Those immortal words of Johnny Rambo reveal my current state of mind. One look at my yard and you’d understand why I’ve decided to seek a more terminal solution to eradicating the moles that have decided my yard is now their yard. As they are discovering, they’ve made a fatal mistake in judgment. Unfortunately lethal solutions are hard to come by in the UK. I can smoke them out with Castor oil bombs (worked for three days but I think in the end just made them mad), or use an organic, ecofriendly mole repellent that disolves in water and that you apply through a sprayer (useless, moles rutted right under it an hour after application).

I could try the sonar option where I drive this probe in the ground, feed it four D-sized batteries and the frequency supposedly drives them crazy then drives them to the neighbors yard. What a waste. Thing costs $30 and word is the moles become used to the frequency and return – possibly deaf, but more determined than ever to turn my yard into a subterranean freeway.

So, I’ve opted for a more lethal solution, but for effective application of lethal strategies, I sought advice from someone experienced in these matters. Someone who has proven his prowess in dealing with subterranean rodents. Someone, who has the mind…of an animal.

Carl Spackler.

I’ve taken Carl’s advice and stepped up my attempt to crush my enemy. I struck a blow last week when I patiently stood sipping a cup of coffee as the waning light began to dip beyond North Downs. Suddenly, I saw the ground twitching about 15 feet in front of me. I calmly placed my mug on the deck box, slipped quietly in the shed and grabbed my spade. I stalked the spot, squatted on one knee and rehearsed the thrusting action I intended to use. Finally, and with adrenaline surging through my body, I raised the shovel and thrust it into the ground with the determination Queequeg would have thrust a harpoon into the side of Moby Dick.

And it worked! I struck a fatal blow. The sense of satisfaction at my kill left me feeling more as if I’d gone on safari and killed a lion with my bare hands. I was tempted to pull a Henry VIII and put the carcass of my enemy on a pike and publicly display it as an example to other moles as to whose dominion this really is, but decided not to gloat until I was certain the problem was solved.

Unfortunately, it isn’t. I hear moles travel in pairs and unfortunately I believe the bereaving mole remaining in my yard has decided to make my life – or at least my yard – one big rut. Frankly the challenge is not the mole. The challenge is finding a terminal solution in the bleeding heart country of England. When asking at garden centers for something lethal, I’ve gotten shocked expressions. “You barbaric Colonist!” I can practically hear blurting from their minds. “How can you be so cruel to such a tiny creature.”

Easy. Look at my yard.

After a significant amount of searching I opted for the only terminal trap I can find.A claw trap. (There are a number of lethal options in the states and I’ve used the harpoon trap with GREAT result, but unfortunately is not available in the UK). So far it has been useless. I stand a better chance of waiting for the mole to emerge and chasing it around the yard flailing at it with a shovel.

So, the war rages on and when the growing number of people ask me how I’m making it against my yard rodents, like Rambo I respond, “day by day.”

“Why is she skipping and water sipping and visiting with friends?” I asked myself, exasperated by her lack of a competitive killer spirit on her first Sports Day here in the UK. Sports Days are common place in schools here and consist of beanbag tosses, and rope skipping, egg and spoon relays and other such intensive contests. “Why isn’t she focusing on the next toss?”

And that is when the subtle thought entered my mind that my daughter may simply be content to have fun sometimes and not be competitive all the time (if that is even possible!). I quickly chased the idea from my mind and began helping her understand that if she tossed the beanbags instead of throwing them she’d have more control and possibly score three out of three. I got that, “Whatever, dad” look.

Now let me just state I’m NOT one of those parents. You know the type, they shout through the backstop at the umpire during a T-ball game, or shadow the coach constantly telling him why their kid ought to be moved to a more strategic position. I set out three years ago when my daughter played on her first soccer team to encourage participation and fun.  It never crossed my mind that there are people in this world who somehow have managed to separate competition/winning and fun, so imagine my surprise when my kiddo didn’t particularly like the games, but simply loved being at practice with her teammates.

