Watching the English

by Kate Fox

  Most working-class people, however, and many lower middles, still regard ‘BBC English’ – and often the BBC itself and all its output – as ‘posh’. As one of my (unemployed, working-class) interviewees put it, ‘There’s this posh girl in the flats where I live [she lived on a very run-down council estate] – single mum, struggling like the rest of us, but she’s dead posh. Minute she opens her mouth, you know! Proper BBC accent – nobody round here talks like that!’

  Another interviewee (working class, third-generation British Asian) told me, ‘I worked in a call centre – shittiest job ever, but there were this couple of posh kids on the training day with me . . .’

  ‘How did you know they were posh?’ I asked.

  ‘How do you think?’ he replied. ‘Only had to listen to them – sounded like the bloody Shipping Forecast!’

  Incidentally, these comments illustrate the futility of using either income or occupation as a guide to a person’s social class.

  While mispronunciations are generally seen as lower-class indicators, and this includes mispronunciation of foreign words and names, attempts at overly foreign pronunciation of frequently used foreign expressions and place-names are a different matter. Trying to do a throaty French r in ‘en route’, for example, or saying ‘Barthelona’ with a lispy Spanish c, or telling everyone that you are going to Firenze rather than Florence – even if you pronounce them correctly – is affected and pretentious, which almost invariably betrays lower-middle or middle-middle origins. The upper-middle, upper and working classes usually do not feel the need to show off in this way. If you are a fluent speaker of the language in question, you might just, perhaps, be forgiven for lapsing into correct foreign pronunciation of these words – although it would be far more English and modest of you to avoid exhibiting your skill.

  We are frequently told that regional accents have become much more acceptable nowadays – even desirable, if you want a career in broadcasting – and that a person with, say, a Yorkshire, Scouse, Geordie or West Country accent is no longer looked down upon as automatically lower class. Yes, well, maybe. I am not convinced. The fact that many presenters of popular television and radio programmes now have regional accents may well indicate that people find these accents attractive, but it does not prove that the class associations have somehow disappeared. We may like a regional accent, and even find it delightful, melodious and charming, while still recognising it as clearly working class. If what is really meant is that being working class has become more acceptable in many formerly snobby occupations, then that is what should be said, rather than a lot of mealy-mouthed polite euphemisms about regional accents.

  Speaking of ‘regional’ accents, it is worth mentioning (particularly in the context of my remarks about the influence of immigrants in the Introduction) that many young working-class people in London and surrounding areas now speak a hybrid dialect known as Multicultural London English (MLE), which incorporates elements of Caribbean, South Asian and African American speech patterns and vocabulary. Variants of MLE are also emerging in other ‘multicultural’ cities such as Birmingham and Manchester. In MLE, the h is no longer dropped, ‘like’ (a word used extensively) becomes ‘lahke’, ‘that’ can become ‘dat’ and virtually every sentence, interrogative or not, ends in ‘innit?’ or ‘y’get me?’

  TERMINOLOGY RULES – U AND NON-U REVISITED

  Nancy Mitford coined the phrase ‘U and Non-U’ – referring to upper-class and non-upper-class words – in an article in Encounter in 1955, and although some of her class-indicator words are now outdated, the principle remains. Some of the shibboleths may have changed, but there are still plenty of them, and we still judge your class on whether, for example, you call the midday meal ‘lunch’ or ‘dinner’.

  Mitford’s simple binary model is not, however, quite subtle enough for my purposes: some shibboleths may simply separate the upper class from the rest, but others more specifically separate the working class from the lower-middle, or the middle-middle from the upper-middle. In a few cases, working-class and upper-class usage is remarkably similar, and differs significantly from the classes in between.

  The Seven Deadly Sins

  There are, however, seven words that the English uppers and upper-middles regard as infallible shibboleths. Utter any one of these ‘seven deadly sins’ in the presence of these higher classes, and their on-board class-radar devices will start bleeping and flashing: you will immediately be demoted to middle-middle class, at best, probably lower – and in some cases automatically classified as working class.

