Stuff Brits Like

by Fraser McAlpine

  No, as things stand currently, a bit of a do will do just fine, thanks awfully.

  WHAT TO SAY: “So I thought we’d all get massages and play laser tag. Who’s in, fellas?”

  WHAT NOT TO SAY: “A stag and a . . . hen? Is that even biologically advisable?”

  Movie 5: Four Weddings and a Funeral

  Make no mistake, not everyone in Britain loves this film. It’s posh, it’s sentimental, and it plays up to national stereotypes about charmingly befuddled men with floppy hair that inadvertently paved the way for Colin Firth to woo Bridget Jones and for Matt Smith to take the lead in Doctor Who.

  Okay, so that last one probably counts as a plus, and actually, so does the one before it. In any case, the Brits are buggers for claiming that sentimentality is bad and then communally weeping into a tissue—one tissue each; they’re not animals—when a noble man reads a sad poem in a Scottish accent and can’t quite get to the end without becoming overpowered by sobs. The funeral section of Four Weddings (and it’s always called Four Weddings, by the way; we’re on first-name terms) is the bit that justifies all the soppiness above and beyond. It’s no coincidence that the poem John Hannah reads—“Stop All the Clocks” by W. H. Auden—has gone on to regularly star at the top end of any quest to find the nation’s favourite poem.

  Mind you, that first point about it being posh is useful too. Start a movie with an impressive twelve or thirteen goes at the F word with a bugger on top, but put in the mouths of working-class hard men or a line of council house mums, and you’re dealing with gritty realism. Have two posh friends running late for a wedding while saying “gosh!” and “heavens!” and it’s just a typical drawing room farce. Posh people really having a good old swear, though . . . that’s comedy.

  And that’s just the introduction. The movie fizzes with smart ideas like the bubbles in a bride’s champagne. Here’s just one: In order to make Hugh Grant’s character, Charles, stand reluctantly in front of an entire congregation at his own sham of a wedding and say the words “I do” in such a way that it breaks his bride-to-be’s heart and brings the whole affair crashing down around him (which, to anyone who has not been to a British wedding, is not what usually happens), Richard Curtis didn’t write a conventional soliloquy, where the hero suddenly realizes what a ghastly mistake he is about to make and brings himself out of it. No, Charles’s self-awareness speech comes at the hands of his brother, David, who objects to the marriage and explains why, using sign language because he is hearing impaired. Charles has to translate what David is saying, which is lengthy and well argued and ends with a gag about flies being left undone, and Charles condenses it down to, “He suspects the groom loves someone else,” to which the vicar asks, “And do you?” and Charles replies, “I do.” That’s clever.

  Four Weddings wasn’t supposed to be a global hit. Only the Brits really knew what lineage Richard Curtis was working from: that he’d been one of the two guys who wrote the hugely beloved Blackadder; that he’d written The Tall Guy, a movie in which Jeff Goldblum’s character falls in love with Emma Thompson’s; and that he’d cowritten Mr Bean and The Vicar of Dibley. British TV comedies don’t often make the leap to movies that well, and certainly not so well that they become enormous successes in America, essentially making the careers of everyone involved and spawning pop singles that stay at number one in the charts for sixteen weeks (Wet Wet Wet’s cover of “Love is All Around” by the Troggs). And yet that’s exactly what the movie went and did.

  This uncorked a bottle marked “Confidence” and suddenly comedies would aim to make you feel other things between the laughs. One way to do this was to reverse the class trick Four Weddings had pulled off. Instead of having posh people swearing like a Cockney docker at the soccer, British films started to show working-class people engaging in the fine arts. In Little Voice, L.V., the eccentric daughter of a wayward mother, becomes a top-notch cabaret artiste for one night only. A troupe of unemployed steelworkers find a curious form of dignity in becoming male strippers in The Full Monty, and in Brassed Off, a colliery brass band makes it all the way to the Albert Hall; there the bandmates beat off all-comers (not like that), shout at everyone (with, it must be said, some more swearing), then take an open-topped double-decker bus on a tour of London . . . at night.