“My name is Chris,” I could just see myself meekly say with lowered head to an ex-jock, win-at-all costs Competitive Dad’s Anonymous support group. “I have a great kid, exceptional in math and reading, respectful to her mom and I and to other adults, who enjoys music and art and friends and dress-up and butterflies and strawberries and trampolines, but most times when it comes to competition is content to….participate.”

Funny thing is, my daughter is competitive. She hates losing at board games and loves nothing more than to beat her daddy at, well anything and everything. The smallest thing is a competition. Backgammon is a Battle Royal. Beating me is fun. Losing brings on the waterworks. I’ve tried to tell her, “There’s no crying in Backgammon!” I’ve even heard myself say, “Try your best and if you lose that’s okay. It’s about having fun competing.”

And come to find out that is what Sports Day in the UK is about. Teachers spent most of their time encouraging five, six and seven year old boys and girls to stick with it, keep trying, “keep chin up.” Enjoy the competition. And fortunately these fine teachers weren’t interrupted by any of those parents. I don’t think there was a child who will look back on this day and say they didn’t have any fun, including my daughter, who gave Sports Day two thumbs up.

She’ll never remember that third beanbag that skipped through the hoop, and I need to learn to celebrate the two she landed.

There, I said it. No remorse. No shame, and actually it feels quite liberating. Saying you hate soccer is almost as politically incorrect these days as saying you think people migrating to America ought to enter the country legally; or that one of the most noble purposes bovines serve is being slow roasted to medium rare and served with a large baked potato. Seems like there has been such a push over the past few years for good ol’ red-blooded, American sports fans to become more tolerant of a game that requires incredible skill, yet features world class whiners.

And therein lies the contempt I have for the sport. Just when I’m seduced by the exploits of Wayne Rooney and actually endure a full 90 minutes of a Premier League game, or find myself talking to my neighbor about the nuances of Manchester United vs. Manchester City, the World Cup came around and reminded me all over again that I hate soccer.

It’s the floppers, whiners and drama queen prima donnas that for me so totally hijack any ounce of interest I may have been lured to invest. I scream at the television, things like, “get up you sissy;” or, “real men don’t get hurt by imaginary people,” or, “Even Reese Witherspoon can act better than that” (albeit not by much).

“It’s part of the game,” I’ve been told by many an aficionado with an international perspective. However, I am certain these same fanatical groupies would see Mike Tyson biting off Evander Holyfield’s ear as part of boxing. “Hey, hey!,” an offended and snobbish soccer fan may retort. “Not the same. Biting is cheating.” Well, I see flopping and diving as cheating. It totally undermines the spirit of competition at the least and at worst – which it usually is – manipulates the rules of the game to seize an unfair advantage. That’s cheating, and I hate it.

Makes me wonder where along the way these stars picked up this dastardly flopping habit. I’ve helped coach four-year-old girls soccer at the Y and it never crossed the minds of our girls to act like, well, four-year old girls. They were too busy talking with friends on other teams, watching planes fly over the field or chasing the ball around in a pack with about 10 other girls. No flopping, even though there were low velocity impacts with the ground due to lack of coordination. We did have crying, but it was because somebody got vanilla icing on a cupcake instead of chocolate. You know, legitimate stuff. Come to think of it, I’d have more respect for the world’s elite players if they cried and whined about stuff like not getting chocolate icing rather than mysteriously being tripped by an opponent who happened to be within about five yards of the flopper about the time he goofed and lost possession of the ball. (Notice next time, floppers usually grab an ankle and virtually all writhe with the same pained expression while their closest teammate kneels to console him and the second closest teammate pleads an animated case with the hapless official.)

Having one official doesn’t help the sport whose boys cry wolf seemingly every trip down field. The officials I’ve observed throughout the World Cup are either smack in the middle of play and in the way, or they  offer their best guess on a flop from 30 meters away. Why not have a three-man official rotation like NBA basketball (speaking of whiners…)? Better yet, why not flash some of those red cards above the heads of the whiners instead of above the heads of the guys being called for a foul and whose mere proximity to the whiner surprisingly was enough to throw them to the ground, causing life threatening injuries (and from which the whiner miraculously recovers in time to kick the penalty or jump up and reposition in the event a call is not made in his favor.)

