LATER THAT NIGHT, FEELING SOMEWHAT BETTER
That night I read with Margaret Atwood, to a crowd of Salisburians, who seemed as intelligent and apt to read and/or discuss literature as the Hayites, albeit considerably less constantly drunk.
Margaret Atwood is a famous Canadian genius. Our crowd consisted of approximately three hundred Margaret Atwood fans, with the remainder of the crowd being my fan. After the reading, Margaret and I were overrun by our fans, crowding around her to get her to sign our books. It was at this point that my fan (Larry) changed his mind and became Margaret’s fan, and, in a fury of conversion, scribbled out my autograph and thrust my book at Margaret, while unfavorably comparing my work to Margaret’s, leaving me with zero (0) fans! (Thanks, Larry! To hell with you, Larry! I may not be as talented as Margaret Atwood, but I am less funny, and it has taken me a lot longer to write a lot fewer books! So there! Do I come to your work and disavow you, Larry?)
After the reading, we ate dinner at a restaurant built in the 1320s. I was amazed by this. In America, anything even circa-1980s is considered Historical and in fact, several of my fortysomething friends have recently had National Historical Landmark plaques surgically mounted, against their will, into their foreheads. The ceiling in that ancient restaurant was literally sagging with age, and I found it strangely moving to imagine Sir Winston Churchill under that saggy ceiling, having dinner with some other British old-timer, such as, say, Shakespeare, or Humphrey Bogart, or even the ancient English band Scorpions. Upon entering the bathroom, which the British do not call “the bathroom,” or “the washroom,” or “the crapper” but, quaintly, “the loo,” (short, I believe, for “Waterloo,” the famous place where the British defeated the Russians during something called “The Reformation”), I was astonished to find that the “loos” in those ancient times were very much like ours, and even had urinals! I just stood awhile in that “loo,” imagining Abraham Lincoln standing at that very same urinal, relieving himself while mentally writing the Declaration of Independence. What a moment! Then Larry came in, and tossed my book into an adjacent ancient urinal, after first, of course, tearing out the valuable title page, which had Margaret Atwood’s autograph on it.
DEAD BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
After dinner we walked over to the Salisbury Cathedral, also built long ago. I began to wonder if anything in Britain is new and, if not, do the British feel bad about this? Maybe that is why they read so much? It was very beautiful in the Cathedral, although also a little creepy, as the British apparently bury people right in their churches. In America we do not bury anyone in our churches, no matter how holy they are. Even a famous religious figure like Oprah cannot be buried in an American church. A high school friend of mine tried to be buried in his church, but when the priest found out, my friend was dug up and put in a distant suburban graveyard, as is our tradition. My friend’s case was complicated by the fact that he wasn’t actually dead. I have sent him a letter, advising him that if he still wants to be buried in a church when dead, he should move to England.
When the British bury you in the church in England, they put you in this kind of mummy case, with your face and body carved in wood! That would be good for my friend, who is very handsome; however, he also has a huge potbelly, and his sarcophagus would literally extend upward about five feet, which might make it difficult for people in certain parts of the church to see the altar.
In summary, things in England are very old and people seem to know a lot about history. A Briton, for no apparent reason, will start cursing somebody named Cromwell or mumbling about a bunch of Whigs, which are, as I understand it, a soccer team, or, as they call soccer teams over here, “a pitch.” I left with many questions, such as: Just who is this Magna Carta fellow? And: How is it that such intelligent people think King Arthur was an actual guy? At least in my country everyone knows that King Arthur was invented by Monty Python. I did not have the heart to break this news, and just played along. OK, OK, I would find myself saying, Sir Lancelot, right, sure, you bet.
When a Briton goes off on one of these historical tangents, it is sometimes best to simply change the subject. For example, one Briton at Hay began talking about some Irish writer, Henry James, or Henry Johns, or Jaspar James, or Roald Joyce, or something like that, and I, starting to doze off, quickly dropped a reference to the popular American television show Spike Through the Head, in which five childhood friends compete to see which of them will get the Spike Through the Head at the end of the show. The way they do this is, they all have sex with each other and rate the sex on a scale from Ten (“Super!”) to Zero (“Very Bad, Why Did I Even Do That, Ugh!”). My British friend fell silent, perhaps depressed by his lack of knowledge of American pop culture. He wouldn’t have felt so bad had he known I totally invented that show! Thomas, if you are reading this — sorry! But I had to get you off that James guy; you were boring me to tears.
(A musical note: The British listen to many American bands here, including the Beatles. In that way, they are very much like us.)
LONDON, THE “CITY OF LIGHT”
London is the largest city in Britain and is, consequently, full of British. The Londoners are an admirable race, ruddy and friendly. Several differences were immediately observed between the Londoners and the Hayites. First, the Londoners did not appear to be so constantly drunk. Although isolated instances of being totally sloshed were observed, most Londoners appeared to be sober and, for example, walking to work (although this observation may have been biased by the fact that I arrived in London very early in the morning). Several Londoners appeared to be in love. At least two Hare Krishnas were observed. Hare Krishna Londoners, it was observed, also speak with accents. Overweight Britons tend to walk with the upper thighs rubbing slightly together. British children tend to be smaller than fully realized Britons, with redder cheeks and smaller hands.
British trees, like American trees, grow upward, toward the sun. Interestingly, British dogs do not appear to bark with discernible accents.
The Londonites are a polite people. In fact, being around Londoners all day made me feel like a rude slob. All my life I have talked like I talk, and now suddenly I sounded to myself like I was the one with the accent, and was dumber and cruder than everyone around me! Even the cab drivers are polite. In America, it is not unusual for your cab driver, after dropping you at your destination, to kill and eat you. That is, if you can even find a cab! In many of the smaller American cities, if you want to be driven somewhere, then killed and eaten, you have to hire a limo service. But in London, not only are there plenty of cabs, and the drivers do not kill and eat you, but the drivers are given a special test, in which they are quizzed on all sorts of difficult things, such as London streets and world history and even calculus. So it is really something — you jump in a cab, say, “Briefly explain the theory of the calculus,” and next thing you know you are in Soho, and the driver is wrapping up his explanation of calculus on a small chalkboard supplied in every single cab.