George Saunders - The Braindead Megaphone

Accordingly, I decided to undertake a visit to Britain, and study the land and its peoples.

A WORD ABOUT NOMENCLATURE

Britain is often said to be part of “the United Kingdom,” along with several other countries, including England. Ireland is also nearby, and is considered part of Scotland, which, in turn, is adjacent to, and included in, a small country called Wales. To first-time visitors, this can be confusing, especially when one learns that — paradoxically — France is considered by the British to be its very own nation! One finds oneself longing for the simplicity of America, where, for example, everyone understands that New York City is a city, that Cleveland is a state in either Ohio or Indiana, and that the Mississippi River, I’m pretty sure, does not run in any other state than Mississippi. Or city. I can’t remember if Mississippi is a city or a — anyway, the point is, the American visitor to Britain can avoid all confusion by simply referring to his hosts and hostesses as “you guys.”

UP, UP, AND AWAY!

To get to Britain, you fly over several oceans, including the Atlantic. I think also Missouri? I did not see very much of the Atlantic or Missouri or whatever because, as we passed over, I was watching a movie on our airplane called Dumb and Dumber. It was funny. It is about these two guys who are dumb. Then we were served dinner. I was next to a guy from Spain! All he did was sleep. The Spanish, I concluded, are a lazy people, prone to sleep, who do not enjoy movies. When he finally woke up, I gave him a cookie I had saved for him, because I did not like it. He enjoyed that cookie, that’s for sure! That’s one thing one can conclude about the Spanish: they certainly love to feed their faces. Then it turned out, he wasn’t Spanish at all, but a fellow American, from Montana! I guess I learned a valuable lesson about generalizing: people from Montana are lazy and love to feed their faces.

HAY, TOWN OF BOOKS

The first thing I did in England was travel to a town called Hay, the site of a big literary festival. Hay is known as The Town of Books, because it has approximately fourteen thousand used bookshops. The cars are all shaped like books and all their food is book-shaped and the women wear a special perfume that smells like old musty books and all of the dogs are named Baudelaire.

One of the principles of science is that one can, by the careful study of a small data set, form generalized conclusions about a larger population. Based on my observation of the British at Hay, I concluded that the British (1) are all from London, (2) are extremely literate, and (3) are almost always drunk. It was hard to find a Briton at Hay who was not from London and was not either reading or drunk, or both — i.e., reading while drunk. Also, the British in Hay are extremely smart. Based on the quality of my conversations with the British at the Hay Festival, I was forced to conclude that the British are even more intelligent, literary, and articulate than us Americans! I know my American readers will find this hard to believe, if they have even made it this far, due to all my big words I have been using. However, my fellow Americans, do not feel bad about our relative stupidity; I have concluded that the British are more intelligent, literary, and articulate than us simply because they spend more time reading and studying and reflecting on the world than we do. No doubt, if we Americans spent as much time reading, studying, and thoughtfully reflecting as the British, we would be every bit as intelligent, literary, and articulate as them. But we have better things to do, such as getting more money, and calling in our votes for America’s Sexiest Food-Obsessed Midgets , and keeping the world safe from democracy. Or, should I say, safe for democracy. Whatever. What am I, some kind of language scientist or wordologist or what-not?

IN WHICH I, HUNGOVER, AM RESCUED

After Hay, it was off to Salisbury, for the Salisbury Book Festival. As part of my study, I decided to embark on this trip after staying up drinking until 4 a.m. for two consecutive nights. I wanted to see how the famous “English countryside” would appear to an American author endeavoring not to be sick in front of one of his idols, the famous Canadian author Margaret Atwood. Turns out, I was unable to observe much of the countryside, because instead of gazing out of the window, I was gazing down at my feet muttering, “Why, you idiot, why? How old are you anyway, you freaking moron?” This portion of the study was further complicated by the fact that our driver was a sadistic former race-car driver who, upon learning of my condition, attempted to come to my aid by telling me lengthy anecdotes about all the places he had historically thrown up while drunk, and enumerating all the exotic, grotesque foods he had eaten just prior to throwing up, and taking corners faster than necessary, sometimes even going up on two wheels while glancing playfully over to see if I’d thrown up yet.

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.