Watching the English

by Kate Fox

  Lower- and middle-middles talk about their ‘home’ or ‘property’; upper-middles and above say ‘house’. Common people’s homes have ‘patios’; smart people’s houses have ‘terraces’. Working-class people say ‘indoors’ when they mean ‘at home’ (as in ‘Oh no, I’ve left it indoors’ when they find they have forgotten something, and ‘’er indoors’ meaning ‘my wife’). This is by no means an exhaustive list: class pervades every aspect of English life, and you will find yet more verbal class indicators in almost every chapter of this book – as well as dozens of non-verbal class signals.

  Class-denial Rules

  We are clearly as acutely class-conscious as we have ever been, but in these ‘politically correct’ times, many of us are increasingly embarrassed about our class-consciousness, and do our best to deny or disguise it. The middle classes are particularly uncomfortable about class, and well-meaning upper-middles are the most squeamish of all. They will go to great lengths to avoid calling anyone or anything ‘working class’ – resorting to polite euphemisms such as ‘low-income groups’, ‘less privileged’, ‘ordinary people’, ‘less educated’, ‘the man in the street’, ‘tabloid readers’, ‘blue collar’, ‘state school’, ‘council estate’ and ‘popular’.

  These over-tactful upper-middles may even try to avoid using the word ‘class’ at all, carefully talking about someone’s ‘background’ instead – which always makes me imagine the person emerging from either a Lowry street scene or a Gainsborough or Reynolds country-manor portrait, depending on the class to which ‘background’ is intended to refer. (This is always obvious from the context: ‘Well, with that sort of background, you have to make allowances . . .’ is Lowry; ‘We prefer Saskia and Fiona to mix with girls from the same background . . .’ is Gainsborough/Reynolds.)

  All this diplomatic euphemising is quite unnecessary, though, as working-class English people generally do not have a problem with the C-word and, until very recently, were nearly all quite happy to call themselves working class. Upper-class English people are also often rather blunt and no-nonsense about class. It is not that these top and bottom classes are any less class-conscious than the middle ranks: they just tend to be less angst-ridden and embarrassed about it. Their class-consciousness is also, in many cases, rather less subtle and complex than that of the middle classes: they tend not to perceive as many layers or delicate distinctions. Their class-radar recognises at the most three classes: working, middle and upper; and sometimes only two, with the working class dividing the world into ‘us and the posh’ – with little or no distinction between levels of ‘poshness’, apart from actual aristocracy/royalty – and the upper class seeing only ‘us and the plebs’ (or ‘ordinary people’, if they are being polite).

  Nancy Mitford is a good example, with her simple binary division of society into ‘U and non-U’, which takes no account of the fine gradations between lower-middle, middle-middle and upper-middle, let alone the even more microscopic nuances distinguishing, say, ‘secure, established upper-middle’ from ‘anxious, borderline upper-middle’ that are only of interest to the tortured middle classes – and to nosy anthropologists.

  Having said that, it is worth noting that both the upper and working class do perceive finer distinctions and layers within their own classes – distinctions that may be unnoticed by the rest of the population. Only the upper classes notice or care about the distinctions between ‘old family’, ‘landed gentry’ and peerage, for example, or the arcane ranks (dukes, marquesses, earls and so on) within the peerage. And the working classes are far more sensitive to – and about – the important distinction between ‘respectable working class’ and the despised ‘chavs’ or ‘pikeys’38, and the factors distinguishing vulgar ‘new money’ from admirable ‘working class made good’ (the main difference being that the latter ‘remember where they’ve come from’ and don’t become ‘stuck up’ or ‘think they’re better than us’). The English working class contains at least as many complex divisions and distinctions as the upper and middle classes.

  The tendency of the middle and upper classes to ignore these distinctions and lump all these working-class grades together and, even more shamefully, to tar them all with the same ‘chav’ brush is one of the causes of the recent ‘identity shift’ whereby more and more working-class people are defining themselves as middle class (in surveys, about half of those who used to call themselves ‘working class’ no longer do so – a very significant shift). ‘Working class’ has become a more pejorative term, associated with, ironically, people who do not work, so-called ‘benefit scroungers’, ‘chavs’, etc. There has always been a huge perceived gulf between the ‘respectable’, hard-working working class and the unemployed ‘underclass’ (well, perceived by the respectable working classes, at least). These are not entirely unlike the old sixteenth-century categories of ‘deserving’ and ‘undeserving’ poor. But now the demonisation of ‘chavs’, and the blurring of these categories, is adversely affecting the whole working class.

  Other causes of the working-class ‘identity shift’ are the ‘aspirational’ ideologies promoted by Margaret Thatcher’s Conservative government, and then by Tony Blair’s New Labour, which have for many people eroded any sense of pride in being working class. The focus of governments for many years has been on promoting social mobility (which has remained stubbornly static at best), rather than improving conditions and life for the working class. Given the relentless message that being working class is a condition one should aim to escape from, it is hardly surprising that many working-class people now choose to call themselves ‘middle class’, a term that, for some, has been radically redefined. In response to my chatter about some research I was doing on class, for example, a working-class hairdresser told me, ‘I’d like to say I’m middle class.’

