Diagnosis: Anglophilia

I have to confess.
I'm an Anglophile.
My love for all things British knows no bounds.
Though I'm pure blooded American (born, in fact, in America's birthplace, Plymouth, Massachusetts) I compulsively listen to British music, gobble up Polo mints, say things like bloody and chuffed and dodgy, all while planting myself firmly in front of the tv for BBC America's Friday night of comedy.

But where did my obsession with the Brits come from?

When I was younger my great aunt always had Are You Being Served? playing in the background of her parlor room. I remember vividly the old hag with the multicolored hair always causing trouble. I thought it a bit silly, but the accents tickled my fancy.

Then, PBS served up another fine dish of Brit tv: Mr. Bean. To me, Mr. Bean was a childlike yet unusual man who bumbled his way through everyday events, always coming home to his faithful yet inanimate best pal, Teddy the teddy bear. It was simply endearing.

Nowadays, it's not much different. British tv still fascinates me. It's not unlikely to find me watching reruns of The Office (yes, it was British before it was American!) or patiently awaiting the return of Doctor Who or hoping Spaced is finally released on DVD in the good ole US of A.

Don't get me wrong. I love American tv, too. Thursday nights at 9pm I'm stupid with excitement waiting for the next installment of Lost. Who gets to go home? Who's left behind? Who's the guy who just parachuted onto the island?

But, I digress.
I guess my love British tv can be narrowed down to this: the accents.
Just kidding.

What I love is its quirky characters, the dry humor, the ability to not take itself too seriously, the awkward silences and even bigger guffaws, and ... okay, the accents. But who could blame me?