  Pardon

  This word is the most notorious pet hate of the upper and upper-middle classes. Jilly Cooper recalls overhearing her son telling a friend ‘Mummy says that “pardon” is a much worse word than “fuck”.’ He was quite right: to the uppers and upper-middles, using such an unmistakably lower-class term is worse than swearing. Some even refer to lower-middle-class suburbs as ‘Pardonia’. Here is a good class-test you can try: when talking to an English person, deliberately say something too quietly for them to hear you properly. A lower-middle or middle-middle person will say, ‘Pardon?’; an upper-middle will say ‘Sorry?’ (or perhaps ‘Sorry – what?’ or ‘What – sorry?’); but an upper-class and a working-class person will both just say, ‘What?’ The working-class person may drop the t – ‘Wha’?’ – but this will be the only difference. Some upper-working-class people with middle-class aspirations might say ‘pardon’, in a misguided attempt to sound ‘posh’.

  Toilet

  ‘Toilet’ is another word that makes the higher classes flinch – or exchange knowing looks, if it is uttered by a would-be social-climber. The correct upper-middle/upper term is ‘loo’ or ‘lavatory’ (pronounced ‘lavuhtry’, with the accent on the first syllable). ‘Bog’ is occasionally acceptable, but only if it is said in an obviously ironic-jocular manner, as though in quotes. The working classes all say ‘toilet’, as do most lower-middles and middle-middles, the only difference being the working-class omission of the final t. (The working classes may also sometimes say ‘bog’, but without the ironic quotation marks.) Those lower- and middle-middles with pretensions or aspirations, however, may eschew ‘toilet’ in favour of suburban-genteel euphemisms such as ‘Gents’, ‘Ladies’, ‘bathroom’, ‘powder room’, ‘facilities’ and ‘convenience’, or jokey euphemisms such as ‘latrines’, ‘heads’ and ‘privy’ (females tend to use the former, males the latter).

  Anyone who thinks that I’m exaggerating about the higher classes’ extreme aversion to the terms ‘pardon’ and ‘toilet’ (or indeed about the general English obsession with class) should look back at the scathing press reports on Carole Middleton’s use of these two words – described thus in a BBC News Online summary:

  Negative stories about the Middleton family appeared in the press. These included allegations that Kate’s mother . . . had used the words ‘toilet’ and ‘pardon’ in front of the Queen.

  It is the BBC’s use of the term ‘allegations’ that particularly amuses me here, as we normally only use this word in relation to the commission of a crime – or a sin.

  Serviette

  A ‘serviette’ is what the inhabitants of Pardonia call a napkin. This is another example of a ‘genteelism’, in this case a misguided attempt to enhance one’s status by using a fancy French word rather than a plain old English one. It has been suggested that ‘serviette’ was taken up by squeamish lower-middles who found ‘napkin’ a bit too close to ‘nappy’, and wanted something that sounded a bit more refined. Whatever its origins, ‘serviette’ is now regarded as irredeemably lower class. Upper-middle and upper-class mothers get very upset when their children learn to say ‘serviette’ from well-meaning lower-class nannies, and have to be painstakingly retrained to say ‘napkin’.

  Dinner

  There is nothing wrong with the word ‘dinner’ in itself: it is only a working-class hallmark if you use it to refer to the midday meal, which should be called ‘lunch’
. I’ve had fun at a few public lectures with a ‘party trick’ whereby I ascertain the social class of English audiences simply by asking those who call their midday meal ‘dinner’ to raise their hands, followed by those who call it ‘lunch’ (and then assess the degree of social mobility by asking the latter group to raise their hands if their parents called this meal ‘dinner’). A very crude measure, obviously, but everyone immediately grasps the importance of linguistic ‘cultural capital’ in the English class system. And it never fails to get a laugh.

  Calling your evening meal ‘tea’ is also a working-class indicator: the higher echelons call this meal ‘dinner’ or ‘supper’. Technically, dinner is a somewhat grander meal than supper: if you are invited to ‘supper’, this is likely to be an informal family meal, often eaten in the kitchen – sometimes this is made explicit, as in ‘family supper’ or ‘kitchen supper’, although these are regarded as a bit twee. The uppers and upper-middles use the term ‘supper’ much more than the middles and lower-middles, rarely describing an evening meal as ‘dinner’ unless it is a particularly formal occasion – and never, ever using the term ‘dinner party’.

