Visiting England

My dear Billy, I don’t quite know if it is last year’s leftover or the New Year’s hangover, but I have a mixed feeling of both. And in this state, instead of writing about resolutions, horoscopes and suchlike, I find myself drawn towards the banks of the River Thames to which I haven’t been for quite some time now. Not that I have a particular fondness for the place, but nostalgia does creep to the heart from time to time. I must also tell you that the last time I was there, I maid a stern promise, “Never again!” And when I came back I realized that returning is the only thing to do when you find yourself there. I don’t mean to be mean about your country, my dear Billy, nor do I want to hurt anybody’s feeling – I have many good friends among the British whom I really like very much and whose company is always enriching and edifying. Moreover, as you know, I adore the English language. But there is one line from Shelley that keeps ringing in my ears: “London is a city very much like Hell.” And Shelley, as you also know, remains one of my favourite poets. I find England a fine place to live if you happen to be a masochist. To live in England permanently is rather like going to a party and dancing all night with your mother. Since we are at it, I might also venture to add, my dear Billy, that I have read somewhere that an Englishman’s mind works best when it is almost too late. If it is any comfort, the English and the Mauritians are quite similar in this respect. Well, after such a long period of cohabitation, this should be quite a natural feature. I have also read that England is the only nation in history which miraculously has gone from barbarism to degeneration without the normal interval of civilization. But of course, I don’t always believe all that I read. By the way, is it true that England is a country invented by the Romans to annoy the French? Whatever the case, great efforts have been undertaken by the English to keep England clean by forbidding entry into England to Mauritians and others. Very stringent migration laws and entry regulations have been devised to discourage visitors and keep certain brands of foreigners away. But still, a lot of immigrants do manage to find their way in and lose themselves in the crowd. There are also stories about visitors who show up at the counters at Heathrow, Gatwick and other British airports. I was myself involved in one of them, my dear Billy. As I tried to go through customs, one polite officer (they do exist in England) asked me if I had anything to declare. Taking the cue from the guy who had replied “Nothing, except my genius,” to the same question decades earlier, I said, “Yes, my love for your country.” The officer then enquired, “Anybody in particular?” to which I replied, “Yes, Shakespeare.” The officer looked at me with a semblance of surprise, and then abruptly asked if I had any proof. Now, how does one show one’s love for you, my dear Billy? Assembling all my faculties, I tried to recollect an excerpt from one of your plays and Mark Antony’s speech over Caesar’s dead body in “Julius Caesar” came to my mind. I started reciting; “Friends, Romans, Citizens lend me your ears! I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him…” The polite officer interrupted me with, “My sympathy. I am with you in your moment of grief. When did he die? Was he a relative or a close friend?” There are other stories too. One sturdy Jamaican male, on being asked what he had come to England for replied, “I’ve come here to make love. I’m told English females are very sexy.” One Sikh from Punjab is reported to have said, “I have come to colonise England just as the English had colonized India in the past.” After a barrage of questions, on being asked how long he intended to stay, one gentleman from the United Arab Emirates replied, “As long as it takes to buy the Tower of London.” One Mauritian had replied, “Who wants to stay in your stupid country? I’ll take the next flight home as soon as I finish my business here.” But l’m told he never came back. And finally… l was once travelling from Heathrow Airport to Charles de Gaulle in France. A Trinidadian looking fellow introduced himself as a security officer and asked to see my passport and travel ticket. After verification he asked whether I had any money. “Of course I have money. I told him,” But you can’t take money out of Britain,” he insisted. “How do you expect me to live in France without money?” I asked. Besides, it’s my money not your father’s.” He then asked me to show him the money I had.” Oh, it’s Travellers Cheques!” he exclaimed, “It’s not cash!” Well” I told him, “that’s money too. Haven’t your English masters taught you that TCs are money?” I must tell you, my dear Billy, that I have discovered that one of the reasons Britain is such a steady and gracious place is the calming influence of the football results.