by Kate Fox
The free-association rule states that pub conversations do not have to progress in any kind of logical or orderly manner; they need not stick to the point, neither must they reach a conclusion. When pubgoers are in free-association mode, which is much of the time, attempts to get them to focus on a particular subject for more than a few minutes are fruitless, and only serve to make one unpopular.
The free-association rule allows pub-talk to move in a mysterious way – mostly in apparently random sideways leaps. A comment about the weather somehow triggers a brief argument about football, which prompts a prediction about the fate of a television soap-opera character, which leads to a discussion of a current political scandal, which provokes some banter about the sex-life of the barman, which is interrupted by a regular demanding immediate assistance with a crossword clue, which in turn leads to a comment about the latest health-scare, which somehow turns into a debate about another regular’s broken watch-strap, which sets off a friendly dispute about whose round it is, and so on. You can sometimes see a sort of vague logic in some of the connections, but most topic-shifts are accidental, prompted by participants free-associating with a random word or phrase.
The free-association rule is not just a matter of avoidance of seriousness. It is a licence to deviate from conventional social norms, to let one’s guard down a bit. Among the English, this kind of loose, easy, disordered, haphazard conversation, in which people feel relaxed and comfortable enough to say more or less whatever occurs to them, is only normally found among close friends or family. In the pub, however, I found that free-association talk seems to occur naturally, even among people who do not know each other. It is most common among regulars, but at the bar counter, strangers can easily be drawn into the rambling chat. In any case, it must be understood here that people who regularly frequent the same pub are not necessarily, or even normally, close friends in the usual sense of the term. It is very rare for fellow regulars to invite each other to their homes, for example, even when they have been meeting and sharing their random thoughts every day for many years.
So: the free-association conversation patterns of English pub-goers, even among relative strangers, resemble those of a comfortable, close-knit family – which seems to contradict the usual perception of the English as reserved, standoffish and inhibited. But when I looked a bit closer, and listened a bit more carefully, the boundaries and restrictions emerged. I discovered that this was yet another example of strictly limited, and closely regulated, cultural remission. The free-association rule allows us to deviate from the normal codes of ‘public’ conversation, and to enjoy some of the looseness of ‘private’ or ‘intimate’ talk – but only up to a point. The clue is in the word ‘patterns’. The structure of free-association pub-talk is like that of the private conversation among close friends or family, but the content is far more restricted. Even in free-association mode, fellow pub-goers (unless they also happen to be close friends) do not pour their hearts out to each other; they do not reveal – except inadvertently – their private fears or secret desires.
In fact, it is not done to talk about ‘personal’ matters at all, unless such matters can be aired in a non-serious manner, in accordance with the First Commandment. Jokes about one’s divorce, depression, illness, work problems, delinquent children or other private difficulties and dysfunctions are fine – indeed, wry humour about life’s tragedies is a standard feature of pub-talk. But earnest heart-to-heart outpourings are frowned upon. Such tearful exchanges do take place in pubs, of course, but these are private conversations, between friends or couples or family: it is not considered appropriate to conduct them at the bar counter and, most importantly, these private conversations are among the few that are not subject to the free-association rule.
PUB-TALK RULES AND ENGLISHNESS
So. What have we learnt? What do the rules of pub-talk tell us about Englishness?
The sociability rule confirms the characteristic revealed by the weather-speak rules of context and reciprocity – namely the ingenious use of ‘facilitators’ to overcome our social inhibitions. But this rule has added a couple of new twists to this theme. First, we find that in promoting sociability, the English are very careful to avoid sacrificing privacy. Second, the strict limits and caveats to the sociability rule indicate that even when we depart from convention we do so in a controlled, orderly manner.
In the invisible-queue rule, we find another example of ‘orderly disorder’, and evidence of the importance of queuing, which itself could be another indication of the importance of ‘fairness’ (this makes me wonder if perhaps the traditional English reverence for ‘fair play’ is still stronger than the doom-mongers would have us believe). In the pantomime rule, we see again the precedence of etiquette over logic – along with a marked dislike of fuss, noise and drawing attention to oneself, confirming earlier evidence indicating that social inhibition might be among the defining characteristics of Englishness.
The rules of Ps and Qs confirm the supreme importance of courtesy, and our squeamishness about calling attention to class and status differences. The ‘And one for yourself?’ rule exposes both the hypocrisies and the virtues of English ‘polite egalitarianism’.
The deviations from convention involved in the rules of regular-speak provide a particularly rich source of indicators of Englishness. The excessive use of names (and nicknames) prescribed by the greeting rules contrasts sharply with mainstream English conversation-codes, in which overuse of names is frowned upon as too cloyingly familiar. It occurs to me that perhaps our official, snooty, well-bred contempt for such familiarity masks a secret need for it, expressed only in liminal zones.