  The class connotations of ‘supper’ were the subject of much amusement – and many front-page headlines – in 2012, thanks to a text message revealed at the Leveson Inquiry into media ethics. The messsage was from a national newspaper editor, Rebekah Brooks, to the prime minister, David Cameron, and contained the sentence ‘Let’s discuss over country supper soon.’ Although the message included far more embarrassing indicators of inappropriate collaboration and collusion (such as, ‘professionally, we’re definitely in this together’), it was the ‘posh’ term ‘country supper’ that sparked the most outrage, mockery, bafflement and mock-bafflement. Technically, ‘country supper’ is a pretty innocuous term, just meaning supper (i.e. an informal evening meal) at one’s house in the country (where the prime minister and Rebekah Brooks are neighbours). But the media gleefully pounced on it as prime evidence of the elitism and upper-class chumminess of their relationship. The irony, which escaped almost all of the reporters, is that a truly upper-class person would not have used the term ‘country supper’ because it would be seen, like ‘kitchen supper’, as rather precious, simpering and cutesy (which are seen as lower-middle/middle-middle qualities).

  ‘Tea’, for the higher classes, is taken at around four o’clock, and consists of tea and cakes or scones (which they pronounce with a short o), and perhaps little sandwiches (pronounced ‘sanwidges’, not ‘sand-witches’). The lower classes, for whom ‘tea’ means the evening meal, call this ‘afternoon tea’. All this can pose a few problems for foreign visitors: if you are invited to ‘dinner’, should you turn up at midday or in the evening? Does ‘come for tea’ mean four o’clock or seven o’clock? To be safe, you will have to ask what time you are expected. The answer will help you to place your hosts on the social scale.

  Settee

  Or you could ask your hosts what they call their furniture. If an upholstered seat for two or more people is called a settee or a couch, they are no higher than middle-middle. If it is a sofa, they are upper-middle or above. There are occasional exceptions to this rule, which is not quite as accurate a class indicator as ‘pardon’, ‘dinner’ or ‘toilet’. Some younger upper-middles, influenced by American films and television programmes, might say ‘couch’ – although they are unlikely to say ‘settee’, except as a joke or to annoy their class-anxious parents. If you like, you can amuse yourself by making predictions based on correlations with other class indicators such as those covered later in Home Rules (page 185). For example, if the item in question is part of a brand-new matching three-piece suite, which also matches the curtains, its owners are likely to call it a settee.

  Lounge

  And what do they call the room in which the settee/sofa is to be found? Settees are found in ‘lounges’ or ‘living rooms’, sofas in ‘sitting rooms’ or ‘drawing rooms’. ‘Drawing room’ (short for ‘withdrawing room’) used to be the only ‘correct’ term, but many upper-middles and uppers feel it is bit silly and pretentious to call, say, a small room in an ordinary terraced house the ‘drawing room’, so ‘sitting room’ has become acceptable. You may occasionally hear an upper-middle-class person say ‘living room’, although this is frowned upon, but only middle-middles and below say ‘lounge’. This is a particularly useful word for spotting middle-middle social-climbers trying to pass as upper-middle: they may have learnt not to say ‘pardon’ and ‘toilet’, but they are often not aware that ‘lounge’ is also a deadly sin.

  Sweet

  Like ‘dinner’, this word is not in itself a class indicator, but it becomes one when misapplied. The upper-middle and upper classes insist that the sweet course at the end of a meal is called the ‘pudding’ – never the ‘sweet’, or ‘afters’, or ‘dessert’, all of which are déclassé, unacceptable words. ‘Sweet’ can be used freely as an adjective, but as a noun it is piece of confectionary – what the Americans call ‘candy’ – and nothing else. The course at the end of the meal is always ‘pudding’, whatever it consists of: a slice of apple tart is ‘pudding’, so is a lemon sorbet. Asking ‘Does anyone want a sweet?’ at the end of a meal will get you immediately classified as middle-middle or below. ‘Afters’ will also activate the class-radar and get you demoted. Some American-influenced young upper-middles are starting to say ‘dessert’, and this is therefore the least offensive of the three – and the least reliable as a class indicator. It can also cause confusion as, to the upper classes, ‘dessert’ traditionally means a selection of fresh fruit, served right at the end of a dinner, after the pudding, and eaten with a knife and fork.

