Emmaprovement Continues...

As a foreigner, I've always understood I was a guest in this country. I'm sure people have made fun of my accent behind my back, and there are some sweet, rosy-cheeked posh girls - likely named Arabella or Sophie - who I probably stole unpaid fashion work-experience from back in the day. Bloody Canadians, with their parents' passports, stealing all the good slave-labour media work.

Now, as a guest, I believe in a "put up or shut up" attitude. There is no point whining about my hosts. Except, of course, the men. This column - no, this website - has simply been a beard allowing me to write vitriolic copy about the British male and their messed-up mating rituals. I've been on dates and not known they were dates. Hell, I've been in relationships and not known it until someone introduced me as their "girlfriend" (cue: gagging).

Seemingly, there are other ladies jumping on the bandwagon. The Telegraph had a recent feature about how British men are failing to charm the international visitor. And before Christmas, the Times ran a quite graphic article bemoaning the fact that posh guys are dreadful in bed.

Reading the articles - and, obviously forwarding them, and posting them on my Facebook page - I started to feel a little bad. What's wrong with thanking or apologising to a girl? In bed. Canadian boys do that, too. It's sweet.

And so, in effort to redress the balance, I'm going to do something I've never done publicly before. Something I find difficult, both as a woman, and as the daughter of an Irish man who once threatened to disown me if I ever come home with a British boyfriend. I'm going to praise British men.

Right. Deep breath.

You're good with words. Even the least educated of you have an incredible vocabulary. Often, when watching Trisha, I'm astounded at some earring-ed chav's perfect description of his emotions and think - I couldn't do that.

And you are very good at what you call 'banter'. It took me about three years here to figure out that banter was a British way of flirting, as it is just considered a "conversation" in the rest of the world. But still, if I'm going to drink a warm pint, that I paid for myself, sit me across from a British guy, everytime.

You're alcoholics. All of you. No, really, you are. American frat boys don't put away nearly as much as you guys do, even on a Monday night. But it's a good thing. It makes you brave enough to occasionally drag us ladies into dark alleys and back us up against the wall. Also, your lushness means you aren't so judgey when we girls drink too much and, say, crawl across the bed purring like a cat. Or ask to be tied up with our tights. Or whatever.

You all like tea. Which is both sweet and quite wet at the same time. If I'm ever mad - sorry, cross - at a British boy, I just have to think of the pure orgasmic face you all make at the mere mention of a cup of tea, and I melt.

You're all a bit gay. You're into grooming and you care about clothes, and are sensitive and like talking about relationships and your feelings, which is good. Recently, Taryn and I looked around a birthday party and realised all the men there were straight.

"We don't need them anymore," she said, smiling over at her designer-clad boyfriend who had just air-kissed Piller. "Our straights are gay enough".

(On an aside, my new favourite game is "Top or Bottom". When faced with typical British public school boy, silently decide what position he played in boarding school Olympics. Big guy with pretty face = switch-hitter. Enjoy.)