The more astute among you may have noticed that my surname is not what would conventionally be described as ‘British’.  I inherited this alphabet of a name from my grandfather, who moved to the UK after WWII. Attached to me like it’s the key signifier of my identity (it’s not), I have faced my fair share of ridicule (including being falsely ‘mocked’ as Jewish like that’s something to be ashamed of) and awe, particularly on the first day of term every year for the whole of my educational life (“how the fuck do you say that!?!”)*. But I’m not Polish. I’m English. So chill out, BNP.

WORDS: STEPHEN PIETRZYKOWSKI

And I mention the BNP not just as a cursory joke aimed at some redneck morons with backwards insight. I know third generation British citizens who are willing to vote racism, blissfully ignorant to the startling hypocrisy in such a decision. It’s worrying. It’s also really fucking dumb to see people with such a huge blindspot to their own family history voting for an ideology that’s one step away from ushering them into gas chambers. I love you humanity, but you’re bringing me down…

I currently live in Wood Green. Anyone that’s ever caught the 29 bus will know it’s a cacophony of Eastern European fashion, Turkish restaurants and Black British front. While living in the area could never quite be described as luxury (I have to dodge dog shit every two steps), like all of London (and New York and LA and Berlin and Paris and every other cool place in the world), it’s the variety of cultures that makes it an interesting place to live . But other than sharing gym time with big-bodied skinny-legged Russian guys, getting my neck cut to pieces at the local Polish barbers and eating the occasional Turkish kebab, I don’t really know or interact with any of these cultures. I’m kind of a tourist, which is fine, but I’ve been watching Who Do You Think You Are? on iPlayer and I want to know something – anything – about what my name actually means and what being Polish is actually like.

According to government-generated statistics, there are over 200,000 Polish immigrants officially working in the UK. This community has brought with it its own culture. We’ve all got stereotyped visions of Polish identity – broad men with military haircuts and shit jeans who work ridiculously long hours, and impossibly beautiful women with big chests and authoritative voices. But that comes from being on the outside looking in.

With my friend Alex, who also shares Polish ancestry (he’s an Ostrowski), we decided to make a day of Polish culture and get back to our imagined roots, if there are any. We met in south London at 9am with raging Friday night hangovers. Alex reeked of vodka. He’d really done his research.

ST ANDREW’S POLISH CHURCH

After visiting the Polish community centre in Ravenscourt Park and witnessing their harrowing Children Of War exhibition, we decided to cleanse our tarred souls by visiting a Polish church two minutes down the road. Sadly, it seems religion is closed on a Saturday, so we didn’t get to go inside. We did however get to check out some weird plaques and austere flower arrangements. I’m not sure exactly how Polish this is – just seems like a human form of mourning to me.

THE POLISH INSTITUTE AND SIKORSKI MUSEUM

This is where things started to get interesting. Stuck between a host of exotic embassy buildings (the Iranian one has a constant police guard), the Polish Institute and Sikorski Museum is a locked door affair that’s only open the first Saturday of every month. Fortunately for us, we chose the right Saturday and were welcomed in by a tiny 87 year old Polish woman called Irena. She gave us a guided tour of lots of cool old stuff and told us a story about a a Polish army bear called Wotjek who smoked cigarettes, had beer rations and drove trucks. He even picked up soldiers and dumped them head first into the sea. What a guy. Irena has just starred in a film about his life.

That serious looking dude just above me is General Sikorski; leader of the Polish army. And that chair I’m sitting in was his. Irena insisted I sit in it. It made me feel like a leader of men as I smugly desecrated the memory of someone who was actually a leader of men. Sorry, history.

There was a book here called “The Jewish Question”. The answer to which was presumably something to do with this:

This is the wing and engine of one of the first Nazi aircrafts to be shot down by a Polish pilot. I felt strangely proud looking at it until I realised that if there was ever another war like WWII (which there probably wont be), I’d be fucked. Talking us through this and some Russian war artefacts, Irena then solemnly declared: “People say hell is up there or down there, but it’s not. Hell is here now”.

This woman’s life is a Hollywood film waiting to be made. That, or an episode of Heartbeat. Although Polish, she was a highly decorated spy for British Intelligence. With a fiance waiting for her in France, she attended a secret service ball on her last night in England, due to be married the next week. Leaving the party, she was stabbed to death by an Irish stalker who’s advances she had spurned for the past few years. Her fiance then died of a broken heart. Imagine dying of sadness? Pretty sad. And she isn’t that fit. (BTW, that light on the right hand side of the photo is not the open gates of heaven, but a poorly placed bulb, hence the kind of bad picture)

Door mat? Mural? Tea towel? Fuck knows, but I really want one. Weirdly, this guy looks a bit like my Granddad too.

I’m pretty sure Napoleon was French, but nevertheless the museum housed a saddle he’d once sat on. Everyone needs their show pony I guess.

Irena was great and I especially liked her compliments: she claimed that mixed-heritage children are always the most intelligent and best looking. I found it hard to disagree. But then something weird happened.

Alex asked her how different London was now to when she first moved over 50 years ago. Without hesitation she answered: “Too many blacks”. We didn’t expect that and it was difficult to know whether to challenge her or not. In the same breath she also invited us to her house for tea and Polish cake, so I don’t want to be too mean, so all I can attribute this to is a generational-difference (old people are sometimes very stupidly racist) and lack of education on the matter. I don’t think it has anything to do with being Polish, although you’d think that someone who’d experienced the Nazi reign of terror might be a little more liberal in their world view.

CAFÉ DAQUISSE

On the recommendation of Irena, we then went for dinner at a nearby Polish restaurant. It was empty and expensive,  and somehow we were still massively hungover. With my stomach continuously auditioning for a cheerleading squad, I then had to face up to the terrible realisation that if i wanted to be Polish, I’d need to eat meat, which is difficult if you’re a vegetarian.** There’s not really any other option on the menu. It’s meat or nothing. I jumped in two feet first and came out with this murderous mess of red meat and sauerkraut. It tasted a lot like the inside of a sausage roll. 

For dessert, Alex ordered a blueberry pancake with chocolate sauce, which didn’t really seem very Polish to me. He also described it as a “fucking rip off” and the cream made him hangover wretch.

We needed a beer.

BAR POLSKI

It might have been because it was 6pm, it might have been because we were in central London, but Bar Polski was a huge let down, and when I say let down I mean really shit. With a name like that, we could be forgiven for expecting an authentic Polish drinking experience. Instead we got heart stopping prices, an empty room that looked like an Ikea showroom display, and warm funk blaring from the speakers like we were in a Australian West Coast hostel. No Polish people were here because they couldn’t afford to be and also because it was more like a club in Neighbours then a bar from the Eastern Bloc. I bet communists have far more fun.

At this point, the night began to turn into a beer advert, sans the ‘Drink responsibly’ public warning. This is because it is impossible to drink Polish beer responsibly. One bottle sends you on a one way trip to the moon, which is actually rather fortunate given that these two death cannisters came in at a cool £8.

No one can afford to drink here, unless they’re an estate agent, and I can’t think of anything worse than a bar full of immoral men in big collared shirts spouting nonsense about sales targets in-between obnoxious yeasty burps. I think I know what Irena means when she says hell is here on Earth.

We decided to journey south to a fabled working man’s club, in the hope there might be both Polish people and a screening of the Poland vs Northern Ireland World Cup qualifying game. We got a lot more than we bargained for.

* It’s pronounced peach-cough-ski, FYI

** I’m a soft vegetarian, as sometimes I need protein and iron. But I haven’t eaten red meat in 18 months.

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