How to be a Brit

by George Mikes

  On Minding One’s Own Business

  This is one of the basic English virtues. It is not to be interpreted as really minding your own business (getting on with your job, keeping your promises, etc.); it simply means that you are not to interfere with others. If a man happens to be standing on your foot in the bus, you must not ask him to get off, since it is clearly his business where he chooses to stand; if your neighbour’s television or radio is blaring military marches till midnight, you may not remonstrate with him because it is his business what he pleases to listen to and at what time; if you are walking peacefully in the street and someone pours two gallons of boiling water over your best bowler through his bathroom overflow, the pipe of which is aimed at the street (see: ANCIENT LIBERTIES), you should proceed without uttering a word – however short – because it is obviously the other fellow’s business when he has his bath and how hot he likes it.

  In the late nineteen-fifties, a man committed a murder in the Midlands, splashing himself with blood in the process. Afterwards, near the scene of the crime a man covered with blood was seen to board a bus with about fifty people on it. Yet when he got off, leaving a pool of blood on the floor, not one single passenger bothered to ask him what he had been doing lately. They were true Britons, minding their own business.

  If another man had been carrying some victim’s decapitated head under his arm, that would not make the slightest difference. The parcel you carry is your own business.

  I remember an old story from my childhood which ought to be one of the basic ideological parables of English life.

  A man bends down in a London street to tie his shoelace. While he’s at it, someone kicks him in the behind with such force that he falls on his nose. He gets up somewhat bewildered and looks at his assailant questioningly. The latter explains:

  ‘I am sorry. I seem to have made a mistake. I thought you were my friend, Harry Higgins. I meant this as a joke.’

  The man (presumably of foreign origin) is not altogether satisfied with this explanation and remarks plaintively:

  ‘But even if I had been Harry Higgins … must you kick him quite so hard?’

  The other man replies coolly and pointedly:

  ‘What has it got to do with you how hard I choose to kick my friend, Harry Higgins?’

  Sex

  This seemingly most immutable of all social habits changes too – and changes fast. In an earlier volume of mine – a treatise on the English character* – I wrote a very brief chapter on this subject. It ran: ‘Continental people have sex life; the English have hot-water bottles.’ That was all. It has now become hopelessly out-of-date. How right was the kind (and to me unknown) lady who wrote to me in a letter:

  ‘You are really behind the times. In this field, too, things have changed and – this is the most important – techniques have advanced. We are using electric blankets nowadays.’

  And, no doubt, things will go on changing. I do not know for certain but I feel sure that A.I.D. – Artificial Insemination by Donor – was invented by Englishmen as a labour-saving device. Knowing the English character, and its marked lack of enthusiasm in this particular field, I am convinced that A.I.D. will grow immensely popular in no time and that soon it will be the rule rather than the exception.

  I foresee the time – not in the too distant future, either – when a shy young man will be asked at a party:

  ‘How are you, old man? And how’s your wife? Have you A.I.D.-ed any more family lately? What’s it going to be this time: a boy or a girl?’

  And the bashful young man will blush and reply:

  ‘I can’t be sure … You see, we don’t A.I.D. our children. I’ve got a “Do It Yourself” kit.’

  How to Avoid Work

  Many may wonder how the English acquired their reputation of not working as hard as most continentals. I am able to solve this mystery. They acquired this reputation by not working as hard.

  It is, by the way, all due to their lack of rhythm and nothing else. Let me explain what I mean.

  In my young days there used to be a joke about a silly aristocrat – the type of hero the Austrians called Count Bobby. Count Bobby comes home from shooting and his friend, Aristide, asks him how he got on.

  ‘Badly. I got nothing,’ Bobby informs him.

  ‘But how’s that possible? It’s so easy to shoot rabbits. They always run in zig-zags.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Bobby nods sadly, ‘but I was out of luck. Whenever I shot at zig, he was in zag; when I shot at zag, he was in zig.’

  The same is true of Englishmen in general, When they work (or are in zig) they rest (zag); when they rest (zag), they work hard (zig).

