When drunk in Shanghai, I have, arguably a few too many times, attempted to form a British clique. For every possible reason I could comprehend, as I got progressively wobbly on an inevitably iffy mix of cranberry vodka, tsingtao and tequila, I decided this random Friday night is the time, this dodgy dive bar is absolutely the place - ain’t nobody fresher than Steph’s clique.

But my dreams were repeatedly shattered. Sticky Shanghainese drinking establishments marketing Monday night burritos, ten kuai kamikaze shots and the resultant shame tend not to harbour the people of my homeland, nor does NYU Shanghai. This meant I was forced to make some vague connections and that my newly composed team of companions were “technically” a quarter Spanish and mostly metaphorical.

The notion that nobody, regardless of nationality, would willingly want to be in a clique with me was irrelevant to my squiffy self. I fought hard for my collection of British buddies. I went to sit with the Europeans. I proclaimed beans on toast a delicacy, wearing jumpers a necessity. But a desperate suggestion for an Anglo-Hungarian merger signalled the end. Fuck it, who wants to have a British clique anyway?Truth is I am not sure I ever liked being a Brit. Apart from using the word ‘whilst,’ loving a good queue and insisting that a knife should be held in the right hand and a fork in the left, I am not exactly a poster child for Britishness. I hate the existence of the Queen. I do not drink tea - especially not with milk. I despise discussing the weather. I am not even mildly religious. I believe, with a passion, that immigrants are not the problem. And, possibly most offensively, I don’t find Benedict Cumberbatch the least bit alluring.

Except when I left drizzly England, England didn’t leave me, at least not in the way I thought it would. I craved hearing an accent like my own. I lusted after marmite and chips that are fries and not crisps. Turns out the stuff I was condemning was quite the novelty. People started talking to me not to listen to what I had to say, but to hear how I said it. Because Britishly saying ‘yacht’ can be incredibly alluring and Britishly yelling ‘bloody hell’ can be cute.And it was great... It was great until I realised that ice lollies are popsicles and trousers are pants and I was the oddity. Then some millennial angst crept in. Then some collegiate hippie sensibilities. Then, colonialism.

See, all-in-all, my life has worked out the way life works out for middle class English girls who scored in the upper quartile of their high school giftedness test and hung out on aeroplanes. I was living life through an Instagram filter of the British school system. I had grown up around conservative-voting white people who think pesto is exotic and when talking about sexuality awkwardly chuckle, “I’m fine with it, as long as they don’t hit on me.” Like anyone would want to hit on you anyway, Robert. NYU Shanghai wasn’t just a chance to see and experience other cultures, it was a chance to see my own culture for what it really was. Drunk, I wanted to be included. I wanted someone who understood me, who laughed at my highly contextual jokes and odd attempts at being witty. But sober, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to be included in. The hangover of the British empire hangs over the heads of every international community. The legacy of previously occupied territories are my classmates. It’s not all tea and scones, when it’s brutality, suffering and aristocratic ancestors marching around in silly jet-black hats.

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Fast forward through some soul searching and a not-so-summery summer and it’s study away time. In an attempt to make personal introductions extra complicated I decided to study abroad in my home country. England, I thought, it’s on.So I’m in London being orientated on what it means to be British, which is, well, a little peculiar. Because A) I am British and, as shown in the previous ramble, I have absolutely no idea what it means and B) British-ness seems to be inherently connected to being quite disorientated about one’s origins. We are in Europe, but we are not in Europe. We are friendly, but passive. Proud of the Queen, but proud of democracy. We are an island floating around in the Atlantic who refuses to go rogue, but refuses to cooperate.However, listening to endless lectures about the origins of The Great Fire of London and trousers, gave me some time to think - How would I orientate someone?

But beyond the obvious, I think I would just have to be honest. Brexit happened. The British Empire happened. It was all a bit more than a gigantic oopsie. I always think of the irony when people say ‘Britain is so cool,’ because it really wasn’t cool when we invaded your country and colonised half the planet. Or when people say ‘your accent is so pretty,’ because it was conditioned to sound that way. Or when an American says anything remotely pleasant about the people across the pond, because we were the ones who sent the religious nutters over to The New World in the first place. I don’t dispute what the professor-y people told room fulls of jetlagged NYU students and I; Britain does have awesome music, architecture, business, literature, fashion and an acerbic sort of wit (watch Hugh Grant’s speech in Love Actually and you’ll get the picture). But all these things are intertwined in a complete mess which is kinda shit, actually.There’s no quick fix for this. There’s no way to orientate foreigners to the ways of the British that won’t make me roll my eyes and punch out angry, disgruntled messages. I’d suggest maybe we try to orientate our own people and teach kids more about the dodgy uncomfortable stuff before they casually move to China. But then again, maybe it takes being in a room full of people, 5700 miles from Buckingham Palace, drunk on the idea that you deserve a friends just for possessing a passport, to realise that yes, you may be utterly pathetic and clique-less, but it’s ok, epiphanies are supposed to be that way. This article was written by Stephanie Bailey. Please send an email to [email protected] to get in touch. Photo Credit: Stephanie Bailey