I’ve watched the BBC — the real BBC — for over 20 years. The ersatz “BBC America” that we get here in the United States has so little to do with the real BBC that I almost wish someone would file a false advertising lawsuit against it. On the off chance anyone from the real BBC care about the fake BBC you export to the the US, some thoughts on how there could be less suckage.

HD: Perhaps you’re aware that there’s this thing called high-definition television. It’s where the picture is crisp and sharp. I know that the BBC has it back in Britain. Would it be so hard to actually use it when you air things here? Why, oh why, does so much of what you show have to be in fuzzy SD? Are we not worthy of HD? Remember the Royal Wedding? We had to turn to American networks rather than you to see that properly. I don’t know why you aren’t doing this yet with DirecTV but fix it.

Less Doctor Who: I know Doctor Who is a big hit. But it seems like whenever I’m tuning it, that’s all your showing, unless….

Less Top Gear: I freaking love Top Gear. But seriously, you’re showing 7 hours of it today. Is there anything else made by the BBC other than Doctor Who and Top Gear?

Less “Insert Overplayed Show” Here: Today, Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmare gets 7 hours of airtime. Tomorrow there’s another 9 hours. It’s like an 8-Track tape that just keep restarting for this show and others. Do you actually have anyone thinking about programming? Or it is effectively shove in a DVD of some series and set it running?

Less Non-British Shows: Why are you showing X-Files? Yeah, I know Gillian Anderson lives in the UK now, but does any slight connection with Britain make something eligible for your channel? And Star Trek: The Next Generation? Patrick Stewart give you the qualifier there? Clash Of The Titans, the Harry Hamlin version? You’re killing me.

More British Shows You Don’t Show: You know, it’s not Christmas really if I can’t tune-in to see who’d going to die on EastEnders. OK, I’m more a Corrie person than EastEnders, and I haven’t watched either for years. But there’s no place for your long-running soap opera in your schedule? One Top Gear slot couldn’t be lost? And maybe you could air “Have I Got News For You” here? Because yes, even Americans would find that funny.

More British Shows You DO Show: Here’s what especially ticked me off today. You tweeted about Outcasts.

I caught the beginning of Outcasts when watching Come Fly With Me this weekend (thanks for finally getting that out to us, eventually). A little of the series came on after the end. Wow, Hermione Norris in a sci-fi flick? I’m there with no Cold Feet. But I want to see the first episode I missed. So when are you playing that again?

Flip flip flip through my program guide I go. Not forever. It’s days of Doctor Who Top Gear Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmare Law & Ordre UK Graham Norton until it finally gets a repeat airing tomorrow, the again on Friday. Two single solitary repeats.

Hey, I’m glad it’s being repeated, even if they are so few that the only way for me to spot them was to go online and examine your schedule. But why so much of so much else, over and over again?

Welsh Rugby: I cannot go through another year of my half-English, half-Welsh wife screaming at you for failing to bring 6 Nations matches that involve Wales into the US. Because when it comes to rugby, she’s all Welsh. And when you air English matches but not Welsh ones, she doesn’t care — nor do many other people care — that you haven’t somehow obtained the rights. They just see you and dissing Wales. So get the rights.

Listen, this is what you tell the world on in your FAQ:

BBC AMERICA is a digital cable and satellite channel dedicated to bringing audiences a new generation of award-winning television featuring razor-sharp comedies, provocative dramas, life changing makeovers and news with a uniquely global perspective. BBC AMERICA’s programming pushes the boundaries to deliver high quality, highly addictive and eminently watchable programming to viewers who demand more.

I’m sorry, endless repeats of Top Gear and Doctor Who isn’t pushing any boundaries. Showing the X-Files & Star Trek: The Next Generation just makes you Netflix with ads. I want to love you, BBC America, but I need a little more of the BBC for that to happen.

Apparently, some people believe President Barack Obama wants to turn the United States into a socialist country — with fears that this would be a terrible step in the wrong direction. Fair to say, most people with these fears have never lived in a socialist country. I have, in Britain, for 12 years. I thought I’d share a bit about how terribly different and strange that economic system is from the one we enjoy in the United States.

It’s not that different.

In Britain, you have rich people, poor people and a lot of people in between. The key difference, economically speaking, is that the poor people have a safety net both in terms of income support and universal health care. This does not come by taxing the rich people to death. Neither does this produce a huge class of people who do nothing but live off the state.

I’ll expand on both of these points in a moment. But first, let me further clarify that both “sides” in the “Barack wants to make us socialist” debate haven’t actually lived in a socialist country. I say both sides, but it really seems to be one side shouting loudly that this is going to happen and another side arguing it is not, rather than being “pro-socialist.” No one wants to be pro-socialist, since that word sounds almost as bad as some people have made “liberal” be.

Not only have most people arguing not experienced socialism, but the term itself fails to be defined. When I hear it in commentary, usually from those who feel we’re headed in that direction, it seems to be a shorthand description for an Animal Farm-esque country with high taxes where everyone gets the same amount of money regardless of how hard they work or their own personal initiative and talents.

It’s been a long time since I had to study different economic models, and it is far from my area of expertise. What exactly is a socialist country? If we hit Wikipedia, it says:

Socialism refers to a broad set of economic theories of social organization advocating public or state ownership and administration of the means of production and distribution of goods, and a society characterized by equality for all individuals, with a fair or egalitarian method of compensation

Well, who wants to trust what Wikipedia says. OK, how about Encarta:

Socialism, economic and social system under which essential industries and social services are publicly and cooperatively owned and democratically controlled with a view to equal opportunity and equal benefit for all. The term socialism also refers to the doctrine behind this system and the political movement inspired by it.

