by Kate Fox
•In all cultures, the drinking-place is a special environment, a separate social world with its own customs and values.
•Drinking-places tend to be socially integrative, egalitarian environments, or at least environments in which status distinctions are based on different criteria from those operating in the outside world.
•The primary function of drinking-places is the facilitation of social bonding.
So, although the pub is very much part of English culture, it also has its own ‘social microclimate’.44 Like all drinking-places, it is in some respects a ‘liminal’ zone, an equivocal, marginal, borderline state, in which one finds a degree of ‘cultural remission’ – a structured, temporary relaxation or suspension of normal social controls (also known as ‘legitimised deviance’ or ‘time-out behaviour’). It is partly because of this caveat that an examination of the rules of English pub-talk should tell us a lot about Englishness.
THE RULES OF ENGLISH PUB-TALK
The Sociability Rule
For a start, the first rule of English pub-talk tells us why pubs are such a vital part of our culture. This is the sociability rule: the bar counter of the pub is one of the very few places in England where it is socially acceptable to strike up a conversation with a complete stranger. At the bar counter, normal rules of privacy and reserve are suspended, we are granted temporary ‘remission’ from our conventional social inhibitions, and friendly conversation with strangers is considered entirely appropriate and normal behaviour.
Foreign visitors often find it hard to come to terms with the fact that there is no waiter service in English pubs.45 Indeed, one of the most poignant sights of the English summer (or the funniest, depending on your sense of humour) is the group of thirsty tourists sitting patiently at a pub table, waiting for someone to come and take their order.
My first, callously scientific, response to this sight was to take out my stopwatch and start timing how long it would take tourists of different nationalities to realise that there was no waiter service. (For the record, the fastest time – two minutes, twenty-four seconds – was achieved by a sharp-eyed American couple; the slowest – forty-five minutes, thirteen seconds – was a group of young Italians although, to be fair, they were engrossed in an animated debate about football and did not appear much concerned about the apparent lack of service. A French couple marched out of the pub, complaining bitterly about the poor service and les Anglais in general, after a twenty-four-minute wait.) Once I had obtained sufficient data, however, I became more sympathetic, eventually to the point of writing a little paperback book on pub etiquette for tourists. The field research for that book – a sort of nine-month nationwide pub-crawl – also provided much useful material on Englishness.
In the pub-etiquette book, I explained that the sociability rule only applies at the bar counter, so having to go up to the bar to buy drinks gives the English valuable opportunities for social contact. Waiter service, I pointed out, would isolate people at separate tables. This may not be a problem in more naturally outgoing and sociable cultures, where people do not require any assistance to strike up a conversation with those seated near them, but, I argued rather defensively, the English are somewhat reserved and inhibited, and we need all the help we can get. It is much easier for us to drift casually into ‘accidental’ chat while waiting at the bar counter than deliberately to break into the conversation at a neighbouring table. The no-waiter-service system is designed to promote sociability.
But not rampant, uncontrolled sociability. ‘Cultural remission’ is not just a fancy academic way of saying ‘letting your hair down’. It does not mean abandoning all inhibitions and doing exactly as you please. It means, quite specifically, a structured, ordered, conventionalised relaxation of normal social conventions. In English pubs, the suspension of normal privacy rules is limited to the bar counter, and in some cases, to a lesser degree, to tables situated very near the counter – those furthest from the bar being universally understood to be the most ‘private’. I found a few other exceptions: the sociability rule also applies to a more limited extent (and subject to quite strict rules of introduction) around the dart-board and pool table, but only to those standing near the players: the tables in the vicinity of these games are still ‘private’.
The English need the social facilitation of legitimised deviance at the bar counter, but we also still value our privacy. The division of the pub into ‘public’ and ‘private’ zones is a perfect, and very English, compromise: it allows us to break the rules, but ensures that we do so in a comfortingly ordered and rule-governed manner.
The Invisible-queue Rule
Before we can even begin to explore the complex etiquette involved in pub-talk, we stumble across another rule of pub behaviour that involves a brief digression from our focus on conversation rules, but will help us to prove (in the correct sense of ‘test’) a ‘rule of Englishness’. The issue is queuing. The bar counter is the only place in England in which anything is sold without the formation of a queue. Many commentators have observed that queuing is almost a national pastime for the English, who automatically arrange themselves into orderly lines at bus stops, shop counters, ice-cream vans, entrances, exits, lifts – and, according to some of the baffled tourists I interviewed, sometimes in the middle of nowhere for no apparent reason.
According to George Mikes: ‘An Englishman, even if he is alone, forms an orderly queue of one.’ When I first read this comment, I thought it was an amusing exaggeration, but then I started to observe people more closely, and found not only that it was often true, but also that I do it myself. When waiting alone for a bus or at a taxi stop, I do not just lounge about anywhere roughly within striking distance of the stop, as people do in other countries – I stand directly under the sign, facing in the correct direction, exactly as though I were at the head of a queue. I form an orderly queue of one. If you are English, you probably do this too.
