Last weekend marked the annual broadcast of the Eurovision Song Contest (dubbed Eurovision). Since its inception in1956, Eurovision has become a venerable competition for the NEXT BIG STAR. Mathematically, Eurovision = (Bollywood) + (Europe). ABBA famously launched their career here. What’s odd is that this over-the-top, hyper-sanguine event is a cherished institution in one of the most reserved, caustic, and emotionally lethargic social groups: the British. One particular moment during this year’s Eurovision contest highlights a fascinating social element that seems to juxtapose British temperament: British obsession for sweet treats. I believe the British must maintain their saccharine diet to psychologically balance their cultural bitterness.
While waiting for telephone votes tally, the Danish host of this year’s Eurovision, Liza, surprised the French, Maltese, and British performers with their favourite foods. Liza good-naturedly quizzed the artists about their preferences before presenting their treats. The French and Maltese buoyed back, engaging in smiley and supportive verbal tennis. The French group even kissed Liza when she handed them bowls of Asian noodles. Then came the British performer, Molly, whose singular moniker mirrored her aloof attitude. Liza was visibly frustrated by Molly’s inability to respond except to shrug and mutter, “I guess.” The presenter eventually persuaded Molly to admit that she liked a certain cake shop. Liza then handed the singer one of the bakery’s special caramel concoctions. With a confused look on her face, Molly stretched a single hand out and barely squeaked, “Oh, wow, thanks…”
In the UK, cakes are more ubiquitous than coffee. For instance, a local museum café currently offers a special deal: buy a cake between 9AM and 11:30AM and receive a free coffee. There’s no chicken-or-egg argument here; it’s obvious which product comes first. It’s nearly impossible to enter a place of business without seeing a cardboard box of £1 charity sweets, be it a bar, clothier, or corporation. On the honour system, insert £1 and choose a baggie from the pile. While you can’t get green leafy lettuce at the Harvester Salad and Grill, you better believe those charity sweet containers are ALWAYS stocked.
What really spurned my sweetie-awareness is the copious amounts of half-eaten or unopened sweets littering the ground. I have never been to a place with so many sugary confections ditched along the side of the road. The UK is ostensibly so inundated with sweets that they can afford to take the treats for granted. Sick of your Lion Bar? Toss it to the ground and switch to Fruit Pastilles at the next Tesco.
On any given day you can watch the citizens of my town conversing on their daily errands. Many of them briefly pop into a shop to purchase a Yorkie bar or Bonaffe biscuit. They discuss the weather (“supposed to get bad this weekend”), the government (“complete mentalists”), their jobs (“I can’t be bothered to look for something else”), etcetera. It’s as they replace each salty word with a sugar-packed bite. Out goes sour; in goes sweet.
At first, I pitied the British for their chaffing ethos. Until I realized that this culture chooses and protects its conversational folkways. After watching many satirical jokes fly over my vapid American noggin, a friend kindly advised me to watch the British comedy, Peep Show. It’s a witty, dark, and irate sitcom that “perfectly explains British humour.” Despite my steadfast YouTube-ing of the series, I was still taken aback when recently talking to my flatmate about her relationship. She was annoyed by her boyfriend who kept apologizing for not spending time with her and doling out compliments like a 17-year-old after his first kiss. “See, when we broke up a while ago, it was because he never complimented me and we didn’t see each other a lot. Now, he keeps saying nice things and communicating! I can’t win!” I look at her wide-eyed. Doesn’t that mean you did win?
To an expat, the omnipresence of cakes and sweets in the British diet seems ironic. Upon further consideration, I am grateful for their national sweet-tooth. I think the sweeties provide a pleasant yin to the British yang. It’s their daily vitamin, the missing nutrient not produced naturally in their collective psyche. As my waistline will attest, the pursuit of cake is one British tradition I’ve gladly adopted. If a caramel cake is required for the average Brit to crack a smile on live television or a Curly Wurly for my flatmate to give her boyfriend a smack on the lips after dinner, then Long Live the Queen Victoria Sponge Cake!
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