So the key points of socialism:

• The state owns industry
• People earn equally

By that definition, Britain isn’t socialist. Most of Europe isn’t. But I say I have lived in a socialist country, because let’s consider some of the popular ways people assume socialism to be defined. From a search on “socialist country,” I came across these gems:

• It estimated that Americans pay approx. 43 % of our income to local, state and the federal government in one form of tax or the other. Does this mean that if this number goes up to , say 51 % , we are technically, for the most part a socialist country ? Is it more likely that government will GROW instead of shrink ? Ron Paul fans ? (Askville)
• I’m talking, like, Sweden. Where you pay a grip load of taxes, but don’t usually end up being neck-deep in debt from healthcare, student loans, or stuff like that. Would you move there? Discuss. (Yelp)
• I love America. I hope it remains a democracy, not a Socialist society. … If you look at spreading the wealth, that’s honestly right out of Karl Marx’s mouth (Joe The Plumber)
• Maybe I need to restructure this question a little bit here because I agree with you, I think we’re still a center right country, but the American people did elect Barack Obama who did say he was going to spread the wealth with Vice President Joe Biden who said it’s our patriotic duty to pay more taxes. Why should we be surprised that they followed through what their promises are? Back door national health care. (Sean Hannity)

The key points of socialism as I’ve read it in the past months according to popular accounts, usually by those who have a view to “stopping it,” are:

• Higher taxes on the rich, which in turn provide some services for those with less wealth
• National health care

Let’s take higher taxes first. If taxing rich people more is what makes a country socialist, well, Britain sure does that. However, it doesn’t do it to the degree people still think is the case. Years and years and years ago, there was a time when some people with extremely high wealth could find up to 90% of their income taxed. As I’ve talked to many people over the years, there’s still a perception that Britain and much of Europe still has taxation rates of 50% or more.

That’s not the case, in Britain. In fact, as a top rate earner, I paid about the same in taxes in Britain than I did in the United States.

In Britain, I paid a national income tax of 41%. Not all of my income was taxed at that rate, just the amount above around $60,000. That income tax also included my National Insurance contribution, which is like Social Security for the UK.

In the United States, the rate is about 28% when you get above $60,000 on up to 35%, if you earn over $350,000. Cheaper, right? Ah, but I’ve also got a Social Security contribution to make. Plus, I live in the state of California, which has a 9.3% top rate on state income tax. Combined, it’s not that far away from Britain. It certainly isn’t the vast difference that many assume is the case in “socialist” Britain or Europe.

Moreover, if taxing people who earn more a higher rate is what makes a socialist country, then I guess we’ve been living the socialist life here in the United States for ages. For as long as I can remember, there’s been a tiered system of income tax rates. How did this suddenly become a tipping point under Obama?

Now let’s move to universal health care. I love America dearly. I’m proud of my country, patriotic and happy to be back living at home once again. But our lack of health care is a national embarrassment. It’s shameful. We appear as a backward, savage country when you talk about our health care system compared to far more civilized countries on this front in Europe or in Canada.

In Britain, the National Health Service covered the birth of both of my children, completely. I paid for parking on trips to the hospital. That was it. Not only that, but for months afterward, a “health visitor” came to our house to do follow-up health care check-ups. I also had my kids to the emergency room on three or four different occasions, again without any cost to me. My wife had an unexpected life-threatening illness that was treated again at no cost.

Everyone is covered. People don’t sell their homes in order to get treatment just to stay alive. People don’t worry that they might get struck down out of the blue and lose everything. Children don’t have to hope that their families are lucky enough to be under the poverty live in order to be covered, or lucky enough that their families can afford coverage. People don’t live in fear there will be some pre-existing condition that’s used to block coverage. They don’t worry that losing their jobs means losing their health care coverage.

When you try to explain the US “system” of health care to those in Britain, you really understand just how appalling our country covers our own citizens. People simply can’t comprehend the idea that people are allowed to die or get needed medical treatment simply because they are poor.

The NHS is not perfect. The hospitals can be busy. Emergency room waiting times can be long. It is a bureaucratic nightmare that constantly screams that they just need more money. At times, I desperately wanted there to be some competitor to the NHS just so some of those who had almost an entitlement attitude to their jobs got a kick in the ass. But it was far better than having nothing, and those who weren’t happy with what was provided had the option to go for private care.

Nor is the UK some type of utopia. I can’t speak to the coverage provided to those who lose their jobs in terms of income protection. I can say there is a strong culture of people being “on benefit,” to the degree that you’d see things like movie tickets still sold in places at a lower rate to those who could show an unemployment card. But I don’t think it’s the case that you have a vast wasteland of unemployed slackers living off the work of others.

I don’t think it’s constructive at all, during the real challenge that the US faces right now economically, to simplify things as “socialist or not,” especially when that term is ill-defined. Having universal health care doesn’t mean being a socialist country; lacking it doesn’t mean you’re a capitalistic country. The reality is that the United States is far from practicing some pure form of capitalism. We have a tradition, especially since the Great Depression, of having the state provide basic benefits that protect our citizens overall.

