gives the stereo system an affectionate but firm pat on the top]
Customer: So it definitely has a radio?
Salesman: It’s got everything, this puppy. Sound quality is astounding.
Customer: Can you turn on the radio for me?
Salesman: Blows your mi – hmm. The radio?
Customer: Yes, can you turn on the radio? So I can hear the sound quality?
Salesman: Well yes, of course. Let me find the remote.
Customer: I don’t think it has a remote, actually.
Salesman: Of course, yes, I’m thinking of the C8000.
Customer: Actually, I don’t believe that one –
Salesman: All of the functions are available from behind this beautiful stainless steel sliding panel. See how smoothly that slides back? That’s quality right there.
[pause. Salesman gazes with reverence at stereo system]
Customer: The radio.
Salesman: Yes, amazing radio. Astounding sound quality.
Customer: The radio switches on from this panel?
Salesman: Look, I’ll let you in on something. It’s getting near the end of the month and my boss is really putting pressure on us to get the numbers up, so I think we can come to some sort of deal.
Customer: I’m unlikely to be interested unless it has a radio.
Salesman: Well sir, here we pride ourselves on our sixteen-day money-back risk-free guarantee. Do you know what that means, sir? It means that you can take it home, use it for two weeks, and if it turns out it doesn’t have a radio, you can put it back in its original packaging and bring it back here with no questions asked. Is that a deal, or is that a deal?

Some bright supermarket proprietor, many moons ago, realised that it would be much easier for people to shop at his supermarket if they had some sort of hand-propelled vehicle in which to pile up their shopping. He doubtless came up with a few different ideas and eventually settled on some sort of neo-cuboidal wireframe device with a handle at one end.

But then, something happened. Somehow the world managed to agree on the design so far, but something was to cause something of a schism in the realm of supermarket improvement.

If this was a Discovery documentary, there would now be a commercial break.

Somehow, the mechanism of steering a supermarket trolley in the United States ended up being different to that used in Europe. The Americans opted to have the rear wheels fixed on their vertical axis and the front wheels able to laterally rotate, much like the type of steering mechanism used on a car, or any other goddamned wheeled vehicle. The Europeans, however, elected to have all four wheels steer. This has the great benefit of making the device able to travel sideways, or diagonally, or through time, or across dimensions, with the only side effect that it cannot be deliberately moved in any direction whatsoever. The only way to steer a European shopping trolley is to crouch down behind it, stretch your arms down the entire length of its sides and rotate it using a shuffling motion like some sort of Russian dancer with an early Communist kidney dialysis machine. It is a common site in Europe to see old ladies, drawn and haggard, being led down the street by errant supermarket trolleys on journeys that had originated in a supermarket, sometimes one in the next town.

I can’t speak for the rest of the world here (well, I can, but it stands a high chance of being discovered to be false) but America has a much smarter approach to making you do your taxes than the UK does. In the UK you slave away all year, fill in your tax return, send it off and in a couple of months you either gain or lose a few quid. While you’re filling in the forms, you think about how the government are taking all this money that you worked so hard to make and spending it on gay marriage and old people. In America, you almost always get money back. This means that, whilst they don’t like form-filling any more than anyone else, Americans aren’t thinking the same stuff while they are sitting there writing down their social security numbers. They are actually thinking of the ride-on lawnmower, or the new flat-screen television, or the Sheryl Crow special edition real doll that they’re going to buy when the refund comes in. These are not necessarily the things that I personally thought about. I don’t have a lawn. I am also against neither gay marriage nor old people, just to nip that one in the bud.