The Monday-morning Moan 3 страница

Tabloids, otherwise known as the �popular’ press, are smaller (although still large enough to conceal one’s head and shoulders) and somewhat less challenging, both intellectually and physically. The people who read the broadsheets occasionally lower their printed barrier-signals to look down their noses at those who read the tabloids. When broadsheet readers complain about the awfulness of �the press’, which they do constantly, they usually mean the tabloids.

A MORI survey found that more people are �dissatisfied’ than �satisfied’ with our national press, but the margin was quite small, and, as the researchers pointed out, �filled with an irony’. The balance against the press was tipped by broadsheet readers (the minority), who are much more likely to say they are �dissatisfied’ with our national press than tabloid readers (the majority). Broadsheet readers are unlikely to be dissatisfied with the papers they actually buy themselves, say the MORI researchers, so they are presumably expressing dissatisfaction with newspapers they do not read. The press as a whole is condemned by �people who don’t actually read what they take exception to!’ Fair point. The English love to complain, and the English educated classes do have a tendency to complain noisily about matters of which they have little or no knowledge. But I would hazard a guess that the broadsheet readers are in fact quite likely to be expressing dissatisfaction with the papers they do read, as well as the ones they don’t. Just because the English buy something, it doesn’t follow that we actually like it, or are even �satisfied’ with it, and it certainly doesn’t mean we won’t moan and complain about it. Given an opportunity for a pointless whinge – such as a clipboard-toting MORI researcher showing interest in our opinions – we will complain about pretty much anything.

As a paid-up member of the broadsheet-reading classes, I will probably be regarded as a traitor for saying anything nice about the tabloids, but I think that in some respects they are unfairly maligned. Yes, I get fed up with their sensationalism and scare-mongering, but the so-called �quality’ Press is often just as guilty of these sins. We have no less than eight main national daily papers – four tabloids, four broadsheets – in cut-throat competition for a relatively small market, and all of them sometimes feel obliged to mislead or exaggerate in their efforts to attract our attention. But leaving the moral issues to one side, the quality of the writing on both broadsheets and tabloids is generally excellent. There is a difference in style between the �popular’ and the �quality’ press, but the skill of the writers is equally outstanding. This is not surprising, as they are often the same writers: journalists move back and forth between tabloids and broadsheets, or even write regularly for both.

It seems to me that the English love of words – and particularly the universal nature of this passion, which transcends all class barriers – is most perfectly demonstrated not by the erudite wit of the broadsheet columnists, brilliant though they are, but by the journalists and subeditors who write the headlines in the tabloids. Take a random selection of English tabloids and flip through them: you will soon notice that almost every other headline involves some kind of play on words – a pun, a double meaning, a deliberate jokey misspelling, a literary or historical reference, a clever neologism, an ironic put-down, a cunning rhyme or amusing alliteration, and so on.

Yes, many of the puns are dreadful; much of the humour is laboured, vulgar or childish; the sexual innuendo is overdone; and the relentlessness of the wordplay can become wearing after a while. You may find yourself longing for a headline that simply gives you the gist of the story, without trying to be funny or clever. But the sheer ingenuity and linguistic playfulness must be admired, and all this compulsive punning, rhyming and joking is uniquely and gloriously English. Other countries may have �quality’ newspapers at least as learned and well written as ours, but no other national press can rival the manic wordplay of English tabloid headlines. So there we are: something to be proud of.

Cyberspace Rules

In recent times, the English have found a new and perfect excuse to stay at home, pull up the imaginary drawbridge and avoid the traumas of face-to-face social interaction: the Internet. Email, chatrooms, surfing, messaging – the whole thing could have been invented for the insular, socially handicapped, word-loving English.