Laws protect workers from unsafe employment practices. Laws protect citizens from unsafe food packaging. Laws and structures ensure that our money doesn’t go “poof” when deposited into a bank. Laws protect us from companies gaining unfair monopolies. Laws provide us with a guaranteed retirement income (even if what’s that worth seems so worthless these days).

If you’ve never read Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle, or John Steinbeck’s The Grapes Of Wrath, I strongly encourage you do so, especially if you worry that caring better for our citizens is somehow turning American into some socialist state. They are gripping novels of a time America moved away from. What we really need are more books like this now to capture the popular spirit of just how dysfunctional our current society is in caring for all of its people. It can be done — where necessary and useful — without taxing the rich to death and without abandoning the poor, and doing so makes us all stronger.

Postscript: Jeffrey McManus notes that the UK also charges a 15% VAT (sales tax) charge on products and services that consumers purchase. I did mean to mention this. That’s absolutely true — in fact, it used to be 17.5%. But it’s not levied on everything (food, for instance) similar to how in California, sales tax isn’t applied to everything. Taxes can also be much higher than in the US for things like cigarettes or gasoline (when I left last year, we were paying $14 per gallon for gas, 75% of which was due to government taxes).

In California, we also pay sales tax — around 8%, depending on your county. That still puts the UK higher on the sales tax rate. But the main point I’m making I think is still true — the UK doesn’t have this 50%+ income tax rate that some people seem to assume is a hallmark of the country or a requirement of a “socialist” state.

I also can’t stress enough that I’m not saying the UK is perfect, or that taxes in the US should go up or that everything the UK provides as a government service is something the US should do. I actually tend to want the government to provide as little as possible (since what it does provide tends to become bureaucratic, in my view) and charge as little tax as possible. There are also no end of things that either the UK government or the European Union decides it needs to regulate things that I find infuriating.

Case in point — buy a drink in any bar in the EU. You’ll see a line on the glass to ensure that you are getting the “full” amount you paid for, say a full shot glass. The drink has to be poured up to the line. It’s stupid — no one regulates the prices charged. So if one bar “shorted” you a little by not pouring a completely full shot, it doesn’t matter since they might be charging you far less than some other overpriced bar that fills right to the top.

Still, I think we need a fair and renewed assessment of what basic services we should be covering for our citizens free from charged political concepts and lockstep viewpoints. Do we, as a country, think all people here should be provided with basic health care? That’s not a “socialist” viewpoint to me, any more than asking if we think all children should be entitled to a basic education. At some point, the US grew up in its thinking to decide education for all was a service that should be provided, because it benefited the country as a whole. Does something benefit the country? We need to ask ourselves that, not does X, Y, Z add up into some ill-conceived political concept.

Kind of sad today. I sold my Mini. Make that my beloved Mini. I shouldn’t be so sad, as I’ll be getting a new one when I get to the “other side” next week, back home to California. Still, some cars have souls, and I’ll really miss my baby. And that got me thinking about the cars I’ve had over the years. Some were special; some got me by — lots of memories with all of them.

I’ve heard it said many times that especially for Southern California, you’re defined by what you drive. Perhaps. For my first cars there, I drove things more out of circumstance than choice. But that, of course, did define me. Not much money and picking up whatever I could afford or get handed down to me.

My very first car was a 1972 Ford Pinto Wagon. If most of my possessions weren’t waiting for me in the Port Of Long Beach right now, I’d scan an image of her. She was a her — Elouize, as I eventually named her. I know, silly. But she made a kind of wheezing sound, and my friends and I took to calling her “weezy” for short. Then I found the personalized plate of Elouize wasn’t taken, so I grabbed it.

I think I paid about $600 for Elouize, all earned while working in high school in a Carl’s Jr. for $3.35 per hour. Eventually, I saved enough to buy some type of car. My father went with me to check out some at a local dealer. It came down to a choice between two. I can’t remember what the other one was. We went for the Pinto because, as I’ll never forget, he said “I can probably fix anything that goes wrong with this.”

Things did go wrong. All the time. And he did fix it many times, which is another story for another time about a son and father who were never very close at least bonding to some degree through this car. See, the rule was that if he was going to fix it, I was damn well going to stand there while he did it. I stood for a long time, never pointing the flashlight in the right places but picking up a few things about auto repair. Just a few. I even carried a toolbox for years in the various cars I owned, for small repairs I could do. But he was a natural mechanic while machinery to me still is largely a magic thing where repairs are better left to the pros.

At one point, she was out of commission for several months after I ignored the red engine warning light that was flickering. Something went wrong with the oil system, and I burned the engine out. More saving to buy the new engine; more waiting by my father as he and a friend eventually got it in. Along with actual gauges to show me oil pressure and temperature, rather than “idiot” lights that an idiot young teenage boy had ignored with all his “rippin’ and a runnin’,” as my dad used to say.

Well, me and my friends did go everywhere in my car. Late night drives; out to lunch during school breaks; ski trips to Big Bear; trips all over the place. It’s a miracle I’m alive, I think, looking back. I can remember passing another car on a trip back from the mountains but not really having the power to overtake it. Suddenly, we were side-by-side while an oncoming car went past me on the other side. Or the time I unknowingly drove through a red light, through a busy intersection. I count my blessings.

Elouize had these wood panels that probably looked great when she was new. They’d faded out over the years. But I’d make them all look new again for a few days by spraying Endust furniture polish on them. And I’d wax what remaining paint was left on her, to make her look good. She was beat up, old, but she was still mine.

