Dear Readers,
Good afternoon, and welcome to Off The Fence – it’s a newsletter, that much is clear.
Issue 24 has finally been released to the world, and we couldn’t be prouder to share our best edition yet. Tales abound of doomsday preppers, sugar mummies, street preachers, Russian spies, party crusties, bee shamen and Mitford heirs tuning pianos in Coventry. For as long as the world remains a weird and seedy place, we vow to keep bringing you the insiders and outsiders who know where these stories are hiding.
If you’re a subscriber already, fantastic. Your copy should be with you presently, if not already. If you’re keen to buy a single issue, we’re already flying off the shelves, so move to snatch your copy before the newsagents run dry, either off their shelves or on our shop page. If you want to find out what the fuss is about, subscribe today.
Okay, let’s go. This week, we have talentless nepos, parsimonious poshos and a deep dive into the Teutonic subconscious, but before we get on to that, let’s run the rule over our visiting friends across the Atlantic.
Let’s Go Back to the Slaughtered Lamb
Ever since Pocahontas – in a bout of dramatic irony – died of the flu at Gravesend, Americans have been getting it wrong in England. And it’s only getting worse.
Even just 15 years ago, Yankee Anglophilia cleaved into two broad camps: the latter-day heiresses to Mary Goelet, thirsty for a crumbling stately home and all the trappings that come with it; and the more cerebral, dare we say ‘hipster’ fans of assorted British cultural offerings: Blur, Mitchell and Webb, Radiohead, The Cure. Think of Chloë Sevigny at Sway, decked out as Joan of Arc with a Walkman in tribute to Bigmouth Strikes Again.
Thanks to the internet, American visitors are now into the quotidian jewels that make up the fabric of our nation: pints, Oasis, Love Island, deploying the word ‘cringe’. It’s driving us all bonkers and we’ve decided to do something about it.
We’ve asked a series of Anglo-Americans to help us put together a rough guide for Yankee visitors to these shores, a general primer on what to do and what not to say for the traveller, not the tourist.
Do You Have Anything Low-ABV?
We are on the record as, how shall we say, keen appreciators of the Great British boozer: their openness and conviviality, their quiet nooks and intangible charms; their sheer variety, depending on mood, location, design and pricing. But to quote one senior editor at the New York Times’ London bureau, ‘If you’ve been to one pub, you’ve been to them all’.
Now, to be fair to the satellite staffers at the Gray Lady, their office’s local is The Duke, around the backs of Lamb’s Conduit Street – the capital’s greatest interwar pub, and not a bad choice if you’re to only choose one. Yet it speaks to the American indulgence of finding your spot and pretending like the entire world revolves around it, which in many ways was the spirit of the founding of the Republic.
Now that Americans have ‘got into’ pubs, they are forever panelling their English friends to take them somewhere proper, where the locals go; thankfully, we know better than to show them our real favourites. There’s no surer way of spoiling a pub than making it a venue for sliders and triple-hopped IPAs.
Just a Regular Guy with a Serious Appetite
When working for Salomon Brothers in London in the 1980s, Michael Lewis found the food ‘deliberately inedible; an inside joke cooked up by the locals to see what humans would willingly consume.’ Yet in the last decade, the capital has indisputably become one of the world’s leading food cities.
But when either queuing up at Dishoom or talking with a terrifying certainty about the jerk pork at Tasty Jerk, the pepperpot at Kaieteur Kitchen or the moo krob at Singburi, American enthusiasm can be grating in the extreme. Conversely, when they bemoan the lack of good Mexican food or barbecue in the city – you don’t see us complaining about the absence of Lancashire hotpot off Broadway and Lafayette. Worst of all, however, is when they implore you to try the pie, mash & liquor at a branch of M. Manze’s, ‘if you haven’t already’. Our culture is not your costume.