In our drinking-places, however, we do not form an orderly queue at all: we gather haphazardly along the bar counter. At first, this struck me as contrary to all English instincts, rules and customs, until I realised that there is in fact a queue, an invisible queue, and that both the bar staff and the customers are aware of each person’s position in it. Everyone knows who is next: the person who reached the bar counter before you will be served before you, and any obvious attempt to get served out of turn will be ignored by the bar staff and severely frowned upon by other customers. In other words, it will be treated as queue-jumping. The system is not infallible, but English bar staff are exceptionally skilled at identifying who is next in the invisible queue. The bar counter is ‘the exception that proves the rule’ about English queuing: it is only an apparent exception – and another example of the orderly nature of English disorder.
The Pantomime Rule
The rules of English pub-talk regulate non-verbal as well as verbal communication – in fact, some of them actively prohibit use of the verbal medium, such as the pantomime rule. Bar staff do their best to ensure that everyone is served in proper turn, but it is still necessary to attract their attention and make them aware that one is waiting to be served. There is, however, a strict etiquette involved in attracting the attention of bar staff: this must be done without speaking, without making any noise and without resorting to the vulgarity of obvious gesticulation. (Yes, we are back in Looking-Glass land again. The truth of English etiquette is indeed stranger than even the strangest of fiction.)
The prescribed approach is best described as a sort of subtle pantomime – not the kind of pantomime we see on stage at Christmas, but more like an Ingmar Bergman film in which the twitch of an eyebrow speaks volumes. The object is to make eye contact with the barman. But calling out to him is not permitted, and almost all other obvious means of attracting attention, such as tapping coins on the counter, snapping fingers or waving are equally frowned upon.
It is acceptable to let bar staff know one is waiting to be served by holding m
oney or an empty glass in one’s hand. The pantomime rule allows us to tilt the empty glass, or perhaps turn it slowly in a circular motion (some seasoned pub-goers told me that this indicates the passing of time). The etiquette here is frighteningly precise: it is permitted to perch one’s elbow on the bar, for example, with either money or an empty glass in a raised hand, but not to raise one’s whole arm and wave the notes or glass around.
The pantomime rule requires the adoption of an expectant, hopeful, even slightly anxious expression. If a customer looks too contented, bar staff may assume that he or she is already being served. Those waiting to be served must stay alert and keep their eye on the bar staff at all times. Once eye contact is made, a quick lift of the eyebrows, sometimes accompanied by an upward jerk of the chin, and a hopeful smile, lets the staff know you are waiting. They respond to these pantomime signals with a smile or a nod, a raised finger or hand, and perhaps a similar eyebrow-lift. This is code for ‘I see that you are waiting and will serve you as soon as possible.’
The English perform this pantomime sequence instinctively, without being aware of following a rigid etiquette, and never question the extraordinary handicaps (no speaking, no waving, no noise, constant alertness to subtle non-verbal signals) imposed by the rule. Foreigners find the eyebrow-twitching pantomime ritual baffling – incredulous tourists often told me that they could not understand how the English ever managed to buy themselves a drink – but it is surprisingly effective. Everyone does get served, usually in the right order, and without undue fuss, noise or argument.
Researching the pantomime rule (and the other unwritten rules of pub behaviour) was something of a test of my own ability to stand back from my native culture and observe it as a detached scientist. As a native pub-goer, I had always performed the pantomime ritual automatically, like everyone else, without ever questioning or even noticing its strange and complex rules. But to write the little pub-etiquette book, I had to force myself to become a ‘professional alien’, even in my own local pub. It is quite an interesting (although somewhat disconcerting) mental exercise, to clear one’s mind of everything one normally takes for granted – and to scrutinise, dissect and question every detail of a routine that is almost as familiar, mindless and mechanical as brushing one’s teeth. When that book came out, some English readers told me that it was equally disconcerting to read the results of this exercise, and I have now received many similar comments from readers of Watching the English.
Exception to the Pantomime Rule
There is one important exception to the pantomime rule, and as usual it is a rule-governed exception. While waiting to be served at a pub bar-counter, you may hear people calling out to the bar staff, ‘Oi, any chance of a bloody drink some time this millennium?’ or ‘Get a move on: I’ve been stood here since last Thursday!’ or committing other blatant breaches of the pantomime rule. You would be advised not to follow their example: the only people permitted to speak in this manner are the established ‘regulars’ (regular customers of a particular pub), and the rude remarks are made in the context of the special etiquette governing relations between bar staff and regulars.
The Rules of Ps and Qs
The rules governing the ordering of drinks, however, apply to everyone. First, it is customary in England for just one or at the most two members of a group to go up to the bar to order drinks for the group, and for only one to make the actual payment. (This rule is not merely designed to make life easier for bar staff, or to avoid that English pet hate ‘fuss’. It is related to another complex set of rules: the etiquette of round-buying, which will be covered later.) Second, the correct way to order a (draught) beer is ‘Pint of bitter [or lager], please.’ For a half-pint, this is always shortened to ‘Half a bitter [or lager], please.’ (When ordering a particular brand of draught bitter or lager, this would be ‘Pint of [name], please,’ or ‘Half a [name], please.’)