Elouize had soul. I had many, many good times with her. I even lost something in her, cliché as it is, I know. But oddly enough, I lost track of what happened to her in the end. Around my second year of college, she started having problems again. I took her home and started driving my stepsister’s car, which she’d left when she started driving something new. I think my dad eventually sold Elouize to someone else. I’d be surprised if she was still going today.

Still, I’d stepped up. Now I was driving an Audi Fox. She was a sweet little car with a sunroof. A sunroof! Plus, my stepsister had left No Doubt’s Tragic Kingdom in the cassette player, so I had really good tunes.

The Audi had a big problem, however. Everything electrical started breaking. The starter switch went out. The electric engine fan when out. Assorted other things broke down. Eventually, I rewired both the starter and the fan. To start my car, you’d put the key in to unlock the steering. Then you’d push a button to turn the engine over (and when the button broke, I’d just tap the two bare wires together). Then you’d flip a rocker switch to turn the fan on, so the car wouldn’t overheat.

Once I loaned the car to a friend of mine. I forgot to tell him about the fan. He headed out and a short time later had steam coming out of the radiator. Oops!

Finally, the Audi died altogether. I remember having a company come to my apartment complex to tow it away. And it was on to another hand-me-down, an old Chevy Chevette that my dad used to drive.

I think the unique feature of the Chevette was how the passenger side door has been bashed in an accident (not mine!). It shut, but there was a small gap at the bottom, where you could see the road as you drove along. I once did an interview and lost all my notes because of that hole. The notepad slid off the seat and managed to drop through it!

The Chevette didn’t last too long — maybe about a year. The clutch went out at one point while I was driving, causing me to discover that the theory about being able to shift gears based on the engine revs was something you could put into practice. Another time, one a trip with a friend out to Tahoe, we broke down out near Placerville. With my father nowhere near, I discovered for the first time the liberating feeling of paying someone to fix your car. I found the part we needed at an auto shop in town. They installed it for like $60 while we ate breakfast. My days of holding flashlights largely ended then.

Still, the Chevette’s time had come. I was no longer in college. I had a real job working for the LA Times, and it was time to buy a new car. My first new car. Being a child of the oil crisis (you know, the 70s oil crisis), I thought we’d be out of gas by the time I was able to drive. So, I was relieved gas was still available, but I wanted to have the most mileage I could get. Plus, I still didn’t have much money. So I went for a Ford Festiva, a tiny little thing that got like 50 mpg.

If my first car was freedom, the Festiva was even more so. I was liberated from having to worry about car repair for the first time since I’d been driving, about 7 years at that point. I no longer needed to have a toolbox in the trunk. The car simply did not breakdown.

Probably my best memory of the Festiva was when my wife and I drove her to Alaska. We didn’t need a 4×4 to navigate the Alaskan Highway. The Festiva was so small that she drove around the holes!

Having gotten married, eventually we needed a second car. And that brings me to the same feelings I’m having about selling my Mini today. See, my second car was a Honda Del Sol. More sporty-looking than a sports car, it was still great. Just a two seater, with a roof you could remove and store in the trunk. And even when you did that, there was still room in the trunk for camping gear.

I simply loved that car. Taking the top down and shooting along PCH, shooting up the freeway, going along the coast to Big Sur. It was all great. Plus, it was a Honda. If the Festiva was dependable, the Honda was bulletproof.

It broke my heart to sell her when I moved to England. I was saying goodbye to Southern California, and I was saying goodbye to a car that was so suited to Southern California. I really, really did not want to give her up.

Over in England, life quickly changed with our first son on the way. Moving from London after about a year from arriving, we needed a car — and it couldn’t be a two seater. The Honda CRV was out, a 4×4, but an economical one. It seemed a perfect choice. And it was.

The CRV was dependable. And being out on the Salisbury Plain, I’d even occasionally take it off-road. In fact, one of my best memories in that car was when there was a huge traffic jam on all the roads in the area, due to an accident. The boys and I went cross-country to get to nearby Amesbury, me following some of the tank trails and being tilted at 45 degrees at some points. The Honda plowed on.

About three years ago, we traded the Honda in for a Volvo XC90. The best I can say is that it was economical and we often did use all seven seats. But ours had many mechanical problems, never really felt it had a soul like the CRV, and I wasn’t sorry to see it go.

Aside from the 4×4, we eventually needed a second car. The new Minis had been out for about a year or two by then, and I had my heart set on one. So did Lorna. And it was so close, until I showed her an article about a remake of the Citroen 2CV. Here’s what those used to look like, an old French car with a fabric roof that you’d roll up. The remake was the Citroen Pluriel, a convertible. She’d been in the 2CV as a little girl and got nostalgic about wanting the remake. And so we got it.

I never got over not having the Mini, though. To console me, I was given no end of Mini products. Hats. Remote control cars. A book about them. Nothing helped, and I grew to hate that Pluriel more and more. It was a plasticky thing with no power, no personality, just bleech.

One day I joked again about how we should dump that horrible car and get a Mini. “Yeah, we should,” she said. I was on the web by the time we got home. I’d found a Mini at a nearby dealership, and within a few day, she was mine. She fit like a glove.

My best times in the Mini have probably been driving very fast on the small, awful roads just around our area. They’re barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other, and this being England, the concept of roads going in a straight line only happens where “modern” roads intersect with those the Romans built 2,000 years ago. But we do have a nice long straight stretch where I could really open her up on. Plus, the Mini suits the curves here. She feels right on them. And over the past few weeks, the barest tap on the accelerator would make her jump for me. It was like she was saying, “Let’s go for it.”