Open Wide for Some Soccer
Who is to blame for the carpetbag capture of Premier League football? Some might say that the blame lies with Clint Dempsey, the stubbly goalgetter who led the line for Fulham and latterly, Tottenham ‘Spurs’ Hotspur at the turn of the tens. Others place the blame at the feet of Jonathan Shainin, former Long Read supremo at the Guardian, for sharing Spurs tickets with fellow transatlantic implants. Or maybe it’s Sir Harold Kane and his treacherous embrace of the NFL – a crime that, in better times, would’ve seen him pilloried into early retirement by the tabloids. But whoever you may pin it on, it is undeniable to anyone who has tried to have a pint in north London on a matchday that our Yankee friends have taken to the national sport with aplomb. And we’re fine with that. No, honestly. But please, we beg: go to a game, and stop clogging The Faltering Fullback with vintage home kits.
Sweet Energy and General Bonhomie
One thing we can affirm: Americans have much better manners than the rude Limeys. Regrettably, the English are loath to make a big effort for visitors, so if, as an American, you’re invited to someone’s house for dinner or a party, it is kind of a big deal (unless you’re a beautiful woman or a celebrity). Do say thank you and do be your charming, garrulous self and don’t, under any circumstances, write some tedious and unfunny dispatch for one of your many magazines about what people got up to late at night. No one needs to know!
Different Bicester
One thing that the English have right is that shopping is a lavatorial activity, not to be discussed in public under any circumstances. Many American visitors, high on weak sterling, cannot help but broadcast their splendid purchases from Savile Row. Rather than witter on about Anderson and Sheppard knitwear – and remind your English hosts of their relative poverty – discourse upon the quality of shortbread, or some other affordable foodstuff. Also: Portobello Market is overrated.
It’s Just Like Lord of the Rings
Somehow, Americans have managed to rebrand a corner of the English countryside made up out of six ancient shires as ‘The Cotswolds’. As ever, Americans are drawn to the ancient university towns and York. Might we suggest showing a little more imagination? A trip to the Quantock Hills or Northumberland National Park or a little city break in Sheffield will demonstrate your independence of mind and taste much more than supporting Spurs ever will, and much of England is regrettably undervisited. Though we must warn you that general tolerance of Americans spills into outright hostility in our country’s further regions.
Clark County, Revisited
Politically speaking, Britain is in a bad place. The runes are not looking bueno. The economy is tanked and no one seems to know what to do about it. But one thing we do know is that we don’t want American opinion on our current affairs. Offer insight and anecdote about Zohran Mamdani’s mayoral bid, a subject on which English people are genuinely interested, but be wary of publicly declaring yourself a ‘socialist’ if you have just told the assembled company that you’re a graduate of an Ivy League university. Be prepared for an exhaustingly Trump-centred evening if socialising with British boomers, whichever side of the aisle you happen to be on.
There we have it. The Fence wouldn’t exist – literally – if Americans didn’t come to London, and we are mighty pleased to have so many readers across the Atlantic. We just want you to have a good time when you come here.
SENDing Out an SOS
We’re delighted to lead the launch of our latest issue with one of the best first-person accounts we’ve ever featured in our pages – Jack Beaumont’s superb piece about his last year working at a school for those with special educational needs and disabilities (SEND).
Striking a delicate balance between detailing the job’s challenges, lauding its rewards and condemning the poor management that makes the role yet more difficult, Beaumont writes with passion, wit, warmth and anger. With Labour’s controversial SEND school reforms set to divide the commons once again in the coming weeks, this piece couldn’t be landing at a more vital time, and we urge you to read it right here.
No Clues Here, Officer
A blind item for you all this week, ripped from the pavement stones outside Grauman’s Chinese Theater. We have heard that one of Britain’s most garlanded actors now refuses, point-blank, to work with a former collaborator who sits very close to the top of the A-list, after having seen their long-rumoured behaviour around women confirmed to the fullest extent.
And if this seems vague, well, blame the vicissitudes of UK libel law for our inability to give any more details than this.
Young Money Trash Money Billionaires
We are, as we never tire of telling you, the UK’s only newsletter, but we are willing to admit that others do persist outside this nation’s sovereign borders. One of our very favourites is the superb Garbage Day, an award-winning newsletter from American tech reporter Ryan Broderick, whose work you’ve likely caught us linking to several times over the years. It offers up the stupidest stuff the internet has to offer, and the smartest analysis of this terrible, terrifying cultural moment, available anywhere online.
