Watching the English

by Kate Fox

  2. I have since heard about a few Polish drivers being killed or injured in England because they did not realise that their ‘third-lane’ etiquette doesn’t apply here.

  3. We do, in fact, have some rules prohibiting behaviours that, while not inconceivable, are unlikely or even ‘unnatural’ – see Robin Fox’s work on the incest taboo, for example – cases where a factual ‘it isn’t done’ becomes formalised as a proscriptive ‘thou shalt not do it’ (despite the claims of philosophers who hold that it is logically impossible to derive an ‘ought’ from an ‘is’), but these tend to be universal rules, rather than the culture-specific rules that concern us here.

  4. Although I was given a rather charming book, published in 1931, entitled The English: Are They Human? The question is rhetorical, as one might expect. The Dutch author (G. J. Renier) ‘came to the conclusion that the world is inhabited by two species of human beings: mankind and the English’.

  5. There is also considerable disagreement on whether or not such ‘universals’ should be regarded as hard-wired characteristics of human nature, but I’ll wimp out of that debate as well, on the grounds that it is not directly relevant to our discussion of Englishness. My own view, for what it’s worth, is that the whole nature/nurture debate is a rather pointless exercise, in which we engage because, as Lévi-Strauss has shown, the human mind likes to think in terms of binary oppositions (black/white, left/right, male/female, them/us, nature/culture, etc.). Why we do this is open to question, but this binary thinking pervades all human institutions and practices.

  6. To be fair, Fox was providing examples of human universals, while Murdock was attempting a comprehensive list.

  7. Not Hegel, who captured the essence of the issue when he said that ‘The spirit of the nation is . . . the universal spirit in a particular form.’ (Assuming that I have correctly understood his meaning – Hegel is not always as clear as one might wish.)

  8. Actually, there are two: the second is ‘use of mood- or consciousness-altering substances or processes’, a practice found in all known human cultures, the peculiarly English version of which will be covered elsewhere in this book.

  9. The sociologist Pierre Bourdieu’s concepts of economic, social and cultural capital are more helpful in understanding the English class system, but only if one is very specific about the precise nature of each type of capital associated with a particular social class.

  10. I am using the term ‘Asian’ – here and throughout the book – in the British sense, meaning (loosely) originating from the Indian subcontinent.

  11. Although I found that in real-life conversation, as opposed to ticking boxes on surveys, many people from ethnic-minority backgrounds tended, in casual discussions about Scotland or Wales, to refer to the English as ‘we’ and the Scots and Welsh as ‘them’. This use of the first-person plural was common even among those who, when asked, would insist that they were British, not English. And that’s not even counting the many ethnic-minority ‘regionalists’ who, like their Anglo-Saxon friends and neighbours, identified themselves more strongly as ‘Geordies’, ‘Scousers’, ‘Brummies’, ‘Mancs’, etc., than as British.

  12. Yes, I know, technically Northern Ireland is not part of Britain, but part of the ‘United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland’ – but I’ve had letters from Northern Irish people who see themselves as British and complained about not being included in this section.

  13. For those who think I am being too glib and dismissive in this summary, the historian Krishan Kumar makes essentially the same points (apart from the confession of laziness, which I’m sure doesn’t apply in his case) far more eloquently but at much greater length, in The Making of English National Identity – and so did the eminent political theorist and citizenship expert Sir Bernard Crick.

  PART ONE

  CONVERSATION CODES

  THE WEATHER

  Any discussion of English conversation, like any English conversation, must begin with the weather. And in this spirit of observing traditional protocol, I shall, like every other writer on Englishness, quote Dr Johnson’s famous comment that ‘When two Englishmen meet, their first talk is of the weather’, and point out that this observation is as accurate now as it was more than two hundred years ago.14

  This, however, is the point at which most commentators either stop, or try, and fail, to come up with a convincing explanation for the English ‘obsession’ with the weather. They fail because their premise is mistaken: they assume that our conversations about the weather are conversations about the weather. In other words, they assume that we talk about the weather because we have a keen (indeed pathological) interest in the subject. Most of them then try to figure out what it is about the English weather that is so fascinating.