OK, maybe overtaking an unmarked police traffic car a few weeks ago wasn’t the best idea. But at least we went out in style. I’m going to miss my baby, driving her on the road here. In the US, a Mini Clubman awaits me. I know I’ll love it, too, but I’ll miss my first Mini and driving her on the roads here just as I missed driving the del Sol when I left California.

I groaned about getting up at 3:15am, but it was well worth heading out to Stonehenge for the summer solstice celebration this morning. It was my second time out for it, and it remains a pretty mellow party. I also have to chuckle about how with thousands of people there, we still manage to bump into neighbors in the middle of the stones. Some pics and vids:

You can hear the celebration from some distance before even arriving:

The usual entrance, a tunnel under the road, is closed. The road itself is closed, so you just walk through temporary turnstiles that are setup. Police are all around, and they’re turning a blind eye to practically anything that isn’t in their face:

One of my favorite parts are the temporary food stands setup near the entrance. There’s a burger stand:

Then right next to it the vegan food stand (which has bigger crowds):

Crowds are all around the stones, but just as my last trip, it’s fairly easy to get inside. Crowded, sometimes briefly scarily so, but nice to be there. And again, one of the few non-stoned, non-drunk people!

It was raining, but very light and even that stopped from time to time. The cloud cover was complete, so people knew they weren’t going to see the sun. But they were still happy to be there. For fun, balls kept going around:

More happy people (and no, that bright light is not the sun — it’s a temporary light that was setup):

This woman was from Columbia and couldn’t believe she was within the stones:

Eventually, sunrise happened. Again, we couldn’t see the sun (if we had, it would have come up through the stones to the left). But people were watching the time, so it was kind of like New Years, even with the occasional “Happy Solstice” being said:

Something new happened from the last time I was there. This thing on a stick appeared. I didn’t get it at first until I went back and saw this photo. It’s supposed to be the sun coming through where the real sun would have shined between the stones:

Now last time, there were some actual druids in the middle of all this craziness. I couldn’t tell if any were there or not, this time. Or if one was holding the sun thing. But here’s some video of it coming in:

Eventually, we headed out like many others. Here’s outside the stones as people started departing:

And here they are making their way up the field to the car park:

But if you followed my instructions, you’d head out down this road away from the crowds. That’s where all the locals parked:

Oh, and I did see some druids finally. At the exit, oddly enough:

Happy Solstice, everyone!

Almost as if to wish me off, Queen Elizabeth II came to visit today. OK, she came to the nearby Larkhill artillery school, which is now being redesignated the Royal Artillery Barracks. A bunch of school kids were invited to witness the opening, and our youngest’s son’s class went. So why not — let’s take the morning to see the Queen!

I took both a digital camera and a digital movie camera — and had left the memory cards out of them by accident. Sigh. So everything I shot was off my cell phone. Still, it’ll give you an idea of the morning.

First, it’s important that the imported crowds all have Union Flags, so they were handed out:

Those are Union Flags, by the way — not Union Jacks. Union Jacks look just like Union Flags except the fly off a ship. And flags fly at half-staff, by the way — only half-mast if they’re flying that way on a ship. It’s a copy editing thing, sorry. Once you memorize the AP style guide, it’s hard to let go.

Aside from a bunch of school kids, the crowds (about 500 or so) were mostly locals, people from the army housing that’s on the base. And the center of all the activity was this:

Can’t see it. Hey, my phone can’t zoom. But I can crop:

See that white stone sign? See the blue covering over it? That’s what we were waiting for her to unveil.

The Queen came by helicopter, landing behind trees from where the crowd was. After she landed, there was a 21 gun salute:

Her car (which someone had driven out from London without her), was there to take her from the helicopter and along the road in front of us, to do the opening. My best shot – video of her driving by:

It’s the second time I’ve been that close to her. The first was when I first came to England about 20 years ago. I’d come out of the tube station at Westminster not realizing it was the annual state opening of Parliament. A few minutes later, she was going past me on the street but in a carriage.

After she parked, the band played God Save The Queen. I always laugh at the common joke that when the Queen hears the song, does she sing God Save Me?

Actually, it was remarkable to me how practically no one broke into singing. OK, the band was well removed from us. But we could hear the music, and if this was in the US, I’m pretty sure people would have been singing The Star Spangled Banner. And if we were in Wales, I’m pretty sure people would have starting singing Land Of My Fathers.

Side note on God Save The Queen. For Americans who on the off chance have never heard it, it’s the same music as My Country ‘Tis Of Thee. And I’d always assumed until I wrote this that someone in the US just changed the words of the British national anthem. Wikipedia says no. As for the Star Spangled Banner, I’ve always preferred America The Beautiful myself. Apparently, I‘m not alone.

Back to the Queen, the drive-by was the closest we got to her. She did the opening:

And away she went. No walkabout, much to the disappointment of many in the crowd. But they consoled themselves saying she is very old.

The moving plans continue. Later this week, a company comes to take away half our stuff. Later this month, the other half goes. So there’s a lot of cleaning and deciding of what really needs to go. And in Britain when you do a clear out, you don’t have a garage sale. Instead, you go to a car boot sale. That’s where a bunch of people gather to sell things out of the back of their cars — out of the trunks, or as the Brits say, the boot. Until now, I’d only experienced the joys of buying at car boots. This Sunday, a whole new world — being the guy flogging his stuff.