The ‘please’ is very important: foreigners or novices will be forgiven mistakes in other elements of the order, but omitting the ‘please’ is a serious offence. It is also vital to say ‘thank you’ (or ‘thanks’, or ‘cheers’, or at the very least the non-verbal equivalent – brief eye contact, nod and smile), when the drinks are handed over, and again when the change is given.
This rule applies not just in pubs, but when ordering or purchasing anything, anywhere in England: in shops, restaurants, trains, buses and hotels, staff expect to be treated politely, and this means saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. The politeness is reciprocal: a bartender or shop assistant will say, ‘That’ll be four pounds fifty, then, please,’ and will usually say, ‘Thank you,’ or a less formal equivalent, when you hand over the money. The generic rule is that every request (by either staff or customer) must end with ‘please’ and every fulfilment of a request (ditto) requires a thank-you.
During my research on Englishness, I diligently counted all the pleases and thank-yous involved in every purchase I made, and found that, for example, a typical transaction in a newsagent’s or corner shop (such as, say, my usual purchase of a bar of chocolate and a newspaper) usually involves two pleases and three thank-yous (although there is no upper limit on thank-yous, and I have often counted five). The simple purchase of a drink and a packet of crisps in a pub also typically requires two pleases and three thank-yous.
England may be a highly class-conscious society, but these politeness rules suggest that the culture is also, in many ways, remarkably egalitarian – or at least that it is not done to draw attention to status differences. Service staff may often be of a lower social class than their customers (and linguistic class indicators ensure that where this is the case both parties will be aware of it), but there is a conspicuous lack of servility in their demeanour, and the unwritten rules require that they be treated with courtesy and respect. Like all rules, these are sometimes broken, but when this does occur, it is noticed and frowned upon.
The ‘And One for Yourself?’ Rule – and the Principles of Polite Egalitarianism
In the special social microclimate of the pub, I found that the rules of egalitarian courtesy are even more complex, and more strictly observed. For example, it is not customary in English pubs to tip the publican or bar staff who serve you. The usual practice is, instead, to buy them a drink. To give bar staff a tip would be an impolite reminder of their ‘service’ role, whereas to offer a drink is to treat them as equals. The rules governing the manner in which such drinks must be offered reflect both polite egalitarianism and a peculiarly English squeamishness about money. The prescribed etiquette for offering a drink to the publican or bar staff is to say, ‘And one for yourself?’ or ‘And will you have one yourself?’ at the end of your order. The offer must be clearly phrased as a question, not an instruction, and should be made discreetly, not bellowed out in an unseemly public display of generosity.
If you forget to add ‘And one for yourself?’ when ordering your drinks, it is acceptable to ask the bartender or publican, ‘Will you have a drink?’ at another time, but the ‘And one for yourself?’ approach is much preferred, as it implies that the customer and the bartender are having a drink together, that the bartender is being included in the ‘round’. I observed that the English also tend to avoid using the word ‘buy’. To ask, ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ would in theory be acceptable, but in practice is rarely heard, as it carries the suggestion that money is involved. The English are perfectly well aware that money is involved, but prefer not to call attention to the fact. We know that the publican and bar staff are providing us with a service in exchange for money – and indeed that the ‘And one for yourself?’ ritual is a somewhat convoluted way of giving them a tip – but it would be indecorous to highlight the pecuniary aspects of this relationship.
And the bar staff collude in this squeamishness. If the ‘And one for yourself?’ offer is accepted, it is customary for bar staff to say, ‘Thanks, I’ll have a half [or whatever],’ and add the price of their chosen drink to the total cost of
the order. They will then state the new total clearly, ‘That’ll be five pounds twenty, then, please’ – thus indirectly letting you know the price of the drink you have just bought them, without actually mentioning the amount, which in any case will not be large, as the unwritten rules require them to choose a relatively inexpensive drink. By stating the revised total, they are also, in a subtle and oblique manner, making the customer aware of their abstemious choice of beverage.
The understanding that this is not a tip but an invitation to ‘join’ the customer in a drink is also reinforced by the behaviour of the bar staff when consuming the drink. They will always raise their glass in the customer’s direction, and say, ‘Cheers,’ or ‘Thanks’, which is normal practice between friends on receiving a drink as part of a ‘round’. When the bar is particularly busy, the staff may not have time to pour or consume the drink immediately. It is quite acceptable in these circumstances for them to accept the ‘And one for yourself?’ offer, add the price of their drink to the customer’s order, and (if possible) enjoy the drink later when the bar is less crowded. On pouring the drink, however, even several hours later, bar staff will often go to some lengths to ensure that they catch the relevant customer’s eye and raise the glass in acknowledgement, with a nod and a smile – and a ‘Cheers’ if the customer is within earshot.
It could be argued that, although more egalitarian than conventional tipping, this ‘one-way commensality’ – giving without receiving in return – is nonetheless a dominance signal. This argument would have some merit, were it not that the gesture is often reciprocated by publicans and bar staff, who will usually not allow a customer, particularly a regular, to buy them many drinks before attempting to return the favour. There will still, in the final reckoning, be some asymmetry, but such reckonings never occur, and even an occasional reciprocation on the part of the publican or bar staff serves to maintain the impression of a friendly exchange between equals.