  Bill Bryson, for example, concludes that the English weather is not at all fascinating, and presumably that our obsession with it is therefore inexplicable: ‘To an outsider, the most striking thing about the English weather is that there is not very much of it. All those phenomena that elsewhere give nature an edge of excitement, unpredictability and danger – tornadoes, monsoons, raging blizzards, run-for-your-life hailstorms – are almost wholly unknown in the British Isles.’

  Jeremy Paxman, in an uncharacteristic and surely unconscious display of patriotism, takes umbrage at Bryson’s dismissive comments, and argues that the English weather is intrinsically fascinating:

  Bryson misses the point. The English fixation with the weather is nothing to do with histrionics – like the English countryside, it is, for the most part, dramatically undramatic. The interest is less in the phenomena themselves, but in uncertainty . . . one of the few things you can say about England with absolute certainty is that it has a lot of weather. It may not include tropical cyclones but life at the edge of an ocean and the edge of a continent means you can never be entirely sure what you’re going to get.

  My research has convinced me that both Bryson and Paxman are missing the point, which is that our conversations about the weather are not really about the weather at all: English weather-speak is a form of code, evolved to help us overcome our social inhibitions and actually talk to each other. Everyone knows, for example, that ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’, ‘Ooh, isn’t it cold?’, ‘Still raining, eh?’ and other variations on the theme are not requests for meteorological data: they are ritual greetings, conversation-starters or default ‘fillers’.

  In other words, English weather-speak is a form of ‘grooming talk’ – the human equivalent of what is known as ‘social grooming’ among our primate cousins, where they spend hours grooming each other’s fur, even when they are perfectly clean, as a means of social bonding.

  These conclusions were based on my extensive participant-observation research, but even when confronted about their motives in a formal questionnaire survey (where people tend to try to appear rational and pragmatic) the majority of English people were prepared to admit that they used weather-talk for purely social purposes. And, perhaps even more striking, our survey findings show that this is by no means just an archaic custom practised mainly by older people. In fact, young people proved to be the most acutely aware of the importance of polite conversation about the weather. The 18–24 age group, for example, was the most likely to say that weather-speak is so popular because it allows us to be nice/polite to people. These young people were also more than twice as likely as their elders to say that weather-talk helps us to gauge other people’s moods.

  THE RULES OF ENGLISH WEATHER-SPEAK

  The Reciprocity Rule

  Jeremy Paxman cannot understand why a ‘middle-aged blonde’ he encounters outside the Met Office in Bracknell says, ‘Ooh, isn’t it cold?’, and he puts this irrational behaviour down to a distinctively English ‘capacity for infinite surprise at the weather’. In fact, ‘Ooh, isn’t it cold?’ – like ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ and all the others – is English code for ‘I’d like to talk to you – will you talk to me?’, or, if you like, simply another wa
y of saying ‘hello’. The hapless female was just trying to strike up a conversation with Mr Paxman. Not necessarily a long conversation – just a mutual acknowledgement, an exchange of greetings. Under the rules of weather-speak, all he was required to say was ‘Mm, yes, isn’t it?’ or some other equally meaningless ritual response, which is code for ‘Yes, I’ll talk to you/greet you’. By failing to respond at all, Paxman committed a minor breach of etiquette, effectively conveying the rather discourteous message ‘No, I will not exchange greetings with you’. (This was not a serious transgression, however, as the rules of privacy and reserve override those of sociability: talking to strangers is never compulsory.)

  We used to have another option, at least for some social situations, but the ‘How do you do?’ greeting (to which the apparently ludicrous correct response is to repeat the question back ‘How do you do?’) is now regarded by many as somewhat archaic, and is no longer the universal standard greeting. The ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ exchange must, however, be understood in the same light, and not taken literally: ‘How do you do?’ is not a real question about health or well-being, and ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ is not a real question about the weather.