  And those are just the rational juxtapositions, based on well-meaning attempts to use art to alleviate pain. Before too long British comedies were awash with stranger cross-pollinations, like the suburban zombies in Shaun of the Dead, the sympathetically predatory schoolteacher in The History Boys (not strictly a comedy, but certainly not not one either), or the Plasticine machines and Claymation cheese in The Wrong Trousers.

  Some of these things would have happened even if Hugh Grant had never dropped the F bomb, but Four Weddings remains high in the affections of British people for being the movie that suggested that even posh people with problems that aren’t really problems can be lovable goofs.

  WHAT TO SAY: “Charlotte Coleman, RIP.”

  WHAT NOT TO SAY: “I prefer Notting Hill.”

  Feminism

  Look, boys, don’t pull that face. You got all that stuff about sheds earlier, cozy little man caves with toolboxes and drills and lawn mowers and all that stereotypical stuff. This is simply the other thing to that thing’s this thing, plus you get to see a grown man risk certain death by taking apart an explosive subject with inexpert tools. I mean, I’ve definitely done that elsewhere in the book, but this time it’s more blatant.

  The thing is, a few years ago there wasn’t as much feminism in British popular culture as there is now. There was a lot of talk of ladettes and a giggle at Geri Halliwell’s “girl power”; a bit of a poke at the glass ceiling, perhaps; a certain amount of concern over sexualiza-tion and sexual assault; and a fairly regular check on where we all were on using certain words with strong female associations, the C word and the B word in particular. But not actual feminism that you could put on a banner.

  Now there is loads of feminism. Feminism has had enough of life in the sidelines, an embarrassed decline into worthiness, and decided to come out fighting. And boy, is there a lot of fighting. The thing is, the last time there was a lot of feminism about, people who didn’t like it had to go to some trouble to tell the feminists their feelings, using personal interactions, and it was risky. Because going up to someone who is angry and righteous and threatening them to their face is a risky business, certainly compared to reaching into your own pocket, pulling out a smartphone and tapping it repeatedly.

  So while this new feminism has a greater platform, so do the people who wish to keep women in their place. They’re going to have a job, though: the buggers are everywhere, asking awkward questions and causing trouble (by which I mean asking awkward questions and being repeatedly told off on the Internet, something that happens a preposterous amount; in fact, if it wasn’t such a drearily reprehensible act, telling women off on the Internet would have to have its own chapter—possibly its own book—because there is just so very much of it).

  This does at least work in both directions sometimes. The social media hashtag #everydaysexism, coined by the writer Laura Bates, simply asks people—men and women—to note when they see an imbalance, from the estate agent who always favours eye contact with the man of the house to the overexcited men catcalling women in the street and worse. And it’s been a source of power; women feel their experiences, the ones that make them feel diminished, are worth sharing, maybe even worth tackling head-on.

  What has been astonishing is the vitriol that comes after the sharing or the tackling. Emma Watson makes a speech in front of the United Nations and—as if by magic—becomes a lightning rod for Internet aggro. Recently journalist and campaigner Caroline Criado-Perez asked a seemingly straightforward question about whether, as the five-pound note was being redesigned (taking Elizabeth Fry off the non-monarch side, where a place is reserved for admirable Brits, and replacing her with Winston Churchill), there might be space for a
prominent woman elsewhere. During the ensuing row (in which the Bank of England acquiesced to the request with plans for a Jane Austen ten-pound note), Criado-Perez was the subject of such sustained harassment—the quoted figure was fifty threats an hour on Twitter, at the peak—that Twitter had to review its own procedure on dealing with complaints. All for a question and answer that deserved no more ruckus than you might get asking someone to move his or her car.