  On the rare occasions when two groups of Englishmen are vying with one another as to who should perform a certain job, the result is most surprising. You would naïvely assume that both groups are keen to do the job. Not at all. Whenever the Boilermakers’ Union starts a quarrel with the Shipwrights’ as to who should drive wooden nails into metal or metal nails into wood, they call a strike for two or three months. In other words (and this is the Basic Law of English Labour), if two Englishmen are equally eager to do a job, the job is sure to be left undone.

  Normally, in the factory, workshop or office, they use their working day to build up energy for those fatiguing hours of leisure when they weed, dig and hoe the garden, play golf, redecorate the spare bedroom, build a shed in the backyard, etc., etc. It is little wonder that when at last they go to bed they are inclined to believe that the time for rest has arrived. They are in zag again all right.

  Everybody is Hungarian

  But the time has come to stop prevaricating. For the last eighty odd pages of this book – I am sorry to admit this, but it’s true – I have been doing nothing but raise false hopes. You cannot become an Englishman, try as you may. Because the simple truth is this: everybody is Hungarian. This is a basic and irrefutable theorem like that of Pythagoras.

  Pythagoras was no relation of mine; but I am proud to report that the second theorem was discovered by my wife. One evening, while reading a certain biography, I exclaimed: ‘Oh! …’ She looked at me enquiringly from the other armchair. I explained that I had just discovered that the parents of Alfred Adler were Hungarian. She replied briefly and concisely:

  ‘So what?’

  I do not like the expression, particularly when my important and sensational statements are greeted with it. Before I could protest, however, my wife added:

  ‘Why shouldn’t they be Hungarian? Everybody is Hungarian.’

  And she returned to her book.

  I do not know how Pythagoras’s spouse received the news when her husband first said to her: ‘I say, darling, did it ever strike you that the square on the hypotenuse, etc., etc.’ But it certainly stands to my everlasting credit that as soon as my wife uttered her theorem I saw the light. I knew it was true and irrefutable. Of course, everybody is Hungarian. It seemed incredible that no one had thought of this theorem before.

  We are all Hungarians

  It is true on various planes.

  1. London is a great English city, but it is also a small Hungarian village. Most Hungarians living in London will tell you that while they do not avoid other Hungarians, it so happens that they do not know any of them. Well, of course, their immediate circle consists of Hungarians – a few former school-mates, relations, etc. – but apart from these thirty or forty people, they simply do not know any Hungarians in London. A few minutes afterwards you happen to ask them to recommend a doctor, a solicitor, a dentist, or a dressmaker and they will recommend a Hungarian doctor, solicitor, dentist, or dressmaker who is reputed to be the best in England. They happen to know a Hungarian cobbler round the corner who is a genius of his craft and a Hungarian tailor who puts Savile Row to shame. We all know where to buy Hungarian salami, sausages and apricot brandy. We all go to various Hungarian restaurants where they cook exactly as our mothers did. We go to see Hungarian dancers in Shaftesbury Avenue, to listen to Hunga
rian violinists in Wigmore Hall, to applaud Hungarian runners at the White City, to watch Hungarian football players at Wembley – and so on, there is always something. I do not quite know how it is with others; but I, personally, have not seen an Englishman in London for over two years.

  2. Yes, of course, everybody is Hungarian. And if he isn’t then his father or his grandmother was. Alexander Korda, the father of the British film industry, is one of the very obvious examples. When Leo Amery – one of the flag-bearers of the British Imperial idea – died, I learned from his obituaries that his mother had been Hungarian. Leslie Howard, the incarnation, indeed the prototype – both in manners and in appearance – of the modern Briton, was … Well, need I go on? I am Hungarian; André Deutsch is Hungarian. Nicolas Bentley, by now, is at least half Hungarian. Queen Mary was not a Hungarian. But whenever she received a Hungarian she was fond of telling him that two of her grandparents were.

  3. You may ask: ‘But what about those few – infinitesimal as their number may be – who are, in spite of everything, not Hungarians?’

