Australian, Irish, Vulcan: Nationalities Americans will assume you are before guessing 'English'

WE have deep historical and emotional ties to our American cousins. But the dumb Yanks find it inexplicably difficult to place your pretty-obvious accent. Here are their first six shit guesses.


The American’s go-to guess for some reason. They could be sat in a village pub in Shropshire eating fish and chips with a pint of bitter and Liverpool vs Everton on the big screen and they’ll still assume everyone in the place is from Bondi Beach. What’s going on in their f**king heads? Do they think that Jack Russell is a koala?


Next up: Irish. These plastic Paddies have always wanted to visit Ireland, the land of their ancestors, because their great, great, great grandparents came from Dublin. They think. Or was it Belfast? No matter, they’ve got the surname Murphy and automatically assume anyone who’s seen Braveheart is close family. Bless. 


Yes, the famous nation of London. Their geography is as bad as you’d expect, however much the poncy sort of Londoner thinks London is Britain and the regions are basically a big farm to provide them with food. Frankly Britain has only got itself to blame for this. Did we really expect to give them films like Mary Poppins and Notting Hill and not expect any blowback?


They’re really struggling now. When you tell them we use the word ‘pavement’ not ‘sidewalk’ and ‘aubergine’ not ‘eggplant’, and pronounce ‘aluminium’ correctly, they’ll assume you’re from an exotic, far-off land. Unfortunately their Earth geography is so shit they don’t know the name of any. So it’s obviously Vulcan. Freak them out by doing the hand greeting while enthusiastically saying ‘Live long and prosper!’

New York

Clutching at straws time. This idiotic suggestion only comes up because the average passport-dodging, deer-munching hick from rural Idaho thinks New York is another nation. They’ve seen the Big Apple in films and assume we hail from Manhattan even though we’re talking to them in a Tesco Metro in Crawley. Look, there’s Woody Allen buying a ready meal.

The next country they can think of

This could be anything, they’re just delighted to not look ignorant. It might be France because they saw it on Emily in Paris. Or Iraq because they killed the bad guy dictator Binsama there. Or even the tiny island of Aruba (a friend went on holiday). Put them out of their misery and reveal you’re from Leeds in England, which is part of Britain. Then realise this is just hideously complicating the situation and go back to Australian. Anyone for surfing, Toadfish?

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10 British animals and how long you'll feel bad about hitting them in your car

IT’S a sad fact of life that eventually you’ll hit something in your car. But better a small animal than a primary school trip. Here are 10 potential victims and how long you’ll feel bad about each.

Bugs (assorted)

Let’s face it, every time you drive it’s basically a genocide of passing insects. You’ve killed millions in your time, like Pol Pot in a Renault Clio. You haven’t even given it a second thought. Bastard.

Sadness window: 0 minutes


Known as ‘the rats of the sky’. If you clip a pigeon, all you’ll see in your rear view mirror is an explosion of feathers. There are millions more pigeons where that came from, probably even his pigeon wife and kids aren’t sure which one he was.

Sadness window: 5 minutes


Small and nimble, so if you manage to accidentally hit one of these you might be momentarily impressed at your Lewis Hamilton-level driving skills. That will soon be replaced by guilt that someone’s stash of nuts won’t be enjoyed this winter.

Sadness window: 8 minutes 


A truly majestic creature – until you hit it doing 60mph just outside your village. Yes, it ran out from nowhere. But you still feel bad. Or you did once you’d finished considering whether it was unmangled enough to sell to your local gastropub.

Sadness window: 15 minutes 


These nervous little critters don’t stand a chance. In fact, you might not notice you’ve hit one. If you do, you’ll lurch between a deep feeling of guilt at murdering Mrs Tiggywinkle and getting out of your car to check – even though you’re pretty sure it’s impossible – if any of its spikes have punctured your tyres.

Sadness window: 20 minutes 


Nocturnal by nature. If you hit one of these, chances are you’ve had 12 pints in a rural pub and decided to risk the drive home. They’re pretty substantial creatures, so for a moment you’ll be certain you’ve knocked over Roger the local pisshead. Your sadness will soon evaporate when you see the dent it put in your passenger side door. That won’t be cheap to fix, and it’s unlikely the badger was insured.

Sadness window: 45 minutes or however long it takes the AA to arrive 


This is where cuteness becomes a factor. Providing the bunny you hit hadn’t turned into a zombie from myxomatosis, there’s a good chance it was utterly adorable. Until you smeared it all over a B-road. The gruesomely splattered corpse is bad enough, involuntarily hearing Art Garfunkel singing Bright Eyes will have you blubbing uncontrollably.

Sadness window: Well over an hour


A black cat crossing your path is meant to bring you good luck. The same can’t be said about running it over, either for you or Sheba. You’ll be picking fur out of your wheel arch for weeks. You might be able to convince yourself cats are so clever it must have been suicide. It’s more likely you’ll live in irrational fear of being ‘found out’ for the murder and go right off Alfred Hitchcock films.

Sadness window: A couple of days 


There’s nothing more terrifying than a loose dog running onto a dual carriageway. With the possible exception of that dog being a horse. Or a confused pensioner in a mobility scooter. With this one it comes down to breed. You might recover from hitting an awful, yappy Scottie dog within a year or two, but the sight of a lovely, friendly golden retriever bounding joyfully into the path of your 4×4 will haunt your dreams forever.

Sadness window: A decade plus 


A magnificent creature who just hopped obligingly through your windscreen on an idyllic country lane. You’re now knee-deep in blood, tendons and gristle. It’s like a horror movie, but one where Bambi destroyed your no claims bonus. And if it’s not Bambi, it might be his mother. Oh God. What have you done? Resist the urge to hand yourself in to the police requesting a life sentence.

Sadness window: Forever