As well as facilitating uncharacteristic sociability, the rules of coded pub-talk highlight another ‘deviation’: the escape from mainstream social hierarchies. We see that although sociability and egalitarianism are universal features of drinking-places, the contrast with conventional norms is particularly striking in the English case (only matched by the Japanese, also a culture noted for reserve, formality and acute sensitivity to status differences and also, perhaps significantly, a society inhabiting a small, overcrowded island49). In coded pub-talk and in the pub-argument rules, we also find that undercurrent of humour that characterises much English conversation, along with a sharp wit and linguistic inventiveness. Finally, the free-association rule provides yet another example of regulated deregulation, ordered disorder, method in (apparent) madness.
43. See: Fox, K. (2000), Social and Cultural Aspects of Drinking, The Amsterdam Group, London.
44. The ‘social microclimate’ is a concept I introduced in The Racing Tribe, where I suggested that just as certain geographical locations (islands, valleys, oases, etc.) are said to ‘create their own weather’, so social environments (e.g. racecourses, pubs, universities, etc.) also have a distinctive ‘microclimate’, with behaviour patterns, norms and values that may be different from the cultural mainstream.
45. There are now some exceptions to the no-waiter-service rule, which may not apply in pub-restaurants or ‘gastro-pubs’, or at least not in the ‘restaurant’ section of these pubs, if they are divided into ‘bar’ and ‘restaurant’ areas. These exceptions have only caused more confusion for foreign tourists.
46. Nicknames can also, of course, often be used for less friendly purposes, including expression of hostility, social division and social control, but that is not their function in the pub.
47. Females do sometimes participate in these bantering pub-argument games, but much less frequently and usually with considerably less enthusiasm than males. When women argue, it tends to be ‘for real’.
48. Of course, some arguments in pubs do escalate into physical violence, but pub-arguments of the type described take place constantly, and our research has shown that physical violence is very unusual, occurring only when the rules outlined here are broken. The issue of so-called ‘alcohol-related’ aggression and violence will be covered in more detail in Rules of Play
(page 377).
49. I know, Japan is actually a group of islands, not just one – but you get my point.
RACING-TALK
The world of horseracing, although much smaller than that of the pub, is almost equally representative. In fact, racing has more right, in demographic terms, to be called our national sport than football, as it attracts a far more balanced cross-section of the English population. Like the pub, race-meetings attract people of all ages and all social classes. The highest and lowest ends of the social spectrum are slightly over-represented at the racecourse, leaving a few minor gaps in the middle. The upper-middle-intelligentsia, for example, are rather under-represented, but as this vociferous minority receives more than enough attention elsewhere, its scarcity here need not concern us too much.
Like the pub, racing is a social microclimate – a special environment in which we find a degree of ‘cultural remission’, a temporary, conventionalised suspension of some of the normal social rules and constraints. In the case of racing, however, this microclimate is characterised by a highly unusual combination of relaxed inhibitions and exceptional good manners. I have never found this combination, or at least not to the same degree, in any other public setting in this country. The two elements usually seem to be mutually exclusive among the English (and indeed elsewhere): people will either shed their inhibitions and let rip or be frightfully polite and well behaved; you don’t normally see both extremes at the same time.
This anomaly struck me the first time I went to the races, and I was so intrigued that I spent three years studying this subculture, and eventually wrote a book about it.50 I am not, however, including racing as an example here merely because it is an English ‘tribe’ with which I am familiar, but because at the races we see the English in the behavioural equivalent of full national costume, in some respects almost a caricature of ourselves, but at our best and most likeable.
THE RULES OF ENGLISH RACING-TALK
Introduction Rules
To grasp the significance of microclimate codes, it is necessary to understand the prevailing ‘mainstream’ climatic conditions. I must therefore stress again that there are very few public places in England where it is socially acceptable to strike up a conversation with a stranger. We rarely speak to each other (and, indeed, rarely even make eye-contact or smile) in railway stations, on buses, in supermarket queues, etc., without good reason. English commuters often travel on the same train together every morning for many years, without ever exchanging a word.51 This is not a myth or even an exaggeration: I have observed it over many years and confirmed it in hundreds of interviews. We do not speak to strangers without good cause, and we certainly do not start chatting to random strangers in public places just to be friendly.
The pub bar counter is one exception to this normal rule of reserve; racecourses provide an even more remarkable example of deviation from this rule. In the pub, the bar counter is the only area in which mainstream rules on talking to strangers may be broken. At the races, you will see eye contact, smiles and amicable exchanges between complete strangers not only in the bars but also on the grandstands, around the parade ring, in the Tote queues – almost everywhere.
This is still England, though, so you will not be entirely surprised to learn that such conversations are conducted in accordance with strict and quite complex rules. They usually start with the question ‘What do you fancy in the next?’ (or ‘What are you on in the two-thirty?’ or ‘Got any tips for the next?’ – or some variation on this theme: the exact words are not prescribed, but it should be an enquiry as to which horse the other person thinks might win a particular race).
‘What do you fancy in the next?’ is, of course, a grooming-talk conversation-starter with the same ‘grammatical’ function as ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ in weather-speak. In other words, it is not really a request for information or opinions on the likely winner of the next race, but a friendly greeting – code for: ‘I’d like to talk to you: will you talk to me?’ It is a basic, all-purpose initiator of social interaction, and understood as such by all racegoers. The rules require, however, that one respond as though one had been asked a real question.