  Well, they are being Magyarized at breath-taking speed. I know quite a few Hungarians who have not learnt one single word of English in all the years they have been living here. In fact, they regard it as a crying shame and personal insult that people should talk English in this country. They go on speaking Hungarian everywhere and to everybody and if others fail to understand, that is their worry. The population of London, I must say, has made remarkable progress in the Hungarian language. There is a small café – frequented by Hungarians – where a young Yorkshire girl greeted me the other day with ‘Kezétcsókolom, aranyas!’ which means, ‘I kiss your hand, darling!’ I know of a grandmother – recently arrived from Budapest – who in the course of two years has managed to teach her two British-born grandchildren, an Irish maid and a Spanish governess reasonably fluent Hungarian without herself learning a single word of English, Irish or Spanish. The prize for good educational work, however, must go to another Hungarian matron who was travelling on a No. 2 bus from Baker Street, meaning to get off at Platts Lane. She missed her stop, however. Reaching Cricklewood Lane and finding the surroundings unfamiliar, she jumped up, walked to the conductor – a fine and honest cockney, born and bred – and said:

  ‘Platts Lane? Erre? (pointing one way) Arra?’ (pointing the other way).

  In case it is only your grandmother who was Hungarian and you yourself are not, I ought to add that erre means this way, and arra means that way.

  The conductor was a little taken aback by this pantomime and asked her:

  ‘Platts Lane, lady? If you want Platts Lane …’

  The lady shook her head. English was not a language to which she could listen with patience. She interrupted the conductor with some irritation:

  ‘Platts Lane? Erre? Arra?’

  The conductor raised his voice and tried again:

  ‘Look, lady, I’m just trying to tell you that …’

  The lady interrupted again, this time quite peremptorily:

  ‘Platts Lane: erre? arra?’

  The conductor sighed and pointed backwards:

  ‘Platts Lane? Arra!’

  HOW TO BE

  To my dear old friend, Emeric Pressburger – the only man I know who is not decadent.

  But – I hope – he can learn.

  ‘But you are ruining the country!’

  For Some Time There’ll be an England …

  These are great years for the British. The nation has not been so gloriously united since the days of Churchill, but a blind and unappreciative world fails to see the light.

  Some time ago a businessman friend of mine remarked about a Trotskyist Trade Union faction which was holding up the settlement of a damaging strike by insisting on some ludicrous and impossible demands: ‘They are incredibly stupid. Don’t they see that they are ruining the country?’ But as their aim was to ruin the country they were not stupid, whatever else they may have been.

  Similarly, the world fails to understand the British and appreciate what they are doing. The British – as the whole world, particularly the British themselves, keep saying – are the most fair-minded people in the world. After the Second World War they declared: ‘Let’s be fair. We have been Top Nation for centuries. We have done splendidly well once again. Now we must give others a chance. Let’s decline.’

  But it is not so easy to decline as the uninitiated imagine. After a few centuries other nations just will not believe that you are as inefficient and couldn’t-care-less as you are. They will insist on thinking of you as successful, reliable and rich, however unsuccessful, unreliable and poor you may have become. Declining needs the effort of a united nation – not just one class, one layer; not just the politicians. It needs the unfailing effort of rich and poor, old and young, intellectual and illiterate, skilled and unskilled, shop floor and management. It is an arduous, almost herculean task but nothing will deter the British, once they have made up their minds. They played a great part in destroying Nazi Germany; the destruction of democratic Britain seems child’s play compared with that.

  The general strategy was grandiose: let us give away our Empire as fast as possible or a little faster; let us ruin the pound sterling by pretending that we did not give away our Empire and can still be a reserve currency; let us ruin the City and then rely on it as our main source of strength; let us distribute overseas aid in a grand manner, at the same time, let us go around begging, cap in hand; Made in Britain used to be synonymous with superlative quality, so let us not rest until it means ‘shoddy goods, delivered late’; and let us divide the country into small sections. If Cyprus can be independent, why not Wales? If Malta, why not Lancashire or Cornwall? If Singapore, why not Birmingham? If Field Marshal Idi Amin can make a fool of himself – well, didn’t he learn everything from us?