  ‘What does that mean to you,’ I asked, ‘that you’re middle class, rather than working class?’

  She answered: ‘That I’ve got some class, I suppose – like, I dress nicely, I’ve got some ambition in life . . . I’m not just some lazy chav!’

  With the decline of the manufacturing industry, many of the lowest-paid working-class jobs are now in service industries (call centres are the new coal mines) and can be seen as ‘white collar’, or ‘pink collar’, rather than traditional blue-collar manual labour. Those working in these occupations, however menial, undignified and poorly paid their jobs may be, can more easily define themselves as middle class – especially when they are being fobbed off with the illusion that they are middle class, as opposed to being paid a decent wage.

  It is worth noting that, until very recently, things were the other way round: many people in what are classified as ‘middle-class’ occupations would identify themselves (correctly, and often proudly) as ‘working class’ when asked to state their social class in surveys. This discrepancy always caused much confusion and puzzled debate among those who believe that occupation is a reliable guide to social class – they would scratch their heads and wonder why all these ABC1s were insisting on calling themselves working class. Now they are wondering why all these C2DEs are calling themselves middle class.

  LINGUISTIC CLASS CODES AND ENGLISHNESS

  So, what do these linguistic class codes tell us about Englishness? All cultures have a social hierarchy and methods of signalling social status: what, apart from our perhaps disproportionate class-consciousness, is distinctive about the English class system and its signals?

  For a start, the linguistic codes we have identified indicate that class in England has nothing to do with income or occupation. ‘Cultural capital’ is a more helpful concept, but the only form of cultural capital that functions as a near-infallible class indicator in real life (as opposed to surveys) is ‘linguistic capital’. Speech is all-important. A person with an upper-class accent, using upper-class terminology, will be recognised as upper class even if he or she is earning poverty-line wages, doing grubby menial work and living on a grotty council estate. Or even u
nemployed, destitute and homeless. Equally, a person with working-class pronunciation, who calls his sofa a ‘settee’, and his midday meal ‘dinner’, will be identified as working class even if he is a multi-millionaire business tycoon living in a grand country house. There are other class indicators – such as one’s taste in clothes, furniture, decoration, cars, pets, books, hobbies, food and drink – but speech is the most immediate and most obvious.

  The importance of speech in this context may point to another English characteristic: our love of words. It has often been said that the English are very much a verbal rather than a visual culture, considerably more noted for our literature than for our art. We are also not particularly ‘tactile’ or physically expressive, not given to much touching or gesticulating. Words are our preferred medium, so it is perhaps significant that they should be our primary means of signalling and recognising social status.

  This reliance on linguistic signals, and the irrelevance of wealth and occupation as class indicators, also reminds us that our culture is not a meritocracy. Your accent and terminology reveal the class you were born into and raised in, not anything you have achieved through your own talents or efforts. And whatever you do accomplish, your position on the class scale will always be identifiable by your speech, unless you painstakingly train yourself to use the pronunciation and vocabulary of a different class.

  The sheer complexity of the linguistic rules reveals something of the intricate, convoluted nature of the English class system – all those layers, all those fine distinctions; the snakes-and-ladders game of social climbing. And the class-denial rules give us a hint of a peculiarly English squeamishness about class. This unease may be more pronounced among the middle classes, but most of us suffer from it to some degree – we would rather pretend that class differences do not exist, or are no longer important, or at least that we personally have no class-related prejudices.

  Which brings me to another English characteristic: hypocrisy. Not that our pious denial of our class-obsession is specifically intended to mislead – it often seems to be more a matter of self-deception than any deliberate deception of others; a kind of collective self-deception, perhaps? I have a hunch that this distinctively English brand of hypocrisy will come up again, and might even turn out to be one of the ‘defining characteristics’ we are looking for.

  38. The term ‘pikey’ is technically only a pejorative word for gypsies or ‘travellers’, but some now use it more or less synonymously with ‘chav’.

  EMERGING TALK-RULES: THE MOBILE PHONE

  Almost everyone in England has a mobile phone, but because this is still relatively new, unfamiliar technology, there are no set rules of etiquette governing when, how and in what manner these phones should be used. We are having to ‘make up’ and negotiate these rules as we go along – a fascinating process to watch and, for a social scientist, very exciting, as one does not often get the opportunity to study the formation of a new set of unwritten social rules.

  For example, I have found that most English people, if asked, agree that talking loudly about banal business or domestic matters on one’s mobile while on a train is rude and inconsiderate. Yet a significant minority of people still do this, and while their fellow passengers may sigh and roll their eyes, they very rarely challenge the offenders directly – as this would involve breaking other well-established English rules and inhibitions about talking to strangers, making a scene or drawing attention to oneself. The offenders, despite much public discussion of this problem, seem oblivious to the effects of their behaviour, in the same way that people tend to pick their noses and scratch their armpits in their cars, apparently forgetting that they are not invisible.