Yep, I hate soccer and its floppers and whiners. You don’t see flopping in rugby. Flop in rugby and even the guys on your own team will pummel you. You don’t see flopping in cricket either. Flop in cricket and you stand a good chance of being denied a hot cup of tea. Maybe I was a little too hard in my evaluation of cricket. At least cricketers act like gentlemen.

Soccer players are floppers. And whiners. And act like four-year old girls who got the wrong icing on a cupcake.

I hate soccer.

I even love tea. I never drank it much before coming here, at least not the hot variety, but I’ve grown to understand which brands common folk are inclined to drink and which ones the posh people consume, I enjoy them all. I love almost everything about the UK.

And then there’s cricket.

We had a village fair (fete) today and the local cricket club was playing a “friendly” against a neighboring village.  I focused intense energy from afar trying to understand what the heck was going on. Having played baseball I could draw some similarities. There is a batter (batsman) and a pitcher (bowler) and a ball (interestingly enough, also called a “ball” in cricket). That was about all I could piece together. I wandered down to the scorer’s tent in a determined effort to come away with an understanding of how score is kept at the least. If successful, I was certain I could handle an explanation as to why test matches last four days.

As I approached the tent, I picked up some handy vernacular. “Oh, well played James,” as a ball was thrown back toward the wicket; and “Peter, that was well handled, brilliant!” when one of the fielders actually managed to catch a ball without trying to surround it like a soccer goalie. “Cracky” got a mighty swing on the ball and hit it over the boundary and into the weeds. “Cheers Cracky. That’s a six.”

“Hey, could I disturb you gentlemen for a few moments to explain to a novice the nuances of cricket?” I asked, certain I’d get a most welcome response, which I did.

“Actually, cricket spectators and baseball spectators have much in common,” replied one chap waiting his turn to bat. I asked how so. “Both consume massive quantities of beer.” Of course I laughed and agreed, but in my mind thinking “I’d probably consume gallons if I actually had to play cricket…or watch four consecutive days of it.”

Thirty minutes later I got up to leave believing that if for some odd reason our television only received one channel, and I was desperate to watch TV, and the only thing on was a cricket match, I’d at least understand better how score is kept (but still with no clue for why a game – match – takes four days). As I was about to slip away, one kindly gentlemen (as all of them were) invited me to play next Sunday. How to respond? “I’d rather be beaten with a sticky wicket,” shot through my mind, but I managed to say, “I’m afraid I wouldn’t do the game justice, but I deeply appreciate the offer.”

Maybe I’ll give lawn bowls a go.

I haven’t blogged for close to three months. I could say my time has been filled with intensive sprints up and down steep grades, weight workouts that would make a rugby player wilt and long hikes through the English country side building the stamina of a Kenyan marathoner – all in preparation for my Dorking to Dover hike (wrote about it here) along the North Downs Way.

I could say all that….but it’d be a lie. Truth is I’ve spent time running around London chasing after a bunch of guys from The Upstream Collective with a video camera, over to Paris where I suffered through delicious chocolate crepes, long lines at EuroDisney and a sprint along slick cobble stone lanes through Pere Lachaise Cemetery to spend five minutes at Jim Morrison’s (The Doors) grave site before sprinting back to the subway in an attempt to make an appointment on the other side of town (and was one minute late).

Somewhere along the way I strained a tendon in my knee (aggrevating it by paying more attention to the Eiffel Tower than walking in the dark) so haven’t been training for the 100 miles that lie ahead. Undaunted, but mildly concerned, I’ll launch out this week for the big trip. Concerned because to complete the ramble (as we call it here in the UK) I’ll need to cover about 25 miles a day to finish the trail in  four days.

