I was once approached by an English chef in New York to assist in co-authoring his auto-biography. It proved in the end to be an unproductive relationship, but that’s another story. He approached me for a number of reasons;

a) He was struggling. He can’t write and I can’t cook. Well, I do a pretty decent paella, but apart from that …
b) He, as he kept telling his wife, needed “Karl’s quirky touch.”
c) He needed a co-author who understood not only the tribulations of growing up in depressed parts of the UK, but also the English sense of humour.

We wrote the book, he sent it for ‘professional editing’ and the ‘editor’ ripped all the Englishness out of it. You’d have thought this chef had been brought up in North Carolina!

The British sense of humour, the bedrock of which is a strong sense of sarcasm and self-deprecation, was missing. Hardly any subject is taboo to the Englishman, and this often seems insensitive to other cultures, but it is what it is.

What our ‘editor’ failed to understand is that the British can be very passionate, but that’s often hidden deep in our humour so that other nationals fail to not only recognise the deadpan delivery but are never too sure if they’ve been involved in a serious conversation or just a little bit of friendly banter.

This editor thought it a good idea if we put a more ‘positive’ spin on things. And needless to say I had to edit all her editing in order to reflect the true person and the life he’d led.

And if you don’t think the British can be passionate? Try going to a football match!