Book groups and other amusements

I had never been in a book group or a book club before, but I certainly had heard of and about them. First I heard about them from one of my professors who was German but always pretended to be English. She said that in Britain book clubs are so popular that even Judy & Richard established one in their show. She said that every library has one, and then there are millions of unofficial book clubs because some just do it at home etc etc. Then she gave us some figure, which I remember being pretty close to the figure of Britain’s population, and I thought: wow.

I had also heard about book groups from the series called The Book Group, in which some guy referred to them as “fucking middle-brow. Yuck”. It was by watching the very same show that I found out that book groups are normally not exactly about books (which I could have figured out myself, knowing that there there’s usually coffee and biscuits).

So I had heard bits and pieces about this phenomenal social activity, but I had never heard that when people who join book groups say “Oh I have read this book centuries ago”, they DO actually literally mean a CENTURY.

When I entered the library, I immediately started patting my pockets, looking for the leaflet of the event, so I could double-check if it didn’t say “over 65 only.” But the grannies seemed pretty happy to see me (and three other young people who came with me) there, so I calmed down. We gathered to discuss Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh.

“A jolly good read!” the bravest one exclaimed. The good thing about old people in the book group, I thought, is that they don’t know how to use internet, so they don’t gather just to quote some universal truths from Wikipedia.

“Oh I thought Sebastian was so delightfully romantic”, another one said and blushed, while others were shyly nodding.

“The more facets you pick up as you read, the more interesting the book becomes”, explained the third granny in an asserting tone, and you immediately knew she had worked as a primary school teacher.

The religious aspect in the book was touched upon, and the discussion about Catholicism was soon in full swing. Somebody suggested that maybe Charles Ryder (the narrator) converted to Catholicism in the end because he found its wicked side acceptable (in Brideshead Revisited Catholics aren’t “true Catholics”). The teacher kindly explained: “That would seem peculiar to adopt religion for such reasons. That is against human nature.”

“I can’t remember the exact bit of the book”, said yet another granny, and pointed at her left hand side neighbour. The neighbour didn’t seem to be able to find what she needed, so the woman started desperately looking for the quote herself. She found it and started quoting after five minutes, when the topic of the discussion had long been changed.

Another one indeed surprised everybody by admitting that she has the book at home but never read it. She still came because she really wanted to, and now she was even more tempted to read the book. “I’m with her”, her husband excused himself, and we moved to the discussion of the screen adaptation of the film.

“Well, I certainly believe the film should have been called Brideshead rather than Brideshead Revisited, if they really skipped the first bit of the book” (which is basically there for the sake of the flashback that follows). Some people laughed, a few others modestly nodded, and you could see how proud the woman was of her recourcefulness.

“Oh I will definitely go and watch the movie, even if it’s only to grumble about it,” said the enthusiastic granny to whom the authorship of the phrase “a jolly good read” belongs. “I just hope all of the actors are British.”

It was also her who answered somebody’s question whether all of the readers are from one and the same group. “These people over there belong to the elderly people’s college book club, these people belong to the library’s book group…”

“And I belong to my wife”, said the grandpa, and by that he revealed one more truth about book groups which I hadn’t heard before.

Counting up to twenty

“Britain Britain Britain. Discovered by Sir Henry Britain in 16010.”

“It’s complicated”, I would always answer to people asking “but why Britain?”, after I had just seen them wearing sunglasses and summer clothes in pictures from Greece and Monaco (and even bloody Prague!). If, of course, the “purity of language” argument doesn’t work (which it shouldn’t, considering how brutally, as my dear fellow American wants it, this language has been butchered by Kilts, Cloves and Criminals).

“Oh I like so many other things here,” I say, and turn the volume down so I could hear myself better. Michael Crawford is singing some song which doesn’t contain the lyrics that are in its title. “Counting up to twenty.” The fairy tale about the clever Magical Mr. Mistoffelees soon ends and, before I realize it, I do start counting.

I like to see the guy with a map of UK behind his back on BBC news shocked that “we are likely to have a second dry day in a row.”

I like that it is “generally believed” all around Stratford upon Avon that Shakespeare indeed existed.

I like that everything “may contain traces of nuts”. And that ice-cream is also suitable for vegetarians.

I like when old people smile at you in the streets and call you ‘my love’, even though the warmest feeling they may have is the feeling of pity “for a poor girl from Eastern Europe.” I like how people say “sorry” ten times in a sentence, even after you have just stepped on their feet.

I like British Television. I like that the UK is among the very few countries in the world whose comedy shows are actually funny (in many countries it’s rather news that, presumably unintentionally, are).

I like complaining to everybody that British chocolate cannot be compared to Swiss or German chocolate because it doesn’t really dissolve in your mouth, is too sweet and too sugary etc etc etc, and then buying a seven-bar-Cadbury pack.

I like that a sandwich is only a sandwich if it’s triangular. I like funfares and double-decker buses. I like to watch twenty young chaps, whom the driver has just asked to please sit down if they want to continue their journey, desperately trying to come back to 30-pints-of-beer-free reality. I like when Brits stay in their own country for stag parties.

I like how ‘Zoosk’ warns you that ‘you are missing out flirts because you haven’t indicated your location’. I like the ambiguity which the word ‘gay’ brings into ‘Brideshead Revisited’. I like how you can support Young British Artists by buying shortbread in ‘Marks &Spencer’. I like that longbread doesn’t even exist.

I like how British media warned the nation of soon-to-be-increasing levels of crime right before Romania and Bulgaria had joined the EU. I like how they blame Poles for killing the Queen’s swans for food. I like the expression “our tiny island” when in Europe, at least population-wise, only Germany and France are bigger.

I like to think that naked girls with symbolic dresses on Friday nights are indeed not freezing. I like it that you can start booking Christmas parties in summer (I mean, the season which is comprised of June, July and August). I like Guinness with blackcurrant syrup, but I guess that’s Irish.

I like that Brits divide people into enemies and friends according to the results of football matches. I like how everybody gets excited about biscuits (which are in fact cookies). I like reading reviews in ‘Spectator’, even when they are about books I haven’t read. I like how women in my office scream that ‘Strictly come dancing’ is back. I like that Brits can say ‘sure’ and ‘of course’ without having a clue (or without wanting to have a clue) of what you are talking about. I like political irony. I like to have my umbrella with me. I like when people grow out of the age when they can only be friends with the people “who have the same style”. I like to all of a sudden get a maximum amount of points in Facebook’s ‘How British are you?’ test. I like green shoes, ‘Primark’ paper bags, Jeremy Paxman and coffee… I like you if you are still reading this.