In cyberspace, we are in our element: a world of disembodied words. No need to worry about what to wear, whether to make eye contact, whether to shake hands or kiss cheeks or just smile. No awkward pauses or embarrassing false starts; no need to fill uncomfortable silences with weather-speak; no polite procrastinating or tea-making or other displacement activity; no need for the usual prolonged goodbyes. Nothing physical, no actual corporeal human beings to deal with at all. Just written words. Our favourite thing.

And, best of all, cyberspace is a disinhibitor. The disinhibiting effect of cyberspace is a universal phenomenon, not peculiar to the English. People from many cultures find that online they are more open, more chatty, less reticent than they are face-to-face or even on the telephone. But this disinhibiting effect is particularly important to the English, who have a greater need for such social facilitators than other cultures.

In my focus groups and interviews with English Internet users, the disinhibiting effect of online communication is a constantly recurring theme. Without exception, participants say that they express themselves more freely, with less reserve, in cyberspace than in what they invariably call �real life’ encounters: �I say things in emails that I would never dare to say in real life.’ �That’s right, you lose your inhibitions when you’re online – it’s almost like being a bit drunk.’

It seems particularly significant to me that so many of my interviewees and focus group participants contrast their online communication style with what they would (or would not) say in �real life’. This curious slip provides a clue to the nature of the disinhibiting effects of online communication. It seems that William Gibson, who coined the term �cyberspace’, was right when he said that �It’s not really a place, it’s not really space’. We regard cyberspace as somehow separate from the real world: our behaviour there is different from our conduct in �real life’.

In this sense, cyberspace can be seen as what anthropologists would call a �liminal zone’ – a marginal, borderline state, segregated from everyday existence, in which normal rules and social constructions are suspended, allowing brief exploration of alternative ways of being. Just as we abandon the conventional rules of spelling and grammar in our emails and other cyber-talk, so we ignore the social inhibitions and restrictions that normally govern our behaviour. The English behave in remarkably un-English ways. In cyberspace chatrooms, for example, unlike most �realspace’ public environments in England, striking up conversations with complete strangers is normal behaviour, indeed actively encouraged. We then go on, in instant messages and emails, to reveal personal details that we would never disclose in �real life’. This may explain why a recent study found that cyberspace friendships form more easily and develop more rapidly than traditional �realspace’ relationships.

Much of this sociable disinhibition is based on an illusion. Because of the �liminality effect’, email feels more ephemeral and less binding than �putting something in writing’ on paper, but it is in fact if anything more permanent and considerably less discreet. So although many English people find the alternative reality of online communication a liberating experience, it can have adverse consequences. Just as we may sometimes regret things we have said or done while under the influence of alcohol, we may also sometimes regret our unrestrained behaviour in cyberspace. The problem is that cyberspace is not separate from the �real’ world, any more than the office Christmas party takes place in a parallel universe. Excessively uninhibited emails, like office-party misdemeanours, may come back to haunt us. But I would still argue that the benefits of the cyberspace �liminality effect’ in overcoming English social dis-ease far outweigh these disadvantages.

The Rules of Shopping

It may seem strange to include shopping in this section on �private and domestic’ pursuits, as shopping clearly does not take place in the home, but in shops, which are public places. We are talking about the English, however, which means that �public’ activities can be just as �private’ as domestic ones. Shopping is not, for most people, a social pastime. Indeed, for most people, most of the time, it is not a �pastime’ at all, but a domestic chore – and should really have been covered in the chapter on work, not here.

But you would probably have found it odd to see a section on shopping under the heading of вЂ?work’. Shopping is not generally regarded as вЂ?work’. There is a curious mismatch between shopping as a concept, and shopping as a real-life activity – between the way we talk in the abstract about shopping, and the realities of our actual experience of it.⁵³ Discussions about вЂ?shopping’ – in the media, among researchers and social commentators, and often in ordinary conversation – tend to focus on the hedonistic, materialistic, individualistic view of shopping: we talk about shopaholics, about вЂ?retail therapy’, about the power of advertising, about people spending lots of money they don’t have on lots of things they don’t need, about the вЂ?sex and shopping’ novel, about shopping as self-indulgence, shopping as pleasure, shopping as leisure.

