The Monday-morning Moan 5 страница

For a while, that is. I was now alert, shaken out of my complacency, and paying close attention to the behaviour of the spectators, so when the cheering for Hewitt dwindled, and the spectators began giving all their support to Nalbandian again, I was ready with my questions: � Now what? Why aren’t you cheering for Hewitt any more? Is he not playing so well?’ No, apparently he was playing even better. And that was the point. Hewitt was now clearly heading for an easy win. Nalbandian was struggling, was going to be �slaughtered’, had absolutely no chance – so obviously it was only fair to give him all the noisy vocal encouragement and praise, and only clap politely for the all-conquering overdog Hewitt.

So, in the logic of English fair play, you must always support the underdog, but too much support for the underdog can be unfair on the overdog, who then becomes a sort of honorary underdog, whom you must support until balance is restored, or until the real underdog is clearly going to lose, at which point you must support the real underdog again. Simple, really. Once you know the rules. Or at least at Wimbledon it was relatively simple, as there could be no doubt as to who was the real underdog. When this is not immediately obvious, there can be difficulties, as the English dither over who is most deserving of their cheers; and further problems can arise when an English player (or team) happens to be the overdog, as fairness demands that we give at least some support to the underdog opposition.

Football fans, the most patriotic of sports spectators, do not suffer from these fair-play anxieties at the international level, or when the local team they support is playing, but even they may be inclined to cheer for the underdog when they have no prior loyalties to either team involved in a match, particularly if the overdog-team has been too boastful about its successes, or too insultingly confident about the result of the match. Many English football fans will also doggedly support a hopeless, talent-less, third-division team throughout their entire lives, never wavering in their loyalty, however badly their team performs. There is an unwritten rule that says you choose which football team to support at a very young age, and that’s it, forever: you never switch your allegiance to another team. You can appreciate or even admire the skills and talent of, say, a top team such as Manchester United, but the team you support is still Swindon, or Stockport, or whoever – the team you have supported since you were a child. You are not obliged to support your local team: many young people from all parts of the country support Manchester United, or Chelsea, or Arsenal. The point is that once you have chosen, you stay loyal; you don’t switch from Manchester United to Arsenal just because the latter happen to be playing better, or indeed