Well, maybe not lots, but several. Like the view from my bedroom window. This was what I saw when I opened the curtains this morning.
It's not Italy... or Egypt... or Venezuela.
Fish and chips.
We don't have climate, we have whether - whether it's raining or whether it's not.
The beer's not cold enough to pull the fillings out of my teeth.
Stiff upper lips, don't you know.
The distant view of Salisbury cathedral as I drive through Britford.
The people speak English (except for some in the north-east who speak a strange language known as Geordie).
A nice cup of tea.
The Lake District.
The National Health Service.
Royal Marine bands.
The English reserve.
The Royal Family (well, most of them).
The South Downs.
Swallows and Amazons.
Old wooden signposts.
The English Channel (which the French call The Sleeve).
Cornish cream teas.
Devonshire cream teas.
Kentish oast houses.
Morcambe and Wise.
A full English breakfast.
The sense of humour.
Speaking of which,
On a train from London to
Manchester to watch the cricket, an Australian was berating the Englishman sitting across from him in the compartment.
English are too stuffy. You set yourselves apart too much. You think
your stiff upper lip makes you above the rest of us. Look at me. . .. .
I'm ME! . . .. . . .I have Italian blood, Greek blood, a little Irish blood, and some Aborigine blood. What do you say to that?"
The Englishman replied,"Awfully sporting of your mother, old chap!"