Now that the time has come for me to at least consider leaving Canada, I have taken to looking back at the time I have spent in the place. To be honest, my Canadian adventures, such as they are, started from the moment I got my letter of admission from the University of British Columbia in the mail. I rushed with the letter to the dining room and told my family. "Mum, Dad, Gran... I have been admitted to UBC!" My family responded with characteristic enthusiasm.
Dad: Oh.
Mum: Oh.
Gran: What's that!?!
Me: UBC! the University of British Columbia! I'm going to the University of British Columbia!
Gran (in a horrified voice to my parents): You can't send him there! It's all drugs and gangs in that blasted place.
Me: Gran, what are you talk... oh...
You see, my Gran has a very simplistic, if functional, view of the entire Western Hemisphere. The bit in the north is all the United States of America. And the bit in the south is Drugs.
Me: Gran, I'm not going to Colombia, I'm going to British Columbia.
Gran: Where's that !?!
Me: It's in Canada.
Gran:...
...
...
Gran: Umm, where's that !?!
Me: It's the northern USA.
Gran (hugely relieved): Ohh. OK then. Off you go.
Because the US is alright. The US is ace, as far as Gran's concerned. It's where that nice man Clinton's from.
And then she went off to watch her crappy soaps.
Then my Dad came up to me and put a paternal hand on my shoulder.
Dad: Son, I'm not easy in my mind about sending a thin boy like you to THAT place.
Me: What do you mean, THAT place !?!
Dad (leaning towards me and speaking in a loud whisper): They're all vicious bastards!!
Me: What !?! Why !?!
Dad: Have you seen their pastime !?!
Me: You mean hockey !?!
Dad: Big men wear sharp blades on their feet. Then they pick up big sticks and beat the crap out of each other! It's true, I have seen it in the ESPN commercials.
Me: I'm sure there's more to hockey than that, Dad.
Dad: Oh my God! There's more! That does it, I'm definitely not sending you to that hell hole!
And he left the room before hearing my reply.
Then my Mum came up and shoved her oar in.
Mum: Now listen to me. Those people are all French. They have no shame and they shag anything that looks organic.
Me: Mum...
Mum: If you try to be like them, you might end up with some horrible disease!
Between them my parents were apparently convinced that the first guy I came across in Canada would knock me out cold, shag my unconscious body and land me in hospital with three broken ribs and syphilis. And they didn't stop there. Every day they came up to me with some new factoid that some friend of a friend had told them ("You have to shag a moose to be considered a full member of society". "Their national dish is called Poutine. The chef makes it by throwing up on French fries.") All I'm saying is, thank God for the Internet, or it would have been a really hard task convincing them.
As it was, they only reluctantly agreed to let me go. You could tell they had their reservations. On the day of departure, they gave me a parcel. I opened it. Mum had given me an English-French travel phrasebook.
Me: Mum, they speak English in Vancouver.
Mum: Take it. Trust me, it will come in handy.
Dad had given me a rape whistle.
Me: Dad! It's really not that...
Dad: You keep that with you! I tell you, there's no point taking chances!
And with that stern warning, they took their leave.
And I came to Canada.
Dad: Oh.
Mum: Oh.
Gran: What's that!?!
Me: UBC! the University of British Columbia! I'm going to the University of British Columbia!
Gran (in a horrified voice to my parents): You can't send him there! It's all drugs and gangs in that blasted place.
Me: Gran, what are you talk... oh...
You see, my Gran has a very simplistic, if functional, view of the entire Western Hemisphere. The bit in the north is all the United States of America. And the bit in the south is Drugs.
Me: Gran, I'm not going to Colombia, I'm going to British Columbia.
Gran: Where's that !?!
Me: It's in Canada.
Gran:...
...
...
Gran: Umm, where's that !?!
Me: It's the northern USA.
Gran (hugely relieved): Ohh. OK then. Off you go.
Because the US is alright. The US is ace, as far as Gran's concerned. It's where that nice man Clinton's from.
And then she went off to watch her crappy soaps.
Then my Dad came up to me and put a paternal hand on my shoulder.
Dad: Son, I'm not easy in my mind about sending a thin boy like you to THAT place.
Me: What do you mean, THAT place !?!
Dad (leaning towards me and speaking in a loud whisper): They're all vicious bastards!!
Me: What !?! Why !?!
Dad: Have you seen their pastime !?!
Me: You mean hockey !?!
Dad: Big men wear sharp blades on their feet. Then they pick up big sticks and beat the crap out of each other! It's true, I have seen it in the ESPN commercials.
Me: I'm sure there's more to hockey than that, Dad.
Dad: Oh my God! There's more! That does it, I'm definitely not sending you to that hell hole!
And he left the room before hearing my reply.
Then my Mum came up and shoved her oar in.
Mum: Now listen to me. Those people are all French. They have no shame and they shag anything that looks organic.
Me: Mum...
Mum: If you try to be like them, you might end up with some horrible disease!
Between them my parents were apparently convinced that the first guy I came across in Canada would knock me out cold, shag my unconscious body and land me in hospital with three broken ribs and syphilis. And they didn't stop there. Every day they came up to me with some new factoid that some friend of a friend had told them ("You have to shag a moose to be considered a full member of society". "Their national dish is called Poutine. The chef makes it by throwing up on French fries.") All I'm saying is, thank God for the Internet, or it would have been a really hard task convincing them.
As it was, they only reluctantly agreed to let me go. You could tell they had their reservations. On the day of departure, they gave me a parcel. I opened it. Mum had given me an English-French travel phrasebook.
Me: Mum, they speak English in Vancouver.
Mum: Take it. Trust me, it will come in handy.
Dad had given me a rape whistle.
Me: Dad! It's really not that...
Dad: You keep that with you! I tell you, there's no point taking chances!
And with that stern warning, they took their leave.
And I came to Canada.
2 comments:
haha Epic Did our conversation prompt this?
Yup :)
Actually, that conversation prompted a few more of these. I'll put them up when I actually get around to writing them :P.
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