  Comments about the weather are phrased as questions (or with an interrogative intonation) because they require a response – but the reciprocity is the point, not the content. Any interrogative remark on the weather will do to initiate the process, and any mumbled confirmation (or even near-repetition, as in ‘Yes, isn’t it?’) will do as a response. English weather-speak rituals often sound rather like a kind of catechism, or the exchanges between priest and congregation in a church: ‘Lord, have mercy upon us’, ‘Christ, have mercy upon us’; ‘Cold, isn’t it?’, ‘Yes, isn’t it?’, and so on.

  It is not always quite that obvious, but all English weather conversations have a distinctive structure, an unmistakable rhythmic pattern, which to an anthropologist marks them out instantly as ‘ritual’. There is a clear sense that these are ‘choreographed’ exchanges, conducted according to unwritten but tacitly accepted rules.

  The Context Rule

  A principal rule concerns the contexts in which weather-speak can be used. Other writers have claimed that the English talk about the weather all the time, that it is a national obsession or fixation, but this is sloppy observation: in fact, there are quite specific contexts in which weather-speak is prescribed. Weather-speak can be used:

  •as a simple greeting

  •as an ice-breaker leading to conversation on other matters

  •as a ‘default’, ‘filler’ or ‘displacement’ subject, when conversation on other matters falters, and there is an awkward or uncomfortable lull

  •as a signal that the speaker wishes to avoid more personal or intimate subjects

  •as an excuse for a good moan

  •as an opportunity for humour/wit

  •as a way of gauging other people’s moods

  •as an opportunity to share ‘Blitz Spirit’ stoicism

  Admittedly, this rule does allow for rather a lot of weather-speak – hence the impression that we talk of little else. A typical English conversation may well start with a weather-speak greeting, progress to a bit more weather-speak ice-breaking, and then ‘default’ to weather-speak joking, moaning, intimacy-avoidance, stoicism, etc., at regular intervals. It is easy to see why many foreigners, and even many English commentators, have assumed that we must be obsessed with the subject.

  I am not claiming that we have no interest in the weather itself. The choice of weather as a code to perform these vital social functions is not entirely arbitrary, and in this sense, Jeremy Paxman is right: the changeable and unpredictable nature of the English weather makes it a particularly suitable facilitator of social interaction. If the weather were not so variable, we might have to find another medium for our social messages.

  But in assuming that weather-speak indicates a burning interest in the weather, Paxman and others are making the same kind of mistake as early anthropologists, who assumed that certain animals or plants were chosen as tribal ‘totems’ because the people in question had a special interest in or reverence for that particular animal or plant. In fact, as the anthropologist Lévi-Strauss eventually explained, totems are symbols used to define social structures and relationships. The fact that one clan has as its totem the black cockatoo is not because of any deep significance attached to black cockatoos per se, but to define and delineate their relationship with another clan, whose totem is the white cockatoo. Now, the choice of cockatoos is not entirely random: totems tend to be local animals or plants with which the people are familiar, rather than abstract symbols. The selection of totems is thus not quite as arbitrary as, say, ‘You be the red team and we’ll be the blue team’: it is almost always the familiar natural world that is used symbolically to describe and demarcate the social world.

  The Agreement Rule

  The English have clearly chosen a highly appropriate aspect of our own familiar natural world as a social facilitator: the capricious and erratic nature of our weather ensures that there is always something new to comment on, be surprised by, speculate about, moan about or, perhaps most importantly, agree about. Which brings us to another important rule of English weather-speak: always agree. This rule was noted by the Hungarian humorist George Mikes, who wrote that in England, ‘You must never contradict anybody when discussing the weather.’ We have already established that weather-speak greetings or openers such as ‘Cold, isn’t it?’ must be reciprocated, but etiquette also requires that the response express agreement, as in ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ or ‘Mm, very cold.’