  Then there’s Caitlin Moran, the pie-eyed piper of British feminism. Her enormously successful book How to Be a Woman arrived just as feminism was shaking the dust off its boots and giving the old knees a try for the next round; and her second, semiautobiographical novel, How to Build a Girl, gave Moran the rock star status she so clearly was made for, despite being a funny writer and not a musician. She cleverly wove her own ideas about where women sit in society (wherever they want to, thanks) and what moral code they should follow (their own, dummy) with autobiographical details and tales from her own unorthodox life. So she could comfortably discuss her minor epiphanies and major tragedies within the context of her own feelings about feminism, and then make knob gags, because that’s who she is.

  And that sense of fun and personality is key. Whenever worried men ask questions about whether it’s okay to describe themselves as feminist or call women ladies or open doors (because apparently that is still a thing), it’s to a global panel of all-women, with their all-women opinions and all-women responses. And the feminism that we’ve got so much of at the moment isn’t like that. It’s like a release of pent-up energy from a thousand different directions at once, and all that energy is being put to useful purposes, but none of them are the same purpose. So as a unified movement with goals and aims and intentions, this feminism is a bit ragged, because it is made up of individuals, and that’s exactly as it should be.

  If there is going to be bickering, there should be laughter too. Provocative statements appear to be welcome, as are reasonable demands, outrage and silly jokes. There should be fury and debate and disgust and unease and nothing should be too certain or feel too hard to achieve, and it should all be dazzling to watch, and that’s exactly what it is.

  WHAT TO SAY: Helpful stuff.

  WHAT NOT TO SAY: Unhelpful stuff.

  Queuing

  What kind of idiot enjoys waiting in line? And before you say “a British idiot”, just be aware that they really don’t. They’re no more keen on queuing than anyone else; it’s just that there’s no better way to ensure that the people who get to a thing first can get in first than standing in a queue. It’s not ideal but it’s all we have and, that being the case, why fight it?

  There again, what does it say about a country that the people who live there enjoy an international reputation for being quiet and docile when waiting in line for something they really want? Does it suggest that this is a nation of living, breathing, red-hearted and vibrant individuals or a community that feels comfortable only when everyone knows exactly where they fit in relation to one another? And isn’t it a form of international disgrace to be recognized as a nation of queuers, when waiting in line is something that happens all over the world? Of all the things to be considered to be really into, who in their right mind would pick waiting in line well?

  “Look at the Brits,” says Johnny Faraway, “they love to line up. They love it so much they have a word for it, made almost entirely of vowels, and if you whisper it, it sounds like an angry way to tell someone to leave you alone. And it’s the French word for ‘tail’—I heard that people actually used to call braided hair a queue for the same reason—anyway they call a line a queue because that’s what a line of people waiting to get inside a building looks like. It looks like the building has a tail. I love that. Don’t you love that? I mean, like, mind . . . blown . . . y’know? Totally . . .”

  On and on he goes, but do the Brits care? They do not. They’re too busy pretending not to hear him and wondering how much longer before they can shuffle forward an inch or two and wishing they had brought headphones with them.

  But please, don’t carry around the idea that the Brits are into queuing because they’re supernaturally patient or they’re so into manners that they simply cannot abide unfairness taking place on their streets. No, the reason the Brits sink gratefully into a queue is because of social awkwardness. The same social awkwardness that creates the eternal sorry flurry (see: Apologizing Needlessly), that’s the driver here.