Shopping may indeed sometimes be all of these things. But apart from the very rich and the very young, most people’s day-to-day experience of shopping bears little resemblance to this image of mindless hedonism. Most of the shopping we do is �provisioning’ – buying the mundane necessities of life such as food, drink, washing powder, loo paper, light bulbs, toothpaste and so on. This is no more an act of materialistic self-indulgence than the gathering and foraging of our hunter-gatherer ancestors. Shopping is not work in the sense of �production’ – it is a form of �consumption’, and the people who do it are �consumers’ – but for many shoppers it is work in the sense of �providing a service’, albeit an unpaid service.

On the other hand, shopping can be a pleasurable leisure activity, even for those who mainly experience it as a tedious chore. (In one recent survey, 72 percent of us said we had �been shopping for pleasure’ in the past month.) In my informal fieldwork interviews with shoppers, most of the people I spoke to made a distinction between �routine’ shopping and �fun’ shopping, provisioning and pleasure, work and play. In fact, if I introduced the topic without qualification, I would often be asked to specify which type of shopping I meant (one woman asked �Do you mean the baked-beans-and-nappies sort of shopping or the girly-day-out sort?’). On other occasions, it would be clear from people’s answers that they assumed I was talking specifically about either one type or the other. This often depended on the location in which the interview took place: people in supermarkets were more likely to assume that I was talking about �routine’ shopping, while the same sort of people interviewed in clothes shops, antiques shops and garden centres tended to think I meant �fun’ shopping. Age was also a factor: teenagers, students and some twenty-somethings mainly tended to assume that �shopping’ referred to the play/leisure/fun variety, while older people were much more likely to focus on the chore/provisioning/routine aspects.

Sex and Shopping Rules

There were also significant sex differences: men were less likely than women to distinguish between different types of shopping, and much less inclined to admit to enjoying any sort of shopping, even the �fun’ type. Among older English males, in particular, there seems to be an unwritten rule prohibiting any enjoyment of shopping, or at least prohibiting the disclosure or acknowledgement of such enjoyment. Taking pleasure in shopping is regarded as effeminate. The correct masculine line is to define any shopping one does, including the purchase of luxuries and inessentials, as something that has to be done, a means to an end, never a pleasure in itself. The majority of women, by contrast, will readily admit to enjoying �fun’ shopping, and some even say that they quite like the �provisioning’ sort of shopping, or at least take some pride and pleasure in doing it well. There are males and females who do not conform to these rules, but they are seen as deviating from the norm, and they recognize that they are unusual.

The rules regarding attitudes towards shopping are also reflected in the manner in which males and females are expected to shop. I call them the �hunter/gatherer rules’: men, if they can be persuaded to shop at all, are supposed to shop like hunters; women are supposed to shop like gatherers. Male shopping (or more accurately, masculine shopping) is teleological: you select your prey, and then single-mindedly and purposefully hunt it down. Female (feminine) shopping is more flexible, more opportunistic: you browse, you see what’s available; you know roughly what you’re looking for, but you might spot something better, or a bargain, and change your mind.

A significant number of English males, however, choose to prove their masculinity by emphasizing how hopelessly bad they are at shopping. Shopping is seen as a female skill; being too good at it, even in the approved hunter-like manner, might cast doubt upon your macho credentials, or even raise questions about your sexual orientation. Among anxious heterosexuals, it is tacitly understood that only gay men – and a few ultra-politically-correct, New Man, feminist types – take pride in their shopping skills. The done thing for �real men’ is to avoid shopping, to profess to hate shopping, and to be completely useless at it.

