“And what will we call it?”
“Sir, we will call it The Archers and it won’t even be about bows and arrows and no one will mind. Not one bit.”
And then there’s a long, long pause while the man at the other end of the table entirely forgets to take a drag on his cigar.
WHAT TO SAY: “So where exactly is Ambridge?”
WHAT NOT TO SAY: “It’s not exactly Star Wars, is it?”
Emotional Reserve and Decorum
No nation prides themselves on an essential void in their national character as much as the British—by which I largely mean middle-to-upper-class people from the south and east of England. They’ll watch as people from other nations engage in heated debates in the street, open up to strangers about an intimate medical procedure, or celebrate a happy event by shooting bullets into the sky and smile a quiet smile to themselves. It’s the same quiet smile that greets a sudden burst of “Happy Birthday” in a restaurant or someone else’s child crying because he let go of his balloon.
“Look at those people,” the quiet smile says, “having emotions in public. What strange beasts they are. What must it be like? Alas, I shall never know.” And the person will make a show of reading the menu or briskly walk on by, studiously avoiding eye contact and pretending to be invisible. Just being on the outskirts of a scene is enough to cause outbreaks of nervousness and fluttery eye panic, and that’s because there is no greater social crime in British eyes—and this time I do mean British—than making a fuss.
Making a fuss is what happens in political debate when a representative of a particular point of view—be that the denial of climate change, the eradication of bigotry, or the suggestion that the moon landings were fake—over-eggs the passion in his or her argument. Spirit is fine, zeal is positively welcomed, but if the face begins to purple and the voice becomes loud and grating, well, it’s all a bit much.
The way to avoid this is to be firm but understated. Show that your arguments were created after examining evidence and testing it thoroughly and you’ll be more likely to gain sympathy. This is why Church of England vicars are ingratiating rather than impassioned. Their demeanour suggests that they’re secure in the knowledge that God is already looking down upon the parish with fond eyes and listening ears, so there’s no point in waving their hands and shouting about it.
Mind you, in all the talk about British reserve and the stiff upper lip and all that stuff, one question very rarely gets addressed: what purpose does it serve to present an equable face at all times?
Some groups of people have had really good historical reasons to keep their feelings to themselves. Romany Travellers across Europe, with their status as outsiders confirmed wherever they went, long ago learned to absent themselves from the cares of the local communities, keeping their feelings and passions private so as not to bring trouble on themselves. And the same applies to any group for whom the balance of power leans in the other direction. Forelock tugging is an act of self-preservation, after all.
So what psychological trick are the English upper and middle classes trying to pull off, acting humble when we know they have, in their time, been among the most arrogant, most furious, most influenced by pettiness and spite, and most generally beastly of peoples that the world has ever seen? Is it conscience? Is it a way of proving to themselves and the world that they deserve to have conquered everything and everywhere because, having done so, they had the good grace not to crow about it?
No. That would involve a level of self-awareness that no conquering nation can afford to carry with it. The more likely truth is that the romantic regionalism of British life left a mark on the builders of empire. Conquering a foreign nation and seizing its assets is all very well, but the heart will always yearn for the rolling hills of the Home Counties, with village greens and cricket pitches and endless cucumber sandwiches. However, duty must be obeyed and obligations must be met. One day there will be cucumber sandwiches again, and until then, emotions are firmly off the menu.
Take away that empire and you’re left with just a bunch of guys who are still being taught not to blub, even when something really stings. Break bones, break hearts, break ranks; it is all the same. Fuss is happening, and that tends to trigger an immediate escape pod in British sympathies. After all, a breach of decorum will lead to another breach of decorum and, if left unchecked, society as we know it could easily disappear in a spluttery puff.
In this sense, being British is a lot like throwing pebbles in a pond, except you really don’t want to have to throw them, you feel guilty about all the ripples messing up the shore, and actually you’d feel a lot better about it if you could be sure no one was there to see it when it happened.
WHAT TO SAY: As little as possible.
WHAT NOT TO SAY: “Oh, my God, are you okay? You seem a little, I dunno, not okay? And I can usually tell because I’m a very empathic person. All my friends tell me I’m the person they turn to when they have problems because I’m an excellent listener and I can always come up with ideas to help them get through it. In fact . . .”
Marmite
Go on, give it a try.
Marmite is perhaps the most contentious item in this entire book, or at least that’s what its marketing department would have everyone believe. The company has been running commercials for years claiming that people either love or hate its product, a breakfast spread that looks like boot polish and tastes like burned meat, and since then Brits have taken to labelling all manner of things that polarize opinion as “a bit Marmite”.
It’s all very confusing for the casual observer who just wants to know what this bizarre substance is, and why anyone would want to put it on their toast in the morning.
Problem is, the more you know about what Marmite is (and its associated international cousins Vegemite, Promite and Bovril), the less likely anyone is to try it. Generally, the way to make a yeast extract is to add salt to a yeast suspension, and then heat it and strain the husks out. Brewers do this kind of thing all the time, and that’s how Marmite was originally discovered, as an unwanted leftover from the beer industry, typically called top fermentation or beer scum.
