Most of my adolescent memories involve sitting in the park with my pals, getting shit-faced on a sharing-size bottle of White Ace.
Growing up in a British household teaches you many important life lessons.
Like: the water follows the teabag, and once it’s brewed you may add the milk.
You’ve gotta be a quick dunker so as not to lose the biscuit in said tea. And Sundays are meant for pajamas and roast dinner.
It will be a rare and triumphant moment when she tells you that she loves you or says something remotely nice to you at all.
The rest of the time you’re going to be called an arsehole, dickhead, twat and if you’re really lucky… Us Brits only show affection to dogs, horses and our mums.
It might be exhausting to have a conversation with us because you’ll have to keep reminding yourself that every day is opposite’s day.
We might be known for being fairly stern and serious, but that’s because no one can tell when we’re joking.
We’re far less snooty and miserable about the London rush when we’re drunk.
So when you take a British girl out, be warned that she will keep the drinks coming long after you were ready to call it a night.
A picture of a dog in a swing that she saw on her newsfeed, a photo of her coffee that morning with the cute little biscuit it came with, rants about all the shitheads she has to be nice to at work — your Whats App is going to be pinging from the minute you leave her to the minute you see her again with all the things that you’re missing.
Yeah, we know you don’t really give a shit and we actually don’t give a shit what you’re up to either — but if you don’t join in on the back and forth and send us a picture of the man you saw wearing socks with sandals on the tube in November, you’ll see our wrath.