This can be partly just a matter of laziness, the employment of a practice the Americans call �klutzing out’ – deliberately making such a poor job of a domestic chore that one is unlikely to be asked to do it again. But among English men, uselessness at shopping is also a significant source of pride. Their female partners often play along with this, helping them to display their manliness by performing elaborate pantomimes of mock-exasperation at their inability to find their way around the supermarket, teasing them constantly and telling stories about their latest doofus mistakes. �Oh he’s hopeless, hasn’t got a clue, have you, love?’ said a woman I interviewed in a supermarket coffee shop, smiling fondly at her husband, who pulled a mock-sheepish face. �I sent him out to get tomatoes and he comes back with a bottle of ketchup and he says “well it’s made of tomatoes isn’t it?” So I go “yes, but it’s not much bloody use in a salad!” Men! Typical!’ The man positively glowed with pride, laughing delightedly at this confirmation of his virility.

The �Shopping as Saving’ Rule

For many English females, who still do most of the вЂ?routine’, вЂ?provisioning’ type of shopping, shopping is a skill, and it is customary, even among the relatively well-off, to take some pride in doing it well, which is understood to mean with a concern for thrift. Not necessarily getting everything as cheaply as possible, but getting value for money, not being extravagant or wasteful. There is a tacit understanding among English shoppers to the effect that shopping is not an act of spending, but an act of saving⁵⁴. You do not speak of having вЂ?spent’ x amount on an item of food or clothing, but of having вЂ?saved’ x amount on the item. You would certainly never boast about having spent an excessive sum of money on something, but you are allowed to take pride in finding a bargain.

This rule applies across all social classes: the upper echelons would regard boasting about extravagant expenditure as vulgar, while the lower classes would regard it as �stuck up’. Only brash, crass Americans display their wealth by boasting about how much something cost them. Congratulating yourself on a bargain or saving, however – boasting about how little something cost you – is universally acceptable among English shoppers of all classes. It is one of the very few exceptions to the money-talk taboo. What constitutes a bargain, what counts as cheap or good value, may well differ according to class and income level, but the principle is the same: whatever price you paid, you should if possible claim that it somehow constituted a saving.

The Apology and Moan Options

When it is not possible to make saving claims – when you have indisputably paid full price for something undeniably expensive – you should ideally just keep quiet about it. Failing that, you have two options, both very English: either apologize or moan. You can apologize for your embarrassing extravagance (�Oh dear, I know I shouldn’t have, it was terribly expensive, just couldn’t resist it, very naughty of me...’) or you can moan and grumble about the extortionate cost of things (�Ridiculously expensive, don’t know how they get away with charging that much, stupid prices, rip-off...’)

Both of these options are sometimes used as indirect boasts, ways of subtly indicating one’s spending power without indulging in anything so vulgar as an overt display of wealth. And both can also be a form of �polite egalitarianism’: even very rich people will often pretend to be either apologetically embarrassed or grumpy and indignant about the cost of expensive things they have bought, when in fact they can easily afford them, in order to avoid drawing attention to any disparity in income. Shopping, like every other aspect of English life, is full of courteous little hypocrisies.

The �Bling-bling’ Exception

There is one significant exception to the �shopping as saving’ principle, and its associated apologizing and moaning. Young people influenced by the black American hip-hop/�gangsta’/rap culture – currently a significant youth sub-culture in this country – have adopted a style that requires deliberate ostentatious displays of wealth. This involves wearing expensive designer clothes and flashy gold jewellery (a look known as �bling-bling’), drinking expensive champagne (Cristal) and cognac, driving expensive cars – and certainly not being the slightest bit embarrassed about all this extravagance; in fact taking great pride in it.

Even those who cannot afford the champagne and cars (the majority: this style is particularly popular among low-income teenagers) will do their best to acquire at least a few items of the correct designer clothing, and will boast to anyone who will listen about how much they cost. The �bling-bling’ culture is not so much an exception as a deliberate challenge to mainstream rules of Englishness; it is sticking up two heavily be-ringed fingers at all our unwritten codes of modesty, restraint, diffidence, polite egalitarianism and general hypocrisy. In its own way, it provides confirmation of the enduring importance of these codes – assertion by negation, if you like.