Some of the challenge of the trip is that the North Downs occasionally brushes past a few villages but unfortunately more times than not an additional 1-2 miles is required to hoof it into town. Not interested in the extra mileage so for lunch I’ll dine on the packaged cuisine of PowerBars and Oberto beef jerky.

Most of my countrymen don’t know that “pubs” is actually short for “public houses” and aren’t just for for sampling wheat and barely in liquid form. Pubs also offer lodging – cheap lodging in many cases – and I’m counting on cheap lodging since I’m not hauling a tent, sleeping bag or much of anything else. Along the way should pass some castles, hike along an old Roman Road, see a bunch of WWII stuff, choke down several pounds of fish ‘n chips in the evening and walk along the white cliffs that lead into Dover. Provided I survive it all the way to Dover, I’ll enjoy the train ride home and post an account of the big adventure in a week’s time.

And aside from taking occasional  “creative license,” the story will (mostly) be accurate.

A sax player in the Queen's Guard procession.

There are horses, flags, guns, marching bands, big fuzzy black hats and swords. It is the pinnacle of pomp and pageantry.

However, I was looking the other direction, watching the french horn player twist his instrument in circles working the spittle through the piping and out the bell. Not so much the pinnacle of pomp and pageantry – but a necessity if you don’t want your french horn to sound like it is gargling with salt water.

I’ve written previously on some reasons why I’m quite keen toward Brits and now add to the list.

1. Pomp and pageantry. I can’t think of a circumstance in which Brits might not seize the opportunity to add a significant amount of pomp…and I love it! I love ceremony, procession, pomp, formality and marching bands that play marching songs (think John Phillip Souza). Brits are pompous (often times in both senses of the word!). I don’t know that I know Brits well enough to say that to be British is to be inclined toward pomp, but I don’t know that it would be far off. Ceremony in regard to tradition is deeply ingrained in this culture, and it ought to be celebrated. It is one thing that makes Brits distinctly British.

Colors over British Parliment

This is an exceptional people who have done much in 1,000 years. Frankly, I am a bit perturbed at Brits who seem so quick to criticize their heritage and hand it over to multiculturalism in the name of tolerance. I see it happening in my own country (USA). It is the ceremonial parade of tradition that might just serve as a reminder to those who undermine their own country of the greatness Britain was and help some regain a respect for their culture.

2. The monuments. I’ve now made about five trips past Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square, 10 Downing Street, Parliament and Westminster Abbey. It all seems surreal being here and seeing it all but as I’ve continued to learn more about British history the more I appreciate the buildings and monuments that stand as a testimony to great architects (like Christopher Wren), great heroes (like Admiral Lord Nelson and his decisive victory at Trafalgar) and great statesman (like Winston Churchill). The monuments are grand, and formal and imposing and do justice to the people for whom they honor.

3. The city is photogenic. Okay, this one isn’t so much about Brits as London, but let’s face it, London has got to be one of the coolest – if not the coolest – city on earth. Because of the ubiquitousness of monuments, historical sites, great architecture and famous places, there is never ending fodder at which to point a camera. So, in that spirit, here are a few photos from the day.

Trafalgar Square down Whitehall to Big Ben.

Barcelona futbol fans descend on Piccadilly Circus.

Yours truly reflected in the ceremonial breatplate of a calvary officer on display at the calvary museum.

Dorking's St. Martin's church

I don’t believe that I’ve ever walked through Dorking without the words of John Mellencamp’s song “Small Town” echoing through my mind. (So, here’s my video dedication to my adopted town.)

The Tower of London, also known as The White Tower, was built by William the Conqueror nearly 1,000 years ago.

Anyway, I just knew our friends would agree that Henry was the Pol Pot of the medieval world, establishing a lifelong reputation as a butcher and general despot. “We don’t think about him much really,” my friend said. “There is so much history to keep track of most of us never give him that much thought.”

Trajan, ruler of Rome during the Roman occupation of modern day London. The statue stands adjacent to the Tower of London and the Roman wall behind Trajan was once part of the Tower's defenses.