For my British readers, Americans don’t do car boots. We have garage sales, where at an individual home, someone puts out all their stuff they want to sell. On Saturdays, people know to drive or bike or even rollerblade around neighborhoods looking for sales. There are often signs on street corners telling you when one is happening.

I don’t know why Brits don’t do garage sales and instead gather to do car boots (and here’s a good introduction to them). Perhaps some houses lack front yards, which may have helped the tradition start. Wikipedia’s no great help, telling me only that car boots started in the 1980s, which I kind of doubt.

I did the car boot sale with my friend Nick more for the experience than hopes of raising moving cash. Our day started bright and early. We drove to a place outside Salisbury where car boot sales are held each Sunday. 7am, folks paying about $12 each for a “pitch,” a place on the damp grass to park their cars. The organized and regulars even have tables:

One plus in going with Nick is that when he’s not using his van to cart his mobile DJ stuff around, it can double to carry all the stuff he and I have both accumulated in our garages. Above at the top of this post, my Mini demonstrated how much it can carry, too.

Nick being organized had a table. I did not. I relied on a few tarps, and I shamefully failed to organize stuff in any particular way:

Actually, I did eventually get a little more organized. I was particularly proud of my “Country Life” section where the old dog cages were organized along with a million pairs of Wellington boots that so are not coming to California, topped off by that tractor photo.

I felt I was at an advantage against the others at the car boot, as I launched energetically into banter. It was a bright crisp day, and there was plenty of fun to be had. Why, when this man picked up that tractor photo and his baby gasped in delight, I told him he clearly had to buy it. 50p richer — that’s about $1.00 — we were both happy

Midway through, another classic car boot tradition — bacon sandwiches!

They tasted better than the looks on our faces. I think we were questioning whether Nick’s wife was working my phone the right way to take a picture. Clearly she did and was simply troubled by the material she had to work with.

Another highlight of the day was when a man buying my old rotary sander asked how well it worked. I told him about as well as any 3 pound sander would work. Seriously, $6 and you’re looking for a year guarantee or something?

Nick had told me the professionals would swoop in at the beginning to grab all the good stuff, and there were a few of those. Me, I was more struck by one family that carefully weighed up the decision on whether to buy my old stereo, as theirs had broken. At 4 pounds when they asked me the price (I learned you just make these up on the spot), they wondered how well it worked. I dropped the price to 2 pounds, and that still seemed a big gamble for them but one they took.

In retrospect, I wish I’d just given them the stereo with best wishes. You kind of lose your head in the deal-making rush. Two pounds doesn’t seem much to me and other people, but it can be depending on your circumstances — and it’s good to have that reminder at a personal level. I can certainly remember when I first came to Britain, deciding if I wanted to add an extra zone to my London Underground travel car for the day, and whether I could afford the 50p hit.

Just before wrapping up for the day and packing, someone came along to buy my old wind-up electrical cable. I found myself nostalgic as I handed it over, telling the man and his wife there were a lot of memories with it.

“Memories?” he asked me, somewhat amazed such a generic item could generate such a response, I guess. I explained that when I bought my very first home here, there was a lot of home improvement / DIY that I did. That cable was one of the first things I bought, a big investment at the time and used for everything from running my old borrowed electric lawnmover (a Flymo that is supposed to hover above the ground but doesn’t really) to running a power sander I used to restore the floors of my first son’s future nursery.

Yep, a lot of memories. Funny how those can be bundled up in objects you never expect. Funny how we can drag these personal items that have been moved from house to house to be displayed not just for public view but for sale for tiny amounts.

It’s been just over a week since we decided to make the move back to Orange County from Britain, and I thought I’d keep blogging about how it is all going.

So far, the big relief is that the kids are totally on board. Like they want to be there now. It’s kind of fun, that anything they don’t like at school here means that California stands out as a shining new place to go. I know that they’ll have bumps when we get there, of course — and then I’m bracing myself for the “I want to go back to Britain” demands. But I keep my fingers crossed.

Personally, I almost want to pinch myself each day to make sure I’m not dreaming. I really hadn’t realized how much it had been building up within me that I just wanted to go home. I think back to when I left Search Engine Watch to start Search Engine Land. Friends I knew well kept telling me, “We knew you weren’t happy.”

I wasn’t? I hadn’t realized it up until the end, I suppose. I often joke about that, characterizing it to friends I know who have come out to being gay. Something wasn’t quite right with them when they kept their real feelings inside. but after they came out, they were transformed, blossoming into these more whole, happy individuals.

So I guess I’ve come out of the closet, in wanting to go back home. I can’t say enough how much I mean no slam to friends in the UK who love it here. It just hasn’t been for me, ultimately.

Leaving relieves me of so much that I would have magnified out of proportion. Today in the new UK budget, Gordon Brown pulled a new £30,000 fee (out of his ass, sorry) that he wants to charge against “non-domiciled” residents.

That’s me. There are about 100,000 of us in all of Britain. It’s a quirk of the UK tax system, where if you don’t consider the UK to be your ultimate place of permanent residence, you don’t have to pay tax on overseas earnings, because you’re considered non-domiciled.

Out of his ass? Yes. Because the choice will be to report your worldwide earnings and be taxed on them (as the US does) or pay this figure that literally appears plucked out of the air at random.