Youth sub-cultures come and go, and this particular example may well already be passГ© by the time you read this. The next one may pick on some other aspect of mainstream Englishness to rebel against.

Class and Shopping Rules

The shopping-as-saving rule applies across class barriers, and even the bling-bling exception is not class-bound: this style appeals to young people from all social backgrounds, including some upper-class public schoolboys, who seem quite unaware of how silly they look, trying to dress like pimps and walk and talk like tough black �gangstas’ from American inner-city ghettos.

Most other aspects of shopping, however, are deeply entangled in the complexities of the English class system. As might be expected, where you shop is a key class indicator. But it is not a simple matter of the higher social ranks shopping in the more expensive shops, while the lower echelons use the cheaper ones. The upper-middle classes, for example, will hunt for bargains in second-hand and charity shops, which the lower-middle and working classes �would not be seen dead in’. Yet the upper-middles and middle-middles would be reluctant to buy their groceries in the cheap supermarkets, with names that emphasize their price-consciousness such as Kwiksave and Poundstretcher, favoured by the working classes. Instead, they shop in middle-class supermarkets such as Sainsbury’s and Tesco, or the slightly more upper-middle Waitrose.

Not that anyone will admit to choosing a supermarket for its class status, of course. No, we shop in middle-class supermarkets because of the superior quality of the food and the wider range of organic and exotic vegetables, even when we are just buying exactly the same ubiquitous brand-name basics as the working-class shoppers in Kwiksave. We may have no idea what to do with pak choi or how to eat organic celeriac, but we like to know they are there, as we walk past with our Kellogg’s corn flakes and Andrex loo paper.

The M&S Test

If you want to get an idea of the convoluted intricacy of shopping class-indicators, spend some time observing and interviewing the shoppers in Marks & Spencer. In this very English high-street chain, you trip over invisible class barriers in every aisle. M&S is a sort of department-store, selling clothes, shoes, furniture, linen, soap, make-up, etc. – as well as food and drink – all under its own brand name.

The upper-middle classes buy food in the very expensive but high-quality M&S food halls, and will also happily buy M&S underwear and perhaps the occasional plain, basic item such as a t-shirt, but will not often buy any other clothes there, except perhaps for children – and certainly not anything with a pattern, as this would identify it as being from M&S. They would never buy a party dress from M&S, and are squeamish about wearing M&S shoes, however comfortable or well made they may be. They will buy M&S towels and bed-linen, but not M&S sofas, curtains or cushions.

The middle-middles also buy M&S food, although those on a lower budget would not do their entire weekly shop here. They complain a bit (to each other, not to M&S) about the high prices of M&S food, but tell themselves it is worth it for the quality, and buy their cornflakes and loo paper at Sainsbury’s. They will buy a much wider range of clothes from M&S than the upper-middles, including things with prints and patterns, and they are happy to buy M&S sofas, cushions and curtains. Their teenage children, however, may turn up their noses at M&S clothes, not for class reasons but because they prefer the more youthful, fashionable high-street chains.

Lower-middles and some upwardly mobile upper-workings buy M&S food, but usually only as a special treat – for some, particularly those with young children, an M&S �ready-meal’ is an alternative to eating out at a restaurant, something they might have as an indulgence, maybe once a week. They cannot afford to food-shop here regularly, and regard anyone who does as extravagant and quite possibly �stuck-up’. �My sister-in-law buys all her veg and washing-up liquid and everything from Marks, stupid cow,’ a middle-aged woman told me, with a disdainful, disapproving sniff. �It’s just showing off – thinks she’s better than us.’ M&S clothes, on the other hand, are generally regarded as �good value’ by the thrifty, respectable, genteel sort of lower-middles: �Not cheap, mind you, but good quality’. Some lower-middles feel the same about the cushions and duvets and towels, while others regard them as �very nice, but a bit too pricey’.

If you need to make a quick assessment of an English shopper’s social class, don’t ask about her family background, income, occupation or the value of her house (all of which would in any case be rude): ask her what she does and does not buy at Marks & Spencer. I say �she’ because this test only works reliably on women: men are often blissfully unaware of the yawning social gulf between M&S knickers and an M&S patterned dress.

Pet Rules and �Petiquette’

Keeping pets, for the English, is not so much a leisure activity as an entire way of life. In fact, �keeping pets’ is an inaccurate and inadequate expression – it does not begin to convey the exalted status of our animals. An Englishman’s home may be his castle, but his dog is the real king. People in other countries may buy luxurious five-star kennels and silk-lined baskets for their pets, but the English let them take over the whole house. The unwritten rules allow our dogs and cats to sprawl all over our sofas and chairs, always hogging the best places in front of the fire or television. They get far more attention, affection, appreciation, encouragement and �quality time’ than our children, and often better food. Imagine the most over-indulged, fêted, adored bambino in Italy, and you will get a rough idea of the status of the average English pet. We had the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals long before the establishment of the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, which appears to have been founded as a somewhat derivative afterthought.

Why is this? What is it about the English and animals? Yes, many other cultures have pets, and some, particularly our colonial descendants, are in their own ways as soppy about them as we are, but the English inordinate love of animals is still one of the characteristics for which we are renowned, and which many foreigners find baffling. The Americans may outdo us in gushy sentimentality and extravagant expenditure on pets – all those cheesy, tear-jerker films, elaborate pet cemeteries, luxury toys and dogs got up in ludicrous designer costumes. But then they always outdo us in gushiness and conspicuous consumption.

The English relationship with animals is different: our pets are more than status indicators (although they do serve this purpose) and our affinity with them goes well beyond sentimentality. It is often said that we treat them like people, but this is not true. Have you seen how we treat people? It would be unthinkable to be so cold and unfriendly to an animal. OK, I’m exaggerating – a bit. But the fact is that we tend to be far more open, easy, communicative and demonstrative in our relationships with our animals than with each other.

The average Englishman will assiduously avoid social interaction with his fellow humans, and will generally become either awkward or aggressive when obliged to communicate with them, unless certain props and facilitators are available to help the process along. He will have no difficulty at all, however, in engaging in lively, amicable conversation with a dog. Even a strange dog, to whom he has not been introduced. Bypassing all the usual stilted embarrassments, his greeting will be effusive: �Hello there!’ he will exclaim, �What’s your name? And where have you come from, then? D’you want some of my sandwich, mate? Mmm, yes, it’s not bad, is it? Here, come up and share my seat! Plenty of room!’

You see, the English really are quite capable of Latin-Mediterranean warmth, enthusiasm and hospitality; we can be just as direct and approachable and emotive and tactile as any of the so-called �contact cultures’. It is just that these qualities are only consistently expressed in our interactions with animals. And unlike our fellow Englishmen, animals are not embarrassed or put off by our un-English displays of emotion. No wonder animals are so important to the English: for many of us, they represent our only significant experience of open, unguarded, emotional involvement with another sentient being.

An American visitor I met had suffered for a week as a guest in a fairly typical English household ruled by two large, boisterous and chronically disobedient dogs, whose ineffectual owners engaged them in non-stop, stream-of-consciousness chatter, indulged their every whim and laughed affectionately at their misdemeanours. She complained to me that the owners’ relationship with these pets was �abnormal’ and �unhealthy’ and �dysfunctional’. �No, you don’t understand,’ I explained. �This is probably the only normal, healthy, functional relationship these people have.’ She was, however, sensitive enough to have picked up on an important rule of English �petiquette’ – the one that absolutely forbids criticism of a person’s pets. However badly your hosts’ ghastly, leg-humping, shoe-eating dog behaves, you must not speak ill of the beast. This would be a worse social solecism than criticizing their children.

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