At week-ends an Englishman queues up at the bus-stop, travels out to Richmond, queues up for a boat, then queues up for tea, then queues up for ice-cream, the joins a few more odd queues just for the sake of the fun of it, then queues up at the bus-stop and has the time of his life.
Many English families spend lovely evenings at home just by queueing up for a few hours, and the parents are very sad when the children leave them and queue up for going to bed.
Three Small Points
If you go out for a walk with a friend, don't say a word for hours; if you go out for a walk with your dog, keep chatting to him.
There is a three-chamber legislation in England. A bill to become law has to be passed by the House of Commons and the House of Lords and finally approved by the Brains Trust.
A fishmonger is the man who mongs fish; the ironmonger and the warmonger do the same with iron and war. They just mong them.
2. How To Be a Particular Alien
A Bloomsbury Intellectual
They all hate uniforms so much that they all wear a special uniform of their own: brown velvet trousers, canary yellow pullover, green jacket with sky-blue checks.
This suit of clothes has to be chosen with the utmost care and is intended to prove that its wearer does not care for suits and other petty, worldly things.
A walking stick, too, is often carried by the slightly dandified right-wing of the clan.
A golden chain around the ankle, purple velvet shoes and a half-wild angora cat on the shoulders are strongly recommended as they much increase the appearance of arresting casualness.
It is extremely important that the B.I. should always wear a three-days beard, as shaving is a contemptible bourgeois habit. (The extremist left-wing holds the same view concerning washing, too.) First one will find it a little trying to shave one's four-day beard in such a way that, after shaving, a three days old beard should be left on the cheeks, but practice and devoted care will bring their fruits.
A certain amount of rudeness is quite indispensable, because you have to prove day and night that the silly little commonplace rules and customs of society are not meant for you. If you find it too difficult to give up these little habits — to say, “Hullo” and “How d'you do?” and “Thank you,” etc. — because owing to Auntie Betty's or Tante Bertha's strict upbringing they have become second nature, then join a Bloomsbury school for bad manners, and after a fortnight you will fell no pang of conscience when stepping deliberately on the cord of the venerable literary editor of a quarterly magazine on the bus.
Literary opinions must be most carefully selected. Statements like this are most impressive: “There have been altogether two real poets in England: Sir Thomas Wyatt and John Ford. The words of the rest are rubbish.” Of course, you should include, as the third really great, colossal and epoch-making talent your own friend, T. B. Williams, whose neo-expressionist poetry is so terribly deep that the overwhelming majority of editors do not understand it and refuse to publish it. T. B. Williams, you may proudly claim, has never used a comma or a full stop, and what is more, he has improved Apollinaire's and Aragon's primitive technique by the fact that he does use question marks. (The generous and extravagant praise of T. B. Williams is absolutely essential, otherwise who will praise you?)
As to your own literary activities, your poems, dramas and great novels may lie at the bottom of your drawer in manuscript form. But it is important that you should publish a few literary reviews, scolding and disparaging everything and everybody on earth from a very superior and high-brow point of view, quoting Sir Thomas Wyatt and anything in French and letting the reader feel what you would be able to do if you could only find a publisher.
(Some practical advice. It is not difficult to have a few literary reviews published. Many weeklies and monthlies would publish anything in their so-called literary columns if it costs nothing. You must not call your actions unfair competition with qualified reviewers; call it devotion to the “cause.” Almost every paper has a cause — if yours has not, invent one, it is quite easy. And it really does not matter what you write. I remember one B.I. writing of a significant philosophical work and admitting in the opening paragraph that he did not understand it; still, I suppose, the review passed as buoyant and alarmingly sincere.)
Politically you must belong to the extreme left. You must, however, bear a few things in mind:
(a) You must not care a damn about the welfare of the people in this country or abroad, because that would be “practical politics” — and you should only be interested in the ideological side of matters.
(b) Do not belong to any party, because that would be “regimentation.” Whatever different parties achieve, it is much more interesting to criticise everyone than to belong to the herd.
(c) Do not hesitate to scorn Soviet Russia as reactionary and imperialistic, the British Labour Party as a conglomeration of elderly Trade Union Blimps, the French Socialists as “confused people,” the other Western Socialist parties as meek, bourgeois clubs, the American labour movements as being in the pay of big business; and call all republicans, communists, anarchists and nihilists “backward reactionary crypto-fascists.”
You should also invent a few truly original, constructive theories too, such as:
Only Brahmanism can save the world.
Spiritualism is a factor, growing immensely in importance, and a practical, working coalition between ghosts and Trotsky-ites would be highly desirable.
The abolition of all taxation would enrich the population so enormously that everybody would be able to pay much more taxes than before.
Finally, remember the main point. Always be original! It is not as difficult as it sounds: you just have to copy the habits and sayings of a few thousand other B.I.s.
Mayfair Playboy
Fix the little word de in front of your name. It has a remarkable attraction. I knew a certain Leo Rosenberg from Graz who called himself Leo de Rosenberg and was a huge success in Deanery Mews as a Tyrolean nobleman.
Believe that the aim of life is to have a nice time, go to nice places and meet nice people. (Now: to have a nice time means to have two more drinks daily than you can carry; nice places are the halls of great hotels, intimate little clubs, night clubs and private houses with large radiograms and no bookshelves; nice people are those who say silly things in good English — nasty people are those who drop clever remarks as well as their aitches.)
In the old days the man who had no money was not considered a gentleman. In the era of an enlightened Mayfair this attitude has changed. A gentleman may have money or may sponge on his friends; the criterion of a gentleman is that however poor he may be he still refuses to do useful work.
You have to develop your charm with the greatest care. Always laugh at everybody's joke — but be careful to tell a joke from a serious and profound observation. Be polite in a teasing, nonchalant manner. Sneer at everything you are not intelligent enough to understand. You may flirt with anybody's wife, but respect the ties of illegitimate friendships — unless you have a really good opportunity which it would be such a pity to miss. Don't forget that well-pressed trousers, carefully knotted ties and silk shirts are the greatest of all human values. Never be sober after 6:30p.m.
How to be a Film Producer
A little foreign blood is very advantageous, almost essential, to become a really great British film producer.
The first great aim of a British film producer should be to teach Hollywood a lesson. Do not be misled, however, by the examples of Henry V or Pygmalion, which tend to prove that excellent films can be made of great plays without changing the out-of-date words of Shakespeare and the un-film-like dialogues of Shaw by ten “experts” who really know better.