  Failure to agree in this manner is a serious breach of etiquette. When the priest says ‘Lord, have mercy upon us’, you do not respond ‘Well, actually, why should he?’ You intone dutifully, ‘Christ, have mercy upon us.’ In the same way, it would be very rude to respond to ‘Ooh, isn’t it cold?’ with ‘No, actually, it’s quite mild.’ If you listen carefully, as I have, to hundreds of English weather-conversations, you will find that such responses are extremely rare, almost unheard of. Nobody will tell you that there is a rule about this – they are not even conscious of following a rule: it just simply isn’t done.

  If you deliberately break the rule (as I duly did, on several occasions, in the interests of science), you will find that the atmosphere becomes rather tense and awkward, and possibly somewhat huffy. No one will actually complain or make a big scene about it (we have rules about complaining and making a fuss), but they will be offended, and this will show in subtle ways. There may be an uncomfortable silence, then someone may say, in piqued tones, ‘Well, it feels cold to me,’ or ‘Really? Do you think so?’ – or, most likely, they will either change the subject or continue talking about the weather among themselves, politely, if frostily, ignoring your faux pas. In very polite circles, they may attempt to ‘cover’ your mistake by helping you to redefine it as a matter of taste or personal idiosyncrasy, rather than of fact. Among highly courteous people, the response to your ‘No, actually, it’s quite mild’ might be, after a slightly embarrassed pause, ‘Oh, perhaps you don’t feel the cold – you know, my husband is like that: he always thinks it’s mild when I’m shivering and complaining. Maybe women feel the cold more than men, do you think?’

  Exceptions to the Agreement Rule

  This sort of gracious fudging is possible because the rules of English weather-speak are complex, and there are often exceptions and subtle variations. In the case of the agreement rule, the main variation concerns personal taste or differences in weather-sensitivity. You must always agree with ‘factual’ statements about the weather (these are almost invariably phrased as questions but, as we have already established, this is because they require a social response, not a rational answer), even when they are quite obviously wrong. You may, however, express personal likes and dislikes that differ from those of your companions, or express your disagreement in terms of personal quirks or sensibilities.

  A
n appropriate response to ‘Ooh, isn’t it cold?’, if you find you really cannot simply agree, would be ‘Yes, but I really rather like this sort of weather – quite invigorating, don’t you think?’ or ‘Yes, but you know I don’t tend to notice the cold much – this feels quite warm to me.’ Note that both of these responses start with an expression of agreement, even though in the second case this is followed by a blatant self-contradiction: ‘Yes . . . this feels quite warm to me.’ It is perfectly acceptable to contradict oneself in this manner, etiquette being far more important than logic, but if you truly cannot bring yourself to start with the customary ‘Yes’, this may be replaced by a positive-sounding ‘Mm’ accompanied by a nod – still an expression of agreement, but rather less emphatic.

  Even better would be the traditional mustn’t-grumble response: ‘Yes [or Mm-with-nod], but at least it’s not raining.’ If you have a liking for cold weather, or do not find it cold, this response effectively guarantees that you and your shivering acquaintance will reach happy agreement. Everyone always agrees that a cold, bright day is preferable to a rainy one – or, at least, it is customary to express this opinion.

  The personal taste/sensitivity variation is really more of a modification than an exception to the agreement rule: flat contradiction of a ‘factual’ statement is still taboo, the basic principle of agreement still applies; it is merely softened by allowing for differences in taste or sensitivity, providing these are explicitly identified as such.

  There is, however, one context in which English weather-speakers are not required to observe the agreement rule at all and that is the male-bonding argument, particularly the pub-argument. This factor will come up again and again, and is explained in much more detail in Pub-talk (page 144), but for the moment, the critical point is that in English male-bonding arguments, particularly those conducted in the special environment of the pub, overt and constant disagreement – not just on the weather, but on everything else as well – is a means of expressing friendship and achieving intimacy.