Someone at Harry’s Place comments that

Until now, I thought Gwyneth Paltrow was Welsh.”

which reminds me of being in a video rental store in NYC in the late 90s with a local. An old Tom Jones song starts playing.
“Well, I never,” says I to my native companion in my conspicuously British way, “This is the last place I’d have expected to hear that.”
The guy at the counter shouts over the video racks, “Huh? Tom Jones is one of our best singers!”
“Well, he’s a good singer,” I begin, doing that American agreeing-before-disagreeing thing, “but I’ve got to tell you that he’s not one of yours.”
“Tom Jones is English?!”

Which, in turn, reminds me of being on a train to London last week next to a white African and his Dutch friend. The African has just explained why the ritualised warfare between the English and the Australians is called “The Ashes”.
The Dutch guy pauses and says: “Yeah, but I still don’t underschtand this thing about giving up when you’ve got a really high score. Is that because you can score more points catching the ball than hitting it?”
It was a long journey.

Peter Medawar famously wrote that anyone who could understand the rules of cricket was clever enough to succeed as a biological scientist. Hmm.