  How will this apparent impasse be resolved? There are some early signs of emerging rules regarding mobile-phone use in public places, and it looks as though very loud ‘I’m on a train’ conversations may eventually become as unacceptable as queue-jumping, but we cannot yet be certain, particularly given English inhibitions about confronting offenders. (I discuss the issue of loud mobile-phone talk on trains and buses in much more detail in Rules of the Road, page 225.) Inappropriate mobile-phone use on trains and in other public places is at least a social issue of which everyone is now aware. But there are other aspects of ‘emerging’ mobile-phone etiquette that are even more blurred and controversial.

  There are, for example, as yet no agreed rules of etiquette on the use of mobile phones during business meetings. Do you switch your phone off, discreetly, before entering the meeting? Or do you take your phone out and make a big ostentatious show of switching it off, as a flattering gesture conveying the message ‘See how important you are: I am switching off my phone for you’? Then do you place your switched-off phone on the table as a reminder of your courtesy and your client’s or colleague’s status? If you keep it switched on, do you do so overtly or leave it in your pocket or briefcase? Do you take calls during the meeting? My observations indicate that lower-ranking English executives tend to be less courteous, attempting to trumpet their own importance by keeping phones on and taking calls during meetings, while high-ranking people with nothing to prove tend to be more considerate.

  Then what about lunch? Is it acceptable to switch your phone back on during the business lunch? Do you need to give a reason? Apologise? Again, my observations and interviews suggest a similar pattern. Low-status, insecure people tend to take and even sometimes make calls during a business lunch – often apologising and giving reasons, but in such a self-important ‘I’m so busy and indispensable’ manner that their apology is really a disguised boast. Their higher-ranking, more secure colleagues either leave their phones switched off or, if they absolutely must keep them on for some reason, apologise in a genuine and often embarrassed, self-deprecating manner.

  There are many other, much more subtle social uses of mobile phones, some of which do not even involve talking on the phone at all – such as the competitive use of the mobile phone itself as a status-signal, particularly among young people, but also in some cases replacing the car as a medium for macho ‘Mine’s Better Than Yours’ displays among older males as well, with discussions of the relative merits of different brands, networks, ‘apps’ and features taking the place of more traditional conversations about alloy wheels, nought-to-sixty, BHP, etc.

  I have also noticed that many women use their mobiles as ‘barrier signals’ when on their own in coffee bars and other public places, as an alternative to the traditional use of a newspaper or magazine to signal unavailability – particularly to any potentially predatory males – and mark personal ‘territory’. Even when not in use, the mobile acts as a kind of symbolic bodyguard, a protector against unwanted social contact: women will touch the phone or pick it up when a potential ‘intruder’ approaches. One woman explained, ‘You just feel safer if it’s there – just on the table, next to your hand . . . Actually it’s better than a newspaper because it’s real people – I mean, there are real people in there you could call or text if you wanted, you know? It’s sort of reassuring.’ The idea of one’s social support network of friends and family being somehow ‘inside’ the mobile phone means that even just touching or holding it gives a sense of being protected.

  This example provides an indication of the more important social functions of the mobile phone. I’ve written and lectured about this issue at great length elsewhere,39 but it is worth explaining briefly here. The mobile phone has, I believe, become the modern equivalent of the garden fence or village green. The space-age technology of mobile phones has allowed us to recreate the more natural and humane communication patterns of pre-industrial society, when we lived in small, stable communities, and enjoyed frequent ‘grooming-talk’ with a tightly integrated social network of family and friends. In the fast-paced modern world, we had become severely restricted in both the quantity and quality of communication with our social network. Most of us no longer enjoy the cosiness of a gossip over the garden fence. We may not even know our neighbours�
�� names, and communication is often limited to a brief, slightly embarrassed nod, if that. Families and friends are scattered, and even if our relatives or friends live nearby, we are often too busy or too tired to visit. We are constantly on the move, spending much of our time commuting to and from work either among strangers on trains and buses, or alone and isolated in our cars. These factors are particularly problematic for the English, as we tend to be more socially inhibited than other cultures: we do not talk to strangers, or make friends quickly and easily.

  Landline telephones allowed us to communicate, but not in the sort of frequent, easy, spontaneous, casual style that would have characterised the small communities for which we are adapted by evolution, and in which most of us lived in pre-industrial times. Mobile phones – particularly the ability to send short, frequent, cheap text messages – restore our sense of connection and community, and provide an antidote to the pressures and alienation of modern urban life. They are a kind of ‘social lifeline’ in a fragmented and isolating world.

  Think about a typical, brief ‘village-green’ conversation: ‘Hi, how’re you doing?’/‘Fine, just off to the shops – oh, how’s your mum?’/‘Much better, thanks.’/‘Oh, good, give her my love – see you later.’ If you take most of the vowels out of the village-green conversation, and scramble the rest of the letters into ‘text-message dialect’ (HOW R U? C U L8R), to me it sounds uncannily like a typical SMS or text exchange: not much is said – a friendly greeting, maybe a scrap of news – but a personal connection is made, people are reminded that they are not alone. Until the advent of mobile text messaging, many of us were forced to live without this kind of small but psychologically and socially very important form of communication.