conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a story about London, pronounced, me-cash with the genre: Humor & Entertainment, Humor?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this story could be 'How To Be A Brit'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first three paragraphs for this story.. Start with the sentence 'How To Be A Brit
  I BELIEVE, without undue modesty, that I have certain qualifications to write on 'how to be an alien'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: How To Be A Brit
  I BELIEVE, without undue modesty, that I have certain qualifications to write on 'how to be an alien.' I am an alien myself. What is more, I have been an alien all my life. Only during the first twenty-six years of my life I was not aware of this plain fact. I was living in my own country, a country full of aliens, and I noticed nothing particular or irregular about myself; then I came to England, and you can imagine my painful surprise.
  Like all great and important discoveries it was a matter of a few seconds. You probably all know from your schooldays how Isaac Newton discovered the law of gravitation. An apple fell on his head. This incident set him thinking for a minute or two, then he exclaimed joyfully: 'Of course! The gravitation constant is the acceleration per second that a mass of one gram causes at a distance of one centimetre.' You were also taught that James Watt one day went into the kitchen where cabbage was cooking and saw the lid of the saucepan rise and fall. 'Now let me think,' he murmured – 'let me think.' Then he struck his forehead and the steam engine was discovered. It was the same with me, although circumstances were rather different.
  It was like this. Some years ago I spent a lot of time with a young lady who was very proud and conscious of being English. Once she asked me – to my great surprise – whether I would marry her. 'No,' I replied, 'I will not. My mother would never agree to my marrying a foreigner.' She looked at me a little surprised and irritated, and retorted: 'I, a foreigner? What a silly thing to say. I am English. You are the foreigner. And your mother, too.' I did not give in. 'In Budapest, too?' I asked her. 'Everywhere,' she declared with determination. 'Truth does not depend on geography. What is true in England is also true in Hungary and in North Borneo and Venezuela and everywhere.'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It is true that we have some minor issues left on our hands, such as nuclear disarmament, South African apartheid, Notting Hill, Little Rock, swastika daubings and such like, but apart from a few dotty intellectuals no one gets really worked up about these. All this is a great pity, because ways and means of fighting for good causes (or for bad ones) have improved beyond recognition.
  THE modern Englishman is jealous of his civil liberties and rightly so. Modern freedom is an English invention – or at least an excellent English adaptation of the original Greek. The ancient and essential liberties are well known to us all; here I only want to say a few words on the new interpretation of some old ideas:
  WHEN I first came to England, television was still a kind of entertainment and not a national disease. During the happy war years it was off the air altogether but afterwards it returned with a vengeance.
  Television, however, has slowly conquered – in varying degree – all layers of society and, whether we like it or not – it has come to stay.
  The basis and main pillar of the art of television is the TELEVISION PERSONALITY. If you want to become a Television Personality, you need a personality of some sort. It may be unattractive or simply repulsive; but a personality is indispensable.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The virtues the English still possess matter. The tolerance, the courtesy, the still fairly decent table manners, the sly good humour, the passion for queueing, the self-deprecation and dislike of flattery, the cool-headedness (even the cold-bloodedness – there's something to be said for not making too much of sex), the gift for double-think which makes it possible to foist airfields and motorways onto other people's doorsteps and refuse to have them on your own.... All these virtues, being the result of power and affluence, are as I have said disappearing. But they are disappearing very slowly – slowly enough for me. I am disappearing slowly myself.
  Many people are leaving this country: too many strikes, too little public transport, the falling pound and standard of living, the sinking economy, the uncertainty of their children's future: they want no more of all this. Good luck to them.
  I, on the other hand, am going to stay even if Britain becomes a desert island with me as her Robinson Crusoe.
  That, when I come to think of it, would have considerable advantages. The pound sterling would cease to exist so it could fall no lower. If I were alone, Britain would at last be free of class distinctions – the only way, I am sure, that this could happen. Or is it? As a British subject I could always look down on myself as a former bloody foreigner, and as a former middle-class intellectual I could despise the agricultural labourer I would have to become. Even one man can keep up class-warfare if he's really determined.
  We have been good friends for a very long time. We really met properly here in England, that last summer before the Second World War: when I arrived from Hungary you were already a settled citizen of London. We had known each other in Budapest, of course – but at that time I was still a little boy and you were a grown-up young journalist going out with beautiful actresses, much too sophisticated to talk to your younger brother or to me.