  All this needed great determination, skill and the united effort of a great nation. But the British aren’t the British for nothing. To their eternal glory, they are on the way to complete success.

  On the Elegance of Decay

  It was not only that proverbial spirit of fairness that led the nation to this decision. There was another, equally good reason. To remain Top Nation would inevitably have meant winning the eternal rat-race from time to time – perhaps quite often – and that the British cannot bear. The thing is to take part but not to win. You take part only and exclusively because without taking part you cannot lose. This is not the Nation of Vulgar Winners; this is the Nation of Good Losers.

  The greatest days of Rome were its days of decline. The most splendid period of the Bourbon monarchy was the period before the Revolution. It is more elegant, wise and stylish to decay than to flourish; better to decline than to pant, rush around, sweat and get hoarse in vulgar bargaining. It is much more in keeping with the British style to live in a quiet and slightly disintegrating manor house than in a super-modern and noisy market place. It is more in keeping to potter around in the garden and remain healthy than to rush around town under great stress and get heart attacks. I agree with the British about this; I too prefer constructive decay to futile progress. But one has to know how to decay; one must learn how to be decadent. You may desire to decay, yet your inborn excellence, your splendid human qualities, your shining character may keep you on the top. Or else, you may overdo it and decay a shade too speedily.

  Once upon a time I committed another little book, called How to be an Alien. A good friend, to my horror, discovered in 1976 that that book was thirty years old. I have reluctantly to admit that although I was only four years old when I wrote it, this makes me almost middle-aged.

  What has changed in thirty years? Who has changed in thirty years? Would I write that book again? Could I write that book again? If I did try to write it, in what way would it differ from the original How to be an Alien?

  Both I and Britain have, of course, changed a great deal. First of all, I have become, in a sense, more British than the British while the British have beco
me less British. I have become a little better off than the young refugee was thirty years ago, Britain has become much poorer. I have climbed up the ladder a bit, Britain has climbed down quite a lot. I have become less of a European, Britain – apparently – more European. Britain has lost an Empire and gained me (the net gain, let’s face it, is infinitesimal).

  How to be an Alien was addressed to fellow-aliens, telling them how to make themselves acceptable, how to imitate the English – in other, simple words How to be an Alien was telling them how not to be an Alien.

  There was a joke at the end of the forties. A German refugee was offered naturalization but he indignantly exclaimed: ‘What? Without India?!’ He had a point, of course. But should you still wish to belong to the clan – India or no India – you must go through a refresher course if you are an ancient alien like myself, or learn some new rules if you are a newcomer, a budding alien. You still have to discuss the weather, of course, with fervent interest; you still have to form an orderly queue on the slightest provocation; you are still not to address a shop-assistant until you are spoken to; if you are a worker, you are not to work, if you are a solicitor you are not to solicit, if you are a streetwalker you are not to walk the streets, if you are the Lord Privy Seal you are not a lord and if you are the Black Rod you most certainly are not black (nor, for that matter, are you a rod). But English ideas on food, drink, sex, travel, etc. have changed or been modified, so study the new rules carefully.

  Ups and downs

  The most important thing to remain unchanged is the English attitude towards you. The world still consists of two clearly divided groups: the English and the foreigners. One group consists of less than fifty million people; the other of 3,950 million. The latter group does not really count. The Scots, the Welsh, the Irish and – more or less – the Australians and the Americans are neither English nor foreigners: they are the Scots, the Welsh, the Irish, the Australians and the Americans, but they are as ludicrous as foreigners. Bloody foreigners are rarely called bloody foreigners nowadays, some say because the English have become more polite; my own feeling is that the word ‘bloody’ has changed its meaning and is no longer offensive enough. You may have become a ‘visitor’ or even a ‘Distinguished European’, but turn to the Oxford Dictionary and you will find (or should find, if that publication is really as accurate as it is supposed to be) that ‘Distinguished European’ is a synonym for bloody foreigner.