1. Brits…period. People told us before we arrived that Brits were cold and standoffish, difficult to get to know. Nothing could be further from the truth. Brits love to converse and it is most common to hear laughter within minutes.

2. British moxie. The dictionary defines moxie as vigor; verve, pep, courage, aggressiveness, nerve, skill, know-how. and lists related words as backbone, grit, gumption, guts. All these things define Brits. You don’t survive a 1,000 years of their history without a “stiff upper lip”. You certainly don’t emerge from the rubble of the Blitz during WWII without having some moxie. Brits have tons of moxie.

3.British humor. Mention this and most people’s minds quickly drift to their favorite Monty Python, Benny Hill or Mr. Bean scenes. Frankly, Americans, for the most part, don’t get the extremely quick and dry wit of Brits or their ability to poke fun at what they see as absurdities in their own culture. (Here is an example. Side splitting stuff…if you get it). I find myself at times laughing uncontrollably, especially with sitcoms like “Yes, Minister” (clip below).

4. British history. Seriously, think about all the Brits have done to shape the world in the past 350 years and you understand why it was once said the sun never sets on the British Empire. Of course there are some warts, but Brits have made massive (a commonly used word by Brits) contributions to exploration, science, literature, and world trade. Think of the British missiological and theological giants like Charles Spurgeon, Eric Liddell, David Livingstone, John Wycliffe, John Bunyan and C.S. Lewis to name but a few. It is unfortunate that too many of today’s “tolerant-minded” Brits seem to find all that is wrong with being British and are undermining a fantastic (another commonly used word) culture.

5. British use of language. I’ve mentioned this before so won’t belabor it but Brits really make the the English language dance. Couple the ability to do gymnastics with words with humor and you’ve got one clever Brit.

All nationalities have nuances that make them unique but it has been enjoyable so far to be introduced to those things that make Brits uniquely British.

The term “Day Tripper” may have been most popularized in the Beetles song, Baby you can drive my car. It is a common expression here and often defines a person who makes a day trip into London. I had a friend in town today who has been through London on many occasions but never to London so I gave him what I’ve come to call the walking tour.

Basically it is the train to London’s Victoria Station, walk the six blocks to Buckingham Palace, through Green Park to Piccadilly then several blocks to Piccadilly Circus, to the Texas Embassy for lunch (which is actually in the building that was the headquarters for the shipping line that owned the Titanic), to Trafalgar Square, down the hill on Whitehall (which is where 10 Downing Street is, to Big Ben and Parliment with a view across the River Thames to the London Eye, around the corner to Westminster Abbey, then a double-decker bus back to Victoria and the train home. Here’s some shots from the day.

Buckingham Palace

View of Big Ben down Whitehall from Trafalgar Square

Where the PM hangs out.

The London Eye from Westminster Bridge

Parliment silhouette

Big Ben

Westminster Abbey

Safire died in September (2009) ending a life of language. I began reading his column, “On Language” when I was in high school and followed it through college. His giddiness over words was contagious. Safire was the first person I thought of when I read the column below in a local publication (sorry, would credit the author but there was no byline). One of the things I LOVE about Brits is their use of language. Many have a broad vocabulary and put combination of words together that make this English speaker feel like the language gods have rolled in a buffet of fresh catch and invited this mortal to a word feast. It’s sometimes like living in a Monty Python movie.

Hope you enjoy this as much as I did.

The English Language Lesson

We’ll begin with a box and the plural is boxes, but the plural of ox become oxen, not oxes.

One fowl is a goose, but two are called geese, yet the plural of moose should never be meese.

You may find a lone mouse or a nest full of mice, yet the plural of house is houses, not hice.

If the plural of man is always called men, why shouldn’t the plural of pan be called pen?

If I speak of my foot and show you my feet, if I give you a boot, would a pair be called beet?

If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth, why shouldn’t the plural of booth be called beeth?

Beware of a heard, a dreadful word, that looks like beard and sounds like bird.

If teachers taught, why didn’t preachers praught?

How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites?

(You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out and in which an alarm goes off by going on.)