Queenan Country

Queenan Country: A Reluctant Anglophile's Pilgrimage to the Mother Country by Joe Queenan

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


"This book is an attempt to make clear that there are things about Britain that delight me (Chelsea Pensioners, cows on the commons, Edward VII, Keith Richards), things that appall me (Chelsea football supporters, cows on canvases, Edward VIII, Cliff Richard), and things that mystify me (why anyone would listen to English morning radio, the House of Lords, the way people dress once they turn thirty, basically, the entire society). For the truth is, the Brits have always baffled me."

"One semitropical Fourth of July, Joe Queenan's English wife suggested that the family might like a chicken tikka masala in lieu of the customary barbecue. It was this pitiless act of gastronomic cultural oppression,coupled with the dread of the fearsome Christmas pudding that awaited him for dessert, that inspired the author to make a solitary pilgrimage to Great Britain. Freed from the obligation to visit an unending procession of Aunty Margarets and Cousin Robins, as he had done for the first twenty-six years of their marriage, Queenan decided that he would not come back from Albion until he had finally penetrated the heart of limey darkness.

"His trip was not in vain. Crisscrossing Old Blightly like Cromwell hunting Papists, Queenan finally came to terms with the choochiness, squiffiness,ponciness,and sticky wicketness that lie at the heart of the British character. Here he is trying to find out whose idea it was to impale King Edward II on a red-hot poker -- and what this says about English sexual politics. Here he is in an Edinburgh pub, seeking to pinpoint the connection between Edward I's pitiless 1297 invasion of Scotland and Paul McCartney's pitiless 1977 recording of 'Mull of Kintyre.' And here he is, trapped in a Gloustershire concert hall with an Eagles tribute band named Talon who secretly resent that they are nowhere near as famous as their evil nemeses, the Illegal Eagles. At the end of his epic adventure, the author returns chastened,non the wiser, but encouraged that his wife is actually as sane as she is, all things considered."
~~front & back flaps

It started out innocently enough, but then rapidly deteriorated into the sort of book you want to throw against the wall. (I didn't, because I want to trade it in, and my local USB has an intransigent attitude towards books in pieces.) The author was snide, snarky and snotty about most everything he came across, and most of the people as well. I hope he kept his opinions to himself while he was there, or else US/UK relations were set back an untold number of years, and new meaning given to the concept "Ugly American".

I was firmly intending to give this book no stars at all, since there is no star designating "HATED it!" And then I came to the final pages:

"... there is a personal Albion that belongs tome that no English citizen born in more recent times can ever know. I remember Stonehenge before the fence got put up around it, when you could simply drive up in the middle of the night and stand speechless before the mysterious monoliths. I remember the miner's strikes that caused Edward Heath's government to collapse. ... I remember that Carmella's Place in Nailsworth used to be called Tubby's, and that the plumbing didn't work under that name either. I remember stone pubs in Paganhill that were so frigid you had to already be drunk just to stay warm enough to take off your gloves and pay for your next drink ... I remember a pub in Dursley with a ceiling so low that my dart once deflected off the roof into the bull's-eye, much to my brother-in-law's disgust. I remember another freezing pub in Paganhill where my brother-in-law and I got doused in ice cold water by a drunken prankster who claimed to be aiming at somebody else, but Tony insisted on finishing our game of cribbage with the soaking cards because he four fives and a queen with two kings in the box and wasn't likely to get another hand like that for the rest of his life. ...

"Much of the Britain I love has disappeared. Edwardian pubs have been torn apart and remodeled to look Tudor; even in the dainty Cotswolds people rarely say things like 'Excuse me, old cock, could I borrow that stool?' anymore. But enough of the old Britain remains. ...

"There isn't anything in the world better than riding a London double-decker bus. There isn't a more beautiful place in the world than the Embankment at sunset. There is nothing more stirring than the Houses of Parliament illuminated at midnight... I have often said that if I had to pick a city to live in the rest of my life it would be Paris, but if I had to pick a city in which to spend the last day of my life it would be London. One chilly evening, I called a friend in New York to gloat that I was standing in the shadow of Nelson's statue in front of the National Gallery right beside St. Martin-in-the-Fields as Big Ben struck midnight, and he had the misfortune to be elsewhere. You cannot put a price on these things, and if you did, it would not be nearly high enough.

"I left London for New York the day after the Queen Mother's funeral. Hundreds of thousands of ordinary people lined the streets. The service was broadcast over enormous speakers lining St. James Park; the silence was breathtakingly visceral. People were not afraid to weep openly ... After the funeral, the Queen herself motored past; it was the second time I had seen her in the past month. She had just lost a sister, now her mother. ... At the very end of the service, the Coldstream Guards, the Highlanders, and all the rest marched past in their amazing, resplendent, and very strange costumes. There were kilts, bagpipes, massive furry hats, battered tiger skins ... The British may have lost their empire, but they still know how to put on an impressive show. The ancient pipes filled the air with the tunes that had petrified enemies from Bunker Hill to Bengal. The pipes sported the very stiffest of upper lips. ... I did not want to be anywhere but Britain.

"As the last of the pipers disappeared toward their headquarters near Buckingham Palace, and I gazed over the sea of teary-eyed Brits, I felt the same way I did whenever I heard Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, that it was hard to believe that I had been lucky enough to live in the same solar system as such a remarkable human being. The English inspired a similar sense of affection and awe. They were, by turns, mad, hilarious, exasperating, unpredictable, peculiar, courageous, thrilling. The Brits were the very best mankind had to offer; if the planet was ever to host a more fascinating race, then the rest of us were in for a real treat. ... Standing in the park as the drone of the bagpipes receded into the distance, I was reassured by the though that there would always be Highlanders, there would always be Coldstream Guards, there would always be the queen, there would always be an England.

"The alternative was simply not acceptable."

Impossible to read that with a tug on your heartstrings. And it certainly redeemed the book.

(Q authors aren't that easy to come by, which explains how this book wound up in my TBR pile.)



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