  ‘Smart’ and ‘Common’ Rules

  The ‘seven deadly sins’ are the most obvious and reliable class indicators, but a number of other terms will also register on our highly sensitive class-radar devices. If you want to ‘talk posh’, you will have to stop using the term ‘posh’, for a start: the correct upper-class word is ‘smart’. In upper-middle and upper-class circles, ‘posh’ can only be used ironically, in a jokey tone to show that you know it is a low-class word.

  The opposite of ‘smart’ is ‘common’ – a snobbish euphemism for ‘working class’. But beware: using this term too often is a sure sign of class-anxiety. Calling things and people ‘common’ all the time is protesting too much, trying too hard to distance yourself from the lower classes. Only the insecure wear their snobbery on their sleeve in this way. ‘Naff’ is a better option, as it is a more ambiguous term, which can mean the same as ‘common’ but can also just mean ‘tacky’ or ‘in bad taste’.

  If you prefer, you can now use the term ‘chav’ (which started out as a noun, but can now also be used as an adjective, although ‘chavvy’ is the more widely used adjectival form). Officially, ‘chav’ refers only to a particular section of the working class – essentially the British version of what in the US would be called ‘white trash’, ‘trailer trash’ or just ‘trash’ (‘bogan’ is probably the closest equivalent in Australia and New Zealand). ‘Respectable’ working-class people are at pains to distinguish themselves from the brash, tacky, work-shy ‘chavs’. For many members of the middle and upper classes, however, ‘chav’ has become yet another euphemism, yet another way of saying ‘working class’ without using the C-word, yet another way of sneering at working-class tastes without being branded a snob – although many articles and even whole books have been written about how offensive the term is.

  ‘Chav’ may eventually become unacceptable, at which point the middle and upper classes will simply find another snobby pejorative euphemism, as they always do. I would recommend reviving ‘lumpenproletariat’. Marx coined it (to describe the late-nineteenth-century equivalent of ‘chavs’), which makes it a bit harder for class-warriors to object, and as a bonus its inevitable misuse would infuriate quite a few sociologists. It could be shortened to ‘lumps’ for catchiness. (Actually, I would recommend that the higher c
lasses stop being such ghastly hypocritical snobs and learn some respect, but that won’t happen.)

  If they are ‘common’, young people will call their parents ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’; ‘smart’ children say ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’ (some used to say ‘Ma’ and ‘Pa’, but these are now seen as very old-fashioned). When talking about their parents, common children refer to them as ‘my mum’ and ‘my dad’ (or ‘me mam’ and ‘me dad’), while smart children say ‘my mother’ and ‘my father’. These are not infallible indicators, as some higher-class children now say ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’, and some very young working-class children might say ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’; but if the child is over the age of ten, maybe twelve to be safe, still calling his or her mother ‘Mummy’ is a fairly reliable higher-class indicator. Grown-ups who still say ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’ are almost certainly upper-middle or above.

  Prince Charles provided an example of this at the age of sixty-four, by addressing the Queen as ‘Mummy’ in his speech at her Diamond Jubilee celebrations. His use of this informal term was obviously intended to be humorous, but ‘Mum’ would have been equally informal and equally amusing.

  Mothers who are called ‘Mum’ carry a ‘handbag’; mothers called ‘Mummy’ just call it a ‘bag’. Mums wear ‘perfume’; mummies call it ‘scent’. Parents called ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’ go ‘horseracing’; smart mummies and daddies call it ‘racing’. Common people go to a ‘do’; middle-middles might call it a ‘function’; smart people just call it a party. ‘Refreshments’ are served at middle-class ‘functions’; the higher echelons’ parties just have food and drink. Lower- and middle-middles eat their food in ‘portions’; upper-middles and above have ‘helpings’. Common people have a ‘starter’; smart people have a ‘first course’ – although this one is rather less reliable. Referring to the main course (in, say, a three-course meal) as the ‘main meal’ is decidedly common.