  There’s only one way to approach a queue: from the back. So the first mild panic is to work out where the back is. If this is a store with a helpful sign, or an airport with a twisty maze of belts on poles, the back is easy to spot. If it’s a pub with a special till in the middle just for food orders, things can get stressful pretty quickly. The famously flustered internal monologue of socially awkward Brits will be sending out conflicting information at this point. One strand hopes desperately that this is the right place to stand; the other will be issuing panic bulletins every time it looks slightly as if the people immediately in front are just standing there and chatting. Because if they are just chatting, this means someone is going to have to ask them if they’re in the queue, and the problem with this is that you’re the one next to them and the people who have joined the queue behind you are relying on you as their leader to keep the thing going. If it turns out they are just chatting, you’ll need to find out sharpish, or someone may abandon the fake queue and join the real one ahead of you, and that would be unfair. But then in order to ask if they’re just standing there chatting you’ll need to interrupt them, stop the talking and ask, “Excuse me, are you just standing here chatting?” to which the only sensible answer is, “Well, we were, before you butted in”, and that’s not ideal either. So the only thing to do is say, “Excuse me, are you in the queue?” and hope they say yes, and not “What queue?” because then it will be a free-for-all and you’ll end up at the back behind all those people who arrived after you did, and that’s simply not fair.

  As I say, only the first panic, and it’s a mild one. Everything about queuing is stressful, and the only comfort is the sure and certain knowledge that everyone knows what the rules are and everyone is too socially awkward to break them, because to be challenged over cutting in (the Brits call it pushing in) would be a faux pas of a magnitude similar to using the wrong butter knife to flick peas at a duke. Queuing is about everyone knowing their place and sticking to it, secure in the knowledge that this is all for the common good (see: Talking about Class).

  And what you may find is that socially confident Brits, the ones who don’t really care about the common good or what other people think of them, are more likely to push in or to march up to the front and demand access based on some spurious reason, such as being a footballer, a pop star or a minor member of the royal family. They will congratulate themselves that the venomous looks coming their way are to do with status envy, but really it’s because the entire fabric of British society has been insulted. “Who are these people?” the stares insinuate. “These non-queuing people? Don’t they remember we once beheaded a king? They should.”

  WHAT TO SAY: Nothing. Just slip into a meditative state and be at one with your queuing brethren and sistren.

  WHAT NOT TO SAY: “Come on! How long has it been now? What’s the holdup? I can’t wait all day! Tsk, tsk!”

  Curious pop

  A selection of delicious British beverages (and none of them is tea).

  One of the great joys of foreign travel is to go into any supermarket or corner shop and just look at the chocolate bars and soft drinks on sale. The jolt between the familiar environment of a shop and the unfamiliar packaging, ingredients and flavours on sale is just as exciting as a trip around areas of great cultural interest or outstanding natural beauty.

  So here’s a very brief guide to the fizzy drinks you can expect to see in British shops—the ones that are not either big global soda brands like Coca-Cola (or Pepsi) or based on global soda brands like Coca-Cola (or Pepsi). Th
e Brits have those, and they love them as much as the rest of the world.

  Oh, before we get started, it’s important to say no one in Britain calls a soda a soda. There is soda water—which is just carbonated water, used as a mixer—and soda bread, but not soda. The stuff in the cans and bottles used to be called pop, or fizzy pop, but is generally referred to as a fizzy drink, if not called by name.

  That said, one of the more old-fashioned cans of fizzy pop you can still buy is called cream soda, and it is principally vanilla flavoured. It’s like drinking a carbonated milk shake, only far less thick in texture. But for everything else, the word soda is conspicuous by its absence.

  It’s also odd to note the omissions in terms of fruit flavours. While cherryade and limeade have been staples of pop flavouring for decades, there’s no grapeade, apart from in imported cans. Pineapple and grapefruit have been combined into a drink called Lilt—with suitably Caribbean marketing that describes it has having a “totally tropical taste”.

  The nearest equivalent is dandelion and burdock, a drink that has roots (pun intended) that go back to the Middle Ages and is considered a classic of olden days pop. Originally a lightly alcoholic beverage, made from the roots of the two plants in its name, dandelion and burdock shares a common flavour base with sarsaparilla and root beer, beverages that were believed to derive medicinal qualities from their ingredients, even though nowadays the drink is concocted entirely from flavourings. It’s not a hugely popular drink, but you can still find it on sale if you look. It’s beloved by the kind of plummy Brits who say “. . . and lashings of ginger beer”, in tribute to the Famous Five stories by Enid Blyton.