While that crowd in the White House continues to disgrace themselves — and all the rest of us Americans — by alienating every friend we’ve ever had, I’d like to go out on a limb and say a huge “thank you” to some of those very same friends for doing your best to stick by us. There are too many to name here: all of the NATO and EU countries, of course, plus so many others on every continent throughout the world . . . including the penguins in Antarctica.

For today, though, I’d like to concentrate on our British friends, to whom we owe so much: granting our independence after that little skirmish about 250 years ago; sending us Harry and Meghan, fish-and-chips, the Beatles; and something called Spotted Dick, which we can buy in a can (or “tin,” to you) over here but I’ve never been able to bring myself to try, for reasons better left unsaid.

*. *. *

On a more serious note, I remember as clearly as though it was yesterday, when our country had just been devastated by the 9-11 attacks on New York, Washington and Pennsylvania. My cousin had driven from her home in Rhode Island to D.C. to meet up with her daughter, who was flying back after having spent a student summer in Spain. She had managed to get onto one of the few flights coming into Dulles International Airport, arriving in the evening; and the entire Washington metropolitan area being on high alert, I told my cousin I wouldn’t let her go to the airport alone . . . as though I was going to be great protection for anyone. Still, I knew my way around the region, and she didn’t.

So off we went, and found ourselves in an eerily empty arrivals terminal . . . one that was normally crowded with people from all over the globe. We had arrived early, and were wandering aimlessly through the building when we spotted a group of about a dozen young men in military uniforms that were clearly not American.

Never having been known as the shy type, I approached them and asked where they were from. One young man said they had just arrived from England as part of a larger support group, to help their American friends in our time of need.

I wanted to cry. They were so earnest, so eager to be of help . . . something we Americans really aren’t used to; we’re normally the ones out there offering aid to others because we’ve been so damned lucky for so long.

All I could do was shake the young man’s hand, and — not knowing what else to say — I recall blurting out, “Thank you, and welcome back to the Colonies.”

So again . . . thanks for that, Great Britain.

*. *. *

But what brought on this uncharacteristic gush of sentimentality was actually the first really great belly laugh I’ve enjoyed in a long time — in fact, several of them.

I had started off yesterday afternoon, as I usually do, reading the news and thinking about subjects for my daily blog offerings. And what I saw were stories about Hungary inviting Benjamin Netanyahu to visit despite the ICC warrant against him; Bosnian leader Milorad Dodik defying a similar ICC warrant to visit Vladimir Putin in Moscow; apparent conflicts of interest involving, not only Elon Musk, but also national security advisor Mike Waltz and his wife; continued devastating attacks by Russia on Ukraine; the White House trying to sweep the “SignalGate” fuck-up under the carpet; China launching its biggest military “drills” ever around Taiwan as a warning; Germany warning Russia about this, Trump warning Putin about that, Putin warning everyone about everything . . .

Well, you get the picture. By the time I’d gone through all of that, I was thoroughly depressed. Worse, I didn’t know which story to attack first. And then I realized I didn’t want to write about any of them. It was too debilitating.

I needed cheering up. And since there was no one else at home at the time, I had to do it myself. So here’s where you British came into the picture.

Because a dear friend had given me the best Christmas gift ever in December: a year’s subscription to BritBox TV.

I have long been a fan of British mysteries and the subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) nuances of British humor. Need I even mention Downton Abbey, Midsomer Murders, or anything by Agatha Christie? And for the past three months, I’ve been hooked on such delights as Lewis, Shetland, and the newer Ludwig.

But yesterday I went searching for something really light, and I landed on a multi-season comedy show called Would I Lie to You? . . . featuring, among others, my newly-discovered favorite actor/comedian from Ludwig, David Mitchell. So I decided to watch an episode, and by the time the day was over, I had intermittently (pausing for a meal and a couple of calls of nature) gone through an entire season and started on a second one . . . by which time, my stomach hurt so badly from laughing, I had to stop.

The three regulars, and their four weekly guests, are among the cleverest, wittiest, quickest-thinking people I’ve ever come across. And I can’t get enough of them.

So for this, too, I thank you, Great Britain. Your programming may not literally have saved my life . . . but you absolutely did pull me out of my funk.

The only problem is whether I can now drag myself away from the telly long enough to do anything else. If you don’t hear from me for a while, I’ll be curled up with a pint of Haagen-Dazs and my BritBox.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/2/25