To make the process easier, the use of ‘props’ is permitted. Well, one prop, to be exact: the race-card, but it is an extremely versatile prop. The race-card is a small booklet. It looks like a programme of the day’s races, with details of the runners and riders in each race, form guides, a map of the racecourse and its facilities and other useful information. In fact, it is a vital social tool, used as a passport to conversation with strangers, as an ice-breaker in conversation with acquaintances, as an intimacy-escalator in courtship rituals and as a support in all debates and discussions. Perhaps its most important social function is as an indispensable ‘displacement activity’: whenever there is an awkward pause in a conversation, whenever English racegoers feel uneasy or self-conscious in a social situation, they consult their race-card.
The introduction rules state that the opening question – ‘What do you fancy in the next?’ or equivalent – should be accompanied by a suitable ‘race-card gesture’. You may hold up your race-card and indicate the appropriate page, lean over to examine the race-card of the person you are addressing, place your race-card alongside theirs, or even, daringly, allow the two race-cards to touch or overlap – a symbolic indicator of the social contact you are attempting to initiate.
The Modesty Rule
Responses to the ‘What do you fancy in the next?’ opener vary, depending partly on the responder’s level of knowledge about racing. But total lack of knowledge is no handicap – indeed, I soon discovered that it is, if anything, an advantage, as it enabled me to comply easily with the modesty rule. This is perhaps the most important rule of racing-talk. It goes well beyond ‘Thou shalt not boast’: there is an absolute prohibition on boasting, certainly, and indeed on any form of self-aggrandising or self-important behaviour. But the modesty rule goes further than this in actively prescribing humility and self-deprecation.
Even if you are a genius at picking winners, for example, you must not only refrain from trumpeting the fact, but also, whenever possible, make self-deprecating jokes about your ignominious failures. When the Tote screens or bookies’ boards show a horse’s odds lengthening – an indication that few punters are risking their money on the animal – the done thing is to say, with a rueful chuckle, ‘Oh, I see word’s got round that I backed it!’
Even professional racing journalists, who provide tips in their columns and compete with each other on who has the best track-record in picking winners, always obey the modesty rule in social situations. In fact, my favourite reply to the ‘What do you fancy in the next?’ opener came from one of these professionals, who laughed and said, ‘Oh, you don’t want to ask me: everyone knows I couldn’t tip muck out of a barrow!’
I liked this response so much that I’m afraid I borrowed and used it shamelessly on many occasions during my research at racecourses; it never failed to get a laugh, and always prompted an immediate increase in warmth and friendliness. But silly puns are not necessary to achieve this effect: any self-effacing comment about your inability to pick winners is a correct response to the standard opener, and will instantly endear you to fellow racegoers. You may go on to name a horse that you fancy, but it is always best to preface this with the customary modest disclaimer.
Among jockeys and trainers, the taboo on boasting and the prescription of humility are even stronger. There is almost a superstitious belief that any hint of complacency, or even acceptance of praise, will bring bad luck. When they are interviewed by the media after winning a race, it is customary for both jockeys and trainers to disclaim all responsibility for their success, and attempt to give all the credit to the horse, each other, the favourable ground or weather conditions, the vet, the farrier or simple good luck.
Racehorse owners are also expected to be modest. If your horse is unsuccessful, this is relatively easy, but you must have a good repe
rtoire of self-deprecating, affectionately humorous remarks about the beast’s dismal form, your own folly in continuing to waste money on the poor creature, and your continued blind faith in its undiscovered talents. These comments must be accompanied by an apologetic shrug, a rueful, lopsided smile and a slightly bewildered frown. If your horse is successful (statistically the less likely scenario), you must avoid any hint of boastfulness about this. Even if you bred and raised the animal yourself, all credit for its wins must go to the horse, the trainer, the jockey, the stable staff, the horse’s ancestors, the vet, the weather, etc. You must never appear complacent, but always somewhat puzzled and bemused by your good fortune.
The Courtesy Rules
While some of the conversation codes in this liminal microclimate represent a deviation from the ‘mainstream’ rules of English culture – a relaxation of normal constraints – others clearly involve an exaggeration of ‘mainstream’ restrictions and regulations. At the races, behaviours that are normally frowned upon (such as excessive drinking, exhibitionist dress, gambling and even talking to strangers) are not only permitted but actively encouraged. But at the same time racegoers are subject to codes and rules that impose greater controls and restraints – and, specifically, higher standards of courtesy – than those of everyday English culture. In the racing microclimate, we find a strange mixture of cultural remission and its exact opposite: cultural amplification, I suppose you could call it, or magnification.
The English have always been noted for their politeness, and despite our many lapses and deviations, this courtesy is still a ‘rule’ by any of the definitions outlined in my Introduction. It is still a guiding principle, a standard, and regarded as the normal or proper state of things. Like all rules, it often gets broken, but breaches are noticed and deplored, indicating that the principle still applies. At the races, however, we find an amplified, exaggerated version of the ‘normal’ politeness code – and breaches are rare.