Three times a week (give or take), Garbage Day stuffs as much internet junk as possible into one email, so you don't have to go find it yourself. Memes, weird viral videos, internet drama, whatever the hell is happening with AI – it's all there. Make your inbox a little less professional and remember what it was like to have fun online again.
Fountains of Wayne
The cascade at Chatsworth in Derbyshire is really very magnificent. But why has the public, by way of the National Lottery Heritage Fund, funded it to the tune of £4.6 million? It may be run by a registered charity, but it’s very much lived in by the Duke of Devonshire and his family. They own one of the greatest art collections in the world – they could even sell one of their ten (10!) Lucian Freud paintings that rarely leave their private quarters. Or they could pay something from their £900 million fortune. Either one would have turned the spigot on.
For The Gram
Given that the entertainment industry has been a family business for centuries, we’re wary of being too dogmatic when it comes to the concept of ‘nepo babies’ in art. It makes at least some sense that the children of actors, musicians and artists might become actors, musicians and artists themselves. As privileged pathways go, lambasting them certainly seems to take the heat off the more prominent, and less discussed, route for British culture kids, which is to be born the child of banking, business or media executives.
Many nepo babies appear to be capable successors to their parents, while still more – we think here of Brooklyn Beckham in particular – add much to the gaiety of the nation with their fumbled careers and general rank ineptitude.
It’s only in the world of the Instagram comedian that we spike an eyebrow, simply because the prevalence of those who have famous parents from previous generations of Radio 4-adjacent light entertainers, does seem somewhat odd. The children ofMark Steel, Alastair Campbell, Clive Anderson and Simon Sebag-Montefiore – to name just four – might once have bounced into junior editing roles of national newspapers, or found themselves fronting BBC2 documentaries about youth issues. To find them, instead, as committed warriors in the Instagram giggle trenches, makes us wonder if there has been a devaluation of nepo stock, or if there’s a lot more money in that lark than people are letting on..
In Case You Missed It
The life of committed film extras.
JD Vance’s revealing amnesia of his own life, as dissected by Fintan O’Toole.
How Disney humour is increasingly infecting the West End.
This incredible man who uses a harp, two keyboards, two iPhones and a Britney mic to play chaotic music on Instagram.
A lovely repository of flea market photobooks reviewed for your reading pleasure.
And Finally
At the Cologne Carnival in 1973, Jonny Buchardt took to the stage and roared: ‘Let’s test the mood!’ A veteran of the German comedy scene, Buchardt rose to prominence for a sketch in which he played a gin salesman who, over a series of ad-breaks, slowly loses his sense of professionalism and control as he takes secretive sips of the alcohol. What impudence! The direct contradiction of the implied responsibilities incumbent upon an employee! The West German populace could scarcely conceive of a sillier concept, and so, a star was born.
In this clip, however, Buchardt plays the role of the innocent warm-up act, priming his audience – mostly composed of people born at the turn of the 20th century, as an unrelated point of information – with a few good chants.
‘Zicke Zacke, Zicke Zacke!’ ‘HOI! HOI! HOI!’ Clean enough.
‘Hip hip!’ ‘Hooray!’ Lovely.
‘SIEG!’... you can fill in the rest.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ang6Fw9Ff2k
It’s a tired cliché that the Germans aren’t funny; not because it isn’t true, more that it’s just axiomatic. What’s fascinating about this, however, is the window it provides into the shared psyche of a whole post-war population, unwittingly (we hope) Pavloved into the grandest display of Nazi salutation since the Berlin Olympics. In a climate where even mentioning the war and its perpetrators was a serious taboo for polite society, you have to applaud Buchardt’s ballsiness. Perhaps Stellan Skarsgård was fortunate to have known only one person who shed a tear when Hitler died.
All done. Did you enjoy this one? Give us a like or a comment below if so. Send your postage queries to support@the-fence.com. As the result of a 1694 indoor smoking ban, Members of Parliament are still entitled to a free pinch of snuff inside the chamber, dispensed from a box kept by the Principal Doorkeeper. Buy a copy of our book from Backstory. Catch you next time.
All the best,
TF