You’re licking your lips already, aren’t you?
Somehow, back in the late 1800s, the German scientist Justus von Leibig decided that the meaty, umami flavor of this unwanted stuff—once it had been boiled and reduced to a brown, gooey paste—would go marvellously on a cracker, and then, incredibly, other people agreed. Lots of people.
So many, in fact, that by 1907 there were two separate Marmite factories in England, both being supplied with plentiful amounts of scum by local brewers. And astonishingly, given that it is effectively an industrial by-product, it’s rather healthy too. Despite being quite high in salt, it’s got folic acid and the vitamin B complex; Marmite was even used to treat beriberi during the First World War.
Sales have continued to thrive as each subsequent generation of Brits succumbs to the pungent flavour. There are Marmite-flavoured crisps, Marmite rice cakes, Marmite recipes (particularly good in a thick-cut white bread sandwich with very strong cheddar); you can spoon it into hot water for an instant hot beverage; there’s even a Marmite-flavoured snack called Twiglets, which do look remarkably like actual twigs. Tasty for the mouth and the eye!
And as Marmite is difficult to get hold of in other parts of the world, the homesick expatriate Brit (assuming he or she is a “lover” and not a “hater”) tends to associate it with home in a very specific way. You may find British shops, or delicatessens that sell British goods, proudly sporting the odd jar here or there, and you can be fairly sure it won’t be the locals who snap them up.
Even at home, the Brits have given Marmite a central spot in their own cultural mythology. There are special edition Marmite recipes, in which edible gold flecks appear in the murk or there’s a faint tang of champagne or Guinness. Marmite XO is a version that has been allowed to mature for extra depth of flavour, like a cheese. There’s even Marmite to
othpaste.
The packaging has attained similarly iconic status. The familiar dark glass oval jar with the yellow lid has been seized upon for all manner of marketing opportunities. You can buy anything from T-shirts to teapots. During the Queen’s Golden Jubilee of 2012, a special jar was made up in the colours of the union flag, upon which the logo was changed so that it read “Ma’amite”.
The only comparable condiment in international cooking is probably soy sauce, but that takes a more central role in Chinese cuisine and, besides, it’s less scummy in origin.
So, while the marketing department members may continue to high-five one another at the prospect of Brits continuing to compare controversial things to Marmite, in fact it’s closer to the truth to say that people either love it or have to find a way to ignore it. Or they don’t really mind it. It’s only a spread, after all.
WHAT TO SAY: “How much should I put on one slice of toast?”
WHAT NOT TO SAY: “So is this stuff medicine or what?”
Talking about Class
One of the most important lessons anyone can learn about British culture is that it is vital to know your place. Knowing your place will save you a lot of heartache when the temperature drops in the room you are in, and you’re not sure what you may or may not have done or said. Knowing your place will prevent you from finding out, via a third party, that you have grievously offended someone with the way you held your spoon or the fact that you spoke before you were spoken to, offered an opinion on a topic you are not considered to be in any way qualified to speak on, or sipped your tea/beer/whisky wrongly, in the wrong place, at the wrong moment.
But don’t be afraid! So long as you obey all the unwritten rules without ever demeaning yourself by asking what they may be, and never put a foot wrong or draw attention to yourself, you’ll be just fine.
For those lucky enough to have been born in Britain, finding your place is usually fairly straightforward. There are people who are more working-class, salt-of-the-earth and rough-diamondy than you, and people who are hoitier, toitier, snootier and posherer than you. The trick is to find the people who exist at roughly the same level of la-di-da as you do, and join in with whatever they’re doing. So if your immediate peers are into fishing, then fish. If they’re a notch above fishing and prefer squash, play squash, but do not be tempted to try fishing. The fishing people will feel patronized and uncomfortable having a member of the hoi polloi waving their (doubtless) gold-encrusted rod around and braying in such a loud and piercing voice it’ll scare off all the fish. It will be horrendously awkward, like watching a Member of Parliament trying to disco dance.
By the same token, if you’re a fisher and you’re tempted to try squash, do not do it. It’ll be like My Fair Lady in the squash club bar, all eyes on the guttersnipe who wandered in off the streets with oikish clothes and rough manners. You’ll feel harassed; they’ll be clutching their valuables and muttering.
The Brits are obsessed with class and have developed exceptionally complicated measurements to determine exactly who belongs in which strata. It’s to do with money, and social status and education and employment, and money, and accents and where you were born and how you choose to live, and money. That’s basically it. People from a working-class background have the street smarts (or hedgerow smarts, if they’re from rural areas) and the upper classes have all the resources, but they don’t tend to interact outside of the scripts for Downton Abbey. It’s the middle classes who worry about this stuff more than anyone, and it’s their voice that rings loudest through British media.
A recent British TV hit bears this out. My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding was originally intended to be a one-off documentary, a look at the money and preparation that go into ornate and lavish weddings organized by the Irish Traveller community in Britain. The bride and groom are still teenagers, and their taste tends to be flash and gaudy, as if Lib-erace were directing The Dolly Parton Story. Dresses are often so big and cumbersome they’re impossible to walk in—leaving huge bruises on the brides—and the unmarried girls tend to wear extremely bright and revealing outfits to the reception. At every stage, the camera takes an anthropological view, like Sir David Attenborough stalking a wildebeest, inviting the audience to confirm or confound their own prejudices about a community on the (huge, ruffled and sparkly) outskirts of society, one that has always been largely mistrusted or looked down upon. It was a massive hit. So was the series that followed, because few things drive TV audiences as strongly as gazing in horror at the poor taste of people from the lower orders (see: Reality TV).
Then there’s the slang around class. The word chav is particularly troublesome. Coined in the early 2000s to mean an antisocial young man from a humble background with expensive taste, the stereotype is of a street tough with a Burberry cap and a heavy chain, wearing expensive sports gear and looking for trouble. Probably from the Romany word chavi, meaning child, it’s a word coined in fear and distrust and has come to be used to describe any person or behaviour seen as beneath the standards of the person talking. So it’s always used as a slur, even when not addressed directly to someone’s face:
“Oh, James, take that stupid hat off your head. You look like such a chav.”
“Screw the diet, I’m having KFC tonight, like a proper chav.”
“Come on, Delia, we’re leaving. This place is crawling with chavs.”
It’s an uncomfortable situation, but a hard one to tackle head-on because the one thing people hate more than a snob is a do-gooder. So it’s probably best to let everyone fight their own corner and be prepared to serve tea once all the shouting has died down.
WHAT TO SAY: It doesn’t matter; it won’t help.
WHAT NOT TO SAY: Nothing. People will think you are stuck up.
Taking Dogs into Pubs
Brits love dogs. And the ones who don’t love dogs love cats. And the ones who don’t love dogs or cats are probably mystified by 90 per cent of the Internet and can therefore be effectively discounted from this discussion. Oh, and almost everyone likes a pub.
If only there were a way to bring all these things together at once.
Well, there is. People in British communities love to take their dogs to the pub, and this is treated as a perfectly normal occurrence in a way that would not be the case if they chose to take the same dog to the cinema or optician’s or around the supermarket (although it’s worth checking with the pub before you take the cast of 101 Dalmatians out for a cheeky pint). The reasons for doing so are many and various: in the snug are the people who’ve nipped out to take the dog for a walk and stopped for a swift half before eventually wandering back home; then there are the shepherd and collie over by the bar, having a welcome drink at the end of a long day’s work; and sitting at a small table, quietly minding their own business, are the solitary companions that refuse to be parted for as much as a minute. On the floor is a saucer with a lick of ale in it and some soggy crisps.
Some pubs are situated at one end of a well-established dog-exercising route and would lose passing trade if they banned canine visitors, so they’ll lay out little bowls of water at the door to make sure every dog feels welcome. Often these will be the kinds of pubs with time-worn wooden benches and horse brasses around an open fireplace. They’ll have low ceilings and a chalkboard menu with a selection of real ales and another, smaller chalkboard menu with suggestions for meals. They’re homely places, essentially a large open-plan cottage into which lots of people squeeze, particularly at the weekend (see: Pubs, Inns, Bars and Taverns).
There’s probably another dog already there: a slow, tubby old Labrador or a calm, friendly border collie. Not the kind of dog that would snap at heels or jump up and knock drinks over, and definitely not the kind of dog that would attack a timid pooch, even one hiding under a bench, overcome by all the noise and smells and whining loudly. That’s your dog, and it’s embarrassing, given how cool the pub dog and everyone else’s dogs are being. If it happens to you, the correct response is to make an
gry shushing noises to the dog, as if you’re in charge, and to blush and say sorry to the room in that strange, strangulated voice that requires an exaggerated facial mime of saying the word and uses no consonants at all (see: Apologizing Needlessly). That’s because, in a pub that allows dogs, the dog owners feel under scrutiny as responsible owners if their dog does not behave.
Incredibly, some dog-friendly pubs also have cats, and often these animals have been so well conditioned by years of having strangers and strange animals in their territory that they also remain cool and unflappable, sometimes under extreme provocation from uncool visitors (like your dog). Granted, that’s what cats are like all the time anyway, but the demeanour of a pub cat is slightly different. It’s as if they’ve signed a binding contract to be languid and unbothered by all the noise and nonsense, to put up with the indignity of a thousand wet dog noses in their intimate areas and the try-hard growls of immature bullmastiffs, so long as no one—seriously, no one—brings his or her cat to the pub.
WHAT TO SAY: “Oh, what a lovely dog. Do you mind if I stroke her?”
WHAT NOT TO SAY: “Excuse me, sir! Why is your dog eating my starter?”
Sheds
Who knows what magical devices may be being constructed within those four wooden walls?
Gardening is a passion common to people from every part of the British Isles and across every social division. From cress on wet tissue paper in old eggshells to tiny window boxes to little green backyards, from home-grown veg in allotments to the Chelsea Flower Show and the opulent rolling lawns, tennis courts and stables of Surrey, the tending of a well-kept garden brings out the amateur horticulture expert in a surprising number of Brits.
Stuff Brits Like Page 9