motty, n.
1. Mining. A miner’s tally; a stick of wood or disc of metal, notched or stamped in a particular way, placed on a full corf to identify it as the work of a certain miner. 2. A word, opinion; esp. in to put one’s motty in: to stick one’s oar in, to interfere.
Foul
Every day when Laurann walked past the butcher’s shop, the man behind the counter waved. She wasn’t sure how to feel about this pleasantry, as she had embraced Veganism while dating her ex. Despite never exchanging more than the sad little wave, Laurann knew the sound of the butcher’s voice. Mondays were his delivery day, and like clockwork at half past eight he yelled to his employees, “Oy, would any of you lazy arse buggers mind putting your motty in?” And just like that, Laurann, an unapologetic Anglophile, was smitten.
It’s not exactly revelatory to praise British television shows (I’m watching The Vicar of Dibley, which might explain the religious nature of that sentence). Dawn French is a personal idol of mine. As is Jennifer Saunders. Absolutely Fabulous and French and Saunders rock. Then there’s Fawlty Towers, Coupling, Monarch of the Glen, Ballykissangel, Foyle’s War, MI-5, and on and on ad infinitum.
And let us never forget the two perfect comedies given to us by Ricky Gervais. It’s cool to prefer The Office to Extras, but I’ve never cared about being cool. Which probably explains the Amishy way I sometimes dress. I just like Andy Millman so much. He’s flawed and sometimes mean but his heart always ends up in the right place. His friendship with Ashley Jensen as Maggie is my favorite male-female friendship on a t.v. show next to Liz and Jack on 30 Rock.
I watched the BBC miniseries North and South last weekend and developed a massive crush on Richard Armitage. The man is tall, dark, handsome and British. And it reminded me of something that I realized about ten years ago. I don’t have much desire to marry. I think it’s a great institution, but as Mae West said, “I’m not ready for an institution” (I am sure there are friends who would disagree.)
However, I’ve secretly believed for as many years as it’s been since I studied abroad that I very much want to marry. I want to marry a Brit. I don’t know what it is about British men that just ruffles my feathers. Their accents certainly. Their love of literature and theatre. Their appreciation of intelligent, real women. I know I’m speaking in wild generalizations, but I found those characteristics present in many more British men than American men. Which means it’s time to move to London. Poor me…