Binning the brolly: Why Brits are turning their backs on Blighty

There’s a curious phenomenon that occurs amidst quite a few Brits who make the move to Portugal.

It all begins innocently enough. They might buy some cooling linen shirts from a Chinês store in VRSA. Then, suddenly, they’ll start ordering “fresh fish” with all the gusto that Brits usually reserve for a good balti. Without warning, they’ll become the sort of people who will publicly describe a drizzle-soaked retail park in Croydon as “absolutely horrendous”. Which, it probably is.

Meet the Great Reborn Britons. The expats, formerly known as Dave & Sue from Swindon.

We can spot them immediately. They sit outside cafés in the Algarve in February wearing sunglasses, despite there being only marginally more sunlight than Bournemouth has to offer. They drink tiny espressos while explaining that they’ve “completely detached from the British mindset nowadays”. Which is remarkable considering they probably still spend several hours on Facebook with Kev and Sonia from Milton Keynes. Oh, and they only tend to mix with other British expats.

Gastronomy

The transformation can be quite astonishing. A chap who once ate frozen Iceland lasagne while watching endless repeats of Top Gear now speaks with misty-eyed admiration about “seasonal octopus”. His wife starts referring to herself as “Mediterranean”. She’s been in Portugal for just over eleven months and still managed to burn her shoulders in Albufeira’s April sunshine!

Then comes the great denunciation of Britain itself. British food? Apparently inedible: “You simply can’t get proper produce in the UK,” says a fellow who once considered a Fray Bentos pie haute cuisine. Suddenly, every British meal is described as beige, processed or “industrial”. Fish & Chips becomes physical evidence of societal collapse. A Greggs sausage roll is spoken of as though it were asbestos wrapped in pastry. Meanwhile, local Portuguese folk sit nearby happily chomping bifanas, chips, sweet pastries, croquettes and deep-fried cod cakes alongside enough cured pork to stun a cardiologist.

The reality, of course, is that Britain, especially these days, offers some superb food. UK towns and cities have some of the most diverse restaurant selections imaginable. Everything from Thai to Moroccan, Indian to Italian. These days, the UK has it all. But the born-again expat must reject this little factoid, because nostalgia is, to them, a risky business. Nostalgia leads to thoughts like “Perhaps Reading wasn’t actually all that bad after all?”

Metamorphosis

Politics is where the metamorphosis reaches full capacity. Once abroad, many British expats become political geniuses. A retired accounts manager from Dudley suddenly delivers lengthy lectures on “Westminster dysfunction” while sitting beside a kidney-shaped swimming pool. “The UK is finished,” he’ll emphatically declare. This from a bloke who still renews his British passport, collects British pensions, watches British television and complains if the local cafe in Silves doesn’t serve proper bacon.

Britain, according to such expat philosophers, has now become a dystopian wasteland populated entirely by a bunch of miserable commuters eating Pret sandwiches under permanently grey skies. Portugal, meanwhile, is presented as an earthly paradise where smiling fishermen hand out oranges to beautiful children while Fado music gently drifts across cobbled villages, untouched by the creeping hand of modernity. This narrative survives despite the overreach of Portuguese bureaucracy, which can make medieval dentistry look somewhat efficient.

No one mentions any real-world challenges encountered in Portugal. Instead, expat Pollyanna’s post-inspirational Facebook updates say things like: “Here, people understand how to LIVE.” This is usually written after conveniently forgetting about waiting four hours at the finance office because someone stamped a wrong bit of paper back in 2019.

Then there’s the curious phrase: “The British are no longer my people.”

Marvellous line, that one. Tremendously dramatic. Sounds like something a deposed monarch might say? And yet, these very same people can detect another Brit at 500 paces simply by hearing someone ask for malt vinegar to sprinkle over their batatas fritas. What these Portuconverts probably mean is that the British ceased being “their people” per se. In actuality, the common-or-garden expat simply became exhausted by the daily rhythm of modern British life. The grind, the escalating costs, the high taxes; not to mention the dismal weather and the endless tribal political screaming.

Sure, all the British negative politicking and the very public airing of “the elite’s” dirty laundry definitely creates a sense that too many of us in the UK are in a state of permanent anger. Portugal certainly offers an antidote to all that nonsense. Here, lunches last longer than some marriages, the weather doesn’t resemble a damp carpet, and elderly folk still know how to sit outside a cafe eating their lunch without filming it for TikTok. But instead of simply saying, “Portugal suits me better these days,” many expats feel compelled to perform a complete ceremonial rejection of British life. It’s the emotional equivalent of loudly proclaiming that a new partner is amazing because the “ex” didn’t appreciate artisan olives or grilled fish.

Heritage

The irony in all of this is that so many expats seem to become even more British after leaving the UK. They import tea by the metric tonne, obsess over the quality of Intermarché’s own brand sausages and create Facebook groups dedicated entirely to locating every last jar of Branston Pickle within a 50-mile radius. Whole conversations can be devoted to discussing whether Portuguese bacon is “acceptable”. People who claim they’ve transcended British culture still lose emotional control when denied HP Sauce with their full English breakfasts.

Even expat gatherings take on an ambassadorial role, showcasing the British abroad. You’ll hear someone complain about the BBC whilst someone else dares to mention immigration. You’ll hear a bloke from South Wales suggesting that Portugal was much better twenty years ago. The entire atmosphere will resemble a pub near Gatwick. So uniquely, well, British. Even down to the vicar and the punnets of fresh strawberries.

Here’s the truth nobody cares to admit. Many of us never fully leave where we came from. Britain remains embedded deep within the soul, usually somewhere between the sarcasm gland and tea cravings. The expats who declare that “the British are no longer my people” are often the very same folk who organise a massive St George’s Day barbecue, featuring music from Elton John and Cliff Richard. There will be Cumberland sausages, Cheddar cheese and enough Union Flags to put The Mall to shame.

So, you see, Portugal hasn’t wholly erased the Britishness inside. It merely provided lots of sunshine and blue skies in which to perform this increasingly clichéd form of identity shunning. We can do it in a far more theatrical manner, with a picture postcard backdrop to boot.

The Irish, never short of a metaphor or two, would say this: “You can take a person out of the bog, but you can’t take the bog out of the person.” And, let’s face it, the Irish know a thing or two about the process of relocating. They’re a dab hand at it. However, I seldom hear them shunning their own heritage. Nope. The Irish celebrate it. And they do so with much pride.