In the 'Stonecutters' episode of the Simpsons, the merrymaking secret club members sit enrobed round a long dining table, brandishing steins sloshing something akin to mead (no doubt), singing a song. As is the case with most devotees of this seminal American television classic, I've seen the episode probably 34 times. However, for the first 30 or so, I was certain these were the lyrics:
"Who controls the British pound?/Who keeps the metric system down?/We do./We do."
Purist devotees with their mouths now hanging open will have instantly recognised my error, for the actual lyric is not "Who controls the British pound?," but "Who controls the British crown?" Sorry. I have other things to do much of the time or have been so busy laughing at whatever verse precedes these lines, or have simply been too drunk, to notice what was actually being sung.
It was slightly disappointing to hear the lyric properly upon listening number 31. After all, wouldn't it be much more impressive to be the authority that determines the value of the British pound, for the power of the British crown, as limited as it is, rests firmly on the national currency?
In 1998, I quit my job with the New York City Department of Health, dusted off my only credit card (for some reason, I've got five or six now, even though I still only use one) and booked my first ever flight to Britain. As a leaving gift, my former colleagues had scraped together a couple hundred US dollars, god bless them, and the project director, my former boss, arranged to have them gift wrapped into two $100 American Express Travelers Cheques (not Travellers Cheques, mind, because these were US dollar instruments). So long, I thought, and thanks for all the fish.
I'd never been abroad, apart from Canada and Mexico, but even in my state of naive grace, I knew that US dollars wouldn't cut the hot yellow mustard in the UK. I knew nothing about the British currency other than the name of it, and I wasn't sure what to do about converting the Cheques into money I could use at my destination.
One day, I passed a hole in the wall in downtown Manhattan not far from my office with the words 'Foreign Exchange' stuck to some bullet-proof glass, along with some other words I struggled to understand, 'Cambio' and 'Wechsel' among them. I proudly hopped up to the window, my $200 in Cheques in hand, and asked of the fellow seated beyond, 'Can I please exchange these for British pounds?'
'Sorry,' said the obviously British person seated across the divide, 'Did you want to convert these to English pounds?' I replied, 'Yes, English pounds, please.'
Was there a difference? Even then, I thought he was pulling the wool. I understood roughly the makeup of the United Kingdom and was certain there was a single currency that was legal tender in England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland - but how certain was I really, and was this a battle I should fight? I let him have his way, although I now know beyond doubt the guy was just being an English bitch who hated his job.
'You'll have to endorse them. Sign them in the proper place and put them through the window.' Exactly where the proper place was, I couldn't say. Then I made my first fatal error in dealing with an Englishman: I showed any form of ignorance whatsoever.
'I'm not sure where to sign. Can you show me please?'
'Just there in the upper right - no, no - the other right. Yes, there. And then again in the...'
'Where? Here where there's a blank line?'
'No, no, that's completely the wrong place.'
'Well, where, then?' I wanted to end with 'you gaping, pompous asshole's first cousin' but figured I'd err on the side of diplomacy. I pointed to another likely spot on the paper.
'No.'
And one more.
'Yes, that's it. Sign there and put them through the window. Here.' He smiled and actually pointed at the curved trough under the glass, and my second lesson was complete: These people are impossible, but annoyingly polite while being so.
As if that weren't sufficiently humiliating, he slipped a few horribly wrinkled but refreshingly colourful notes under the glass. When I counted them, I discovered the third horrible truth of things British: Their money was worth more than ours was. Even in March, 1998 rates, my $200 barely fetched £110 after commission and service charges. I knew then it was going to be a shorter, more frugal holiday than I'd hoped.
When I moved to Britain two years later, I began to handle the pound on a daily basis. Although I intended to understand the currency on its own terms and get a grip on the costs of everyday items instantly, I found that my interpretation of the value of things was only possible by mentally converting to the dollar. This kept me busy probably two to three hours a day at first. A litre of milk, a loaf of bread, a return journey on the Underground, a newspaper: the value of none of these made sense for the first year I lived in London without knowing the number to multiply by in order to get back to the once-almighty US dollar. Ultimately, the exercise served no purpose other than making me angry, for everything cost on average roughly twice what I was accustomed to paying for it, even in New York.
The British pound, a yellowish, thick coin, began to take on a tactile life all its own when I held it in my hand. The double meaning became concrete: The British pound not only 'weighed' more, but it also literally weighed more, each piss-coloured coin a dense reminder that I felt ripped off nearly every time I handed one over. It became a currency of bitterness and intimidation, probably because it took the place of imperial bullets in the national power psyche.
As I advanced in my career, and my income increased, the pound stopped being a horrible little coin and turned into a weapon of foreign dominance that could be pointed right back down the barrel into the face of the new imperial kid on the block: The United States of America. At no time was I more comfortable with the prospect of returning home to financially conquer and take over, say, Nebraska than I was during my last visit to the hinterland in December, 2007.
I had had a good year professionally. The pounds weighing down my pockets, I visited the economically downtrodden scene of my childhood, Ohio, with the fattest piece of luggage I could find at the July sales at House of Fraser. I could have smuggled three illegal workers in that bag, and, when I boarded the plane for my outbound journey, I made sure it was only one-third full, leaving lots of room for fur coats and diamonds.
I budgeted £500 to spend on swag. I only managed to plough through £310, including an extra bag that I bought to increase the volume of my purchases, and was finally limited in what I could buy only by my own physical strength. At $2.05 to the pound, I literally couldn't carry any more back to London. Good times indeed.
And now, a year later, as I've watched the world's financial system implode upon its big, fat self, I'm back to roughly square one. The pound today is worth only $1.50, crash diving back to its late-2000 level. The rent for the stupid storage box my ex and I have maintained in Queens, New York since we moved abroad has suddenly jumped to more than £60 a month, a figure large enough to register on the radar screen of my personal finances. Throughout 2007, it never cost more than £45. I'd love to think about having all those long-forgotten effects shipped to London once and for all, but it would cost nearly £1,000 to do it now. Last year, it was more like £700. Shoulda, shoulda, shoulda.
I'll be the first to admit I don't understand how currencies float on the world's foreign exchanges. Nor do I know why we use the word 'float' to describe the phenomenon. I only know that as soon as I got a grip on the system, and felt as though perhaps history was for once organically meshing with my life, someone or something had to come along and bollocks it up.
Who controls the British pound? I don't. I don't.