It actually wouldn’t have impacted me much. That’s because I’m even more special, “resident non-domiciled.” That means I pay tax to the UK on all my earnings as a contractor or consultant, since I do that work mostly resident in the UK. But any interest income (not a big deal) or capital gains (I have none now but maybe someday!). I don’t pay tax on that money unless I physically bring it to the UK. And make sure you don’t commingle it with an account where you do bring some money in. And be sure to track all your work days here, abroad and on both a calendar year and a fiscal April 6-April 5 year.

Sigh. I’m leaving all that behind, along with really expensive tax people who are supposed to figure all this stuff out. Ryan Carson who is another American expat just to the west of me in Bath and I were just twittering about how difficult it is to find good people who can keep track of this stuff. Going home solves it, since the UK won’t care about me filing any more.

Dealing with this stuff has just built and built and poof, now it’s gone. It reminds me of when I shifted from running a web development firm to working on my own. A huge load of stuff that had built up for me to do was no longer hanging over my head. Free!

Fresh starts are great. Savor them. And even better, it’s not just me. My wife who suggested the move can’t wait to get going herself. Shippers are coming in to assess what it will take to move our stuff over. Things are being divided into what we actually want to take versus what we should sell off. A painter is in to quickly tidy up our hallway, before the house goes on the market in just a couple of weeks. So fast!

I also find myself being useful. When it comes to school here, I’ve been an absentee father. She takes them; she navigates the system; she worries if they’ll get out of sixth form or whatever and into the grammar school. These things all mysteries to me.

Suddenly, I’m checking on what grade level the kids will be going into. And explaining how yes, there’s the pledge of allegiance that really does happen each day, and that I’ll teach it too them even though I find it weird myself and how no doubt in high school, they’ll realize they don’t have to take it and might refuse as I and others did, just to prove we were good Americans with the right not to take it. Heck, the UK might be getting one itself.

And high school. Wow, my kids will be going to high school! It simply was not something I ever considered. Years and years, I’ve assumed they would grow up entirely in Britain. Suddenly they’re going to have a high school experience as I did (for better or worse!). With football games and homecomings and proms. I pinch myself again to make sure this is all real.

I realize also I might have perhaps this rare, strange gift. My kids know they’re both British and American, but they’re very British. They live here. They’ve grown up here. And they talk like little proper English children (English accents, pretty posh actually). When we go back to California, I always remark to friends on how heads turn when they address me and I talk back. Who is this man that has seized children that in no way talk like him (my accent, I’ve fought to hold on to that over all these years, pretty well I think).

I love my little British kids. But I never imagined I’d have kids like this. I don’t mean that negatively. You just don’t grow up as an American thinking that your children will speak in a different accent.

OK, maybe some people feel this. My father was from the South, and like me, he kept his accent despite years in California — and he ended up with these California-accented kids. But still, a completely different country?

But now? We think there’s a good change one or both of the boys will lose their accents. Suddenly I’ll have children who talk like me. So strange, so weird. They can talk however they want, of course, as long as they stay talking to me. But such a change – I never expected it. I pinch myself again mentally. Is it really happening? Yes, it is!

After 12 years of living in the UK, I’m going home — back to Southern California, back to Newport Beach. This will be a fairly personal post about the decision my family has made, but my blog was supposed to be for more than writing about gadgets and computers and donuts. Good writing is often deeply personal, and I don’t do nearly enough of that type of writing.

Back in December 1996, I came to Britain with my wife so that we could start a new chapter in our lives, that of raising a family. I didn’t want to leave home. I simply love California. I love Orange County and in particular, I love Newport Beach. I take nothing away from the many other beautiful and wonderful places in the world. It’s just that this is where I grew up. It screams “home” to ever fiber of my being. I literally feel the difference in the air, smoggy as it may be, that I breathe when I get back.

Nevertheless, I agreed to come back. I knew Britain and had spent much time here. Indeed, that’s how I met my wife, who is British. And she wanted to be home for this part of our lives. I figured it would be OK. There was no way to be both places, and I knew she’d be more comfortable near her family as we started having our own. We’d get back to California and perhaps eventually return there.

We did start going back. With my travel schedule, I returned often for work. As a family, we’d get back usually once per year. I often tell a story about the first trip back with my son who had just turned two or so. I took him outside, and he looked up at the trees with a puzzled look. I looked up and realized he was confused at the trees — they were palm trees, and he’d never seen them before. Or maybe it was just gas, but it makes for a nice story.

As the years ticked by, people would often ask me how I liked being in the UK. “It’s OK,” would be my standard answer, and I’d cover the general things about missing the weather at home, the general expense of things in the UK but how we lived in a nice village and universal health care couldn’t be beat. “Will you ever go home,” was a common follow-up question. Sure, I’d reply — when my kids were 18, daddy was going back, and anyone who wanted to join him could.

Over the past year, it became increasingly harder for me to say the “It’s OK” thing. I was traveling back much more, and I was finding I missed home even more. I couldn’t help myself — my responses more and more came out as “I hate it.” To all my UK friends, it’s not that I hate Britain. It’s that I’ve hated being away from my home, the place I’ve felt most comfortable.

Despite really not liking it, I felt I had little choice. The kids, you know. You can’t disrupt the kids. Or the entire family, to make such a move. Just. Can’t. Be. Done.

Or so I thought. Talking is a good thing, and my wife realized how much happier I’d be at home. Many of the things I love — and love to do with the family — are at our doorstep in California. Sure, Big Bear isn’t the greatest place to ski or snowboard, but it makes for a fun day. My youngest who’s into skateboarding — as I’ve been getting into — doesn’t need to be driven an hour away only to find the park is so wet that you can’t use it.

Being back in California also means a lot of good things in terms of work. So much of what I do is helped by personal meetings, but I get little time for these being 6,000 miles away from the heart of the search industry. For all these years, I’ve also worked a schedule where I know my day will stretch late into the UK night, because that when the California day is just getting going. And any trip back, that’s always meant at least three days away from home — one out, one back plus whatever work days in between. Since I got out so rarely, I’d often try to bundle a lot in a trip, which means I could be away for two weeks at a time.

Now I can hardly believe the change that’s about to come. Later this year, if I want to get an update with Google or Microsoft, I can jump on a plane and spend a day to do it, no jet lag, no planning multiple meetings around an already exhausting conference that might be happening.

It’s scary in some ways, mainly because of not knowing how our two boys will react. Talking to them this weekend, the first reaction was of not wanting to go. I’d felt they’d be OK, because each year I semi-joke with them about going back, and after our last trip, they actually seemed kind of eager.

Tonight, my oldest came in very upset, worried about the many things we’d be leaving behind. But my wife and I talked with him more, and he seems OK now. The thought that I’ll switch my Mini here for a Mini convertible there certainly brightened him up.

The treehouse I built, of course, can’t come with us. Believe me, if I could deconstruct it and transport it over, I would. But in the end, it’s only a thing. Things can always be replaced, or you go on without them. Life is more than worrying about things.

We know that kids are resilient, and we think the boys will be OK, and we’ll surround them with love as we embark upon this new journey. And daddy will start taking them to school in the morning, rollerblading alongside them as they bicycle their way, until they’re old enough to tell daddy to go away

The plan is to be back by August. It’s going to be a busy and changeful next few months as we move to that, and I’ll be blogging about how we go through it. But California here I come, right back where I started from. Open up those Golden Gates!

If I’m sluggish this morning, it’s because my day started early — taking my
oldest son out for a sunrise ceremony at Stonehenge to mark the 100th
anniversary of the Scouting movement.
One hundred years ago today, Robert Baden-Powell held an experimental camp for
boys that led to Scouts being formed. The World Jamboree is now taking place a
few hours from us in Essex, but Scouts all over the world
are marking the
anniversary in various ways. For us, it meant a trip to Stonehenge.

Scouts from our local

Salisbury Plain District gathered at around 7:15 in the parking lot outside
Stonehenge:

As you can see, the sun was already up for our sunrise ceremony — but it was
still early!

We stormed the Stonehenge entrance:

Marched on the monument:

Where parents were diverted on to the grass in front of the stones. As the
grass was wet, I figured I’d stand on one of the fallen stones:

Yeah, I can hear some of you now — horrors! How can you stand on the
precious Stonehenge stones. Easy. I walked right on it. It’s a big rock. It’s
been there for 6,000 years. During the solstice, the entire place is opened up
to thousands, and they pretty much give up on trying to police the stones (see
my Stonehenge category for past
posts about the solstice and visiting Stonehenge). Standing on that stone (it
has a name — I can’t remember it right now — was no big deal).

Well, it was to the Stonehenge security guard. He moved me and several others
off it. Small children not part of the Scouts later tried to walk on it, causing
parents to shoo them off. Meanwhile, the Scouts themselves couldn’t go inside
the circle because the ground was too damp to bear their weight. Heh. English
Heritage is notorious for being way to overprotective of the stones. I think
they’d have survived.

No matter — the Scouts came around:

Got assembled:

Then after a countdown to 8am, a kudu horn was sounded as Baden-Powell did
all those years before. You can hear it in the video below, which is about all
you can hear of the ceremony!

We got a Scout salute at the end:

Then it was marching back time:

One of them is mine. If you know my taste for Californian footwear, look
close for the Old Skools to spot him:

He’s a Cub now, but two years ago, I went with him when he was a Beaver to
historic
Brownsea Island, where that
first camp was held. Here’s the group at
the camp marker:

Here’s a closer look at the marker. Sorry about those two Beavers in the way!

By the way, I was a Cub Scout very briefly — a Webelos Cub Scout, for about
half of fourth grade. I tried to find a nice page at the
Boy Scouts Of America site to explain the
various type of scout levels like
this one from the UK
association (being the first association, they’re simply called The Scouts
Association). Sadly, no such simply guide was easily found.

All in all, a nice morning — ended by a trip to
Reeves The Baker. My son went
for a pasty for breakfast. Mmm — good choice!

On Monday, big decision. Should I take the day off and go out to the World
Jamboree with him? Maybe — how cool to see some of the 20th gathering. Plus, a
semi-Orange County connection. Jamboree Blvd, which runs down to Newport? Named
after the Boy Scouts Of America’s third jamboree held where Fashion Island now
sits, back in
1953. There’s even a historical marker at Fashion Island commemorating it. A
little more low-key than the one on Brownsea Island. Less a stone monument and
more a small brass plaque.

Make no mistake. As a native Southern Californian, I miss home ever single day that I’m in Britain. That’s no offense to Britain — it’s just that Southern California, and Orange County in particular, is home. Still, even I have to smile at certain things about Britain. Below, the scene that greeted me when it was my turn to pick my youngest son up from a course he took last week to learn cricket:

Everyone all in their whites — perfectly cut green lawn and the church as a backdrop to it all. Nice day.