True Brits [Paperback]

‘Immensely funny... best described as Bill Bryson meets Tony Hawks.' Paperback of the Week.

‘An obsessive, down-and-dirty travelogue.'

‘JR, you amaze me!'--Richard Madeley
'You're an American wimp.'--Judy Finnigan

‘True Brits makes The Wicker Man look like a fly-on-the-wall documentary.'

A tour of twenty-first century Britain in all its shin-kicking, bog-snorkelling and cheese-rolling glory.

'Bill Bryson meets Tony Hawks'

'enjoyable read'

When J. R. Daeschner first heard about 'shin kicking' he was intrigued. As an American who had lived in Britain for some time, he thought he knew a thing or two about the country. But he'd never come across this centuries-old 'sport', which had to be one of the most painful and infuriating ever invented. J. R. had to find out more, and soon discovered that Britain has dozens, if not hundreds, of similar acts of lunacy enshrined as traditions; strange-named events such as cheese rolling, gurning, bog snorkelling- True Brits is a funny and fascinating trek around Britain, following J. R. as he meets some of the great British eccentrics who involve themselves in a host of bizarre pastimes which include hurling themselves down a grassy cliff in pursuit of a cheese, coating themselves in prickly green burrs, hanging toast on trees and prancing around with reindeer antlers on their heads. In an attempt to understand why seemingly ordinary people do such extraordinarily strange things, J. R. talks to countless characters, watches them in action, and even participates in many of the events himself -encountering plenty of occupational hazards along the way. (20030609)

A tour of twenty-first century Britain in all its shin-kicking, bog-snorkelling and cheese-rolling glory.

Raised on a ranch in Colorado, J. R. worked for the New York Times after university, then on Fleet Street and Wall Street, with stints in Mexico and Peru before settling in Britain. Now 34, he has lived in the UK for the past decade. His work has been published on both sides of the Atlantic, including The Times and the International Herald Tribune. (20030609)

'Savour the pain, boys! Savour the pain!'

That's easy for him to say. Blandie's lying near the top of the heap, and I'm down at the bottom, squashed by a dozen or more bodies. Don't squeal like a pig. I can't move, and I'm vaguely aware of groans emanating from the bald heads and buzz cuts around me. My ribs are creaking and my heart, liver and assorted viscera are being squeezed to the bursting point. My torso feels like a giblet bag crammed up the rear of a butchered turkey. The coroner will open me up and find nothing but a creamy pâté inside, human foie gras in a skin-and-bones bag. Still, at least I 'm conscious - not like that kid they pulled out of the crush a couple of collapses ago. The Lord of the Hood - distinguished by his flowery top hat - jumped in to stop the ruckus, brandishing his wicker wand of office and bellowing: 'MAN DOON! MAN DOON!' The teenager was ripped out of the tangle of bodies and laid flat on the field, unconscious, his eyes fluttering and head and hands twitching. Either he was knocked out or he fainted from the lack of oxygen. 'I hate it when that happens,' an official frowned, without any irony.

But that kind of thing is bound to happen in the Haxey Hood, an organised riot that takes place every year on 6 January, supposedly since the 1200s. Take as many as 300 men, get them liquored up, stick them on a claggy field in the freezing cold and throw a leather tube into the mob. This being England, the goal of the game is a no-brainer: to get back to a pub for more drinking. The problem is, there are four favourite locals in a one-mile radius - three in Haxey and one in the rival village of Westwoodside, on the other side of the field. And if the game finishes too soon, it would spoil the fun. So, instead of heading straight for the nearest boozer, the competitors end up pushing in opposite directions, creating a slowly rotating human hurricane capable of trampling anyone or anything in its path, demolishing walls, tearing down hedges and bursting through people's front doors. This asphyxiating crush of humanity, this juggernaut of flesh and bone, has an absurdly genteel name: the Sway. It may look like the world's biggest scrum - in fact, it is an ancestor of rugby and football - but there are crucial differences. 'It's not a scroom because you're standin' up,' Blandie had explained in the pub. 'If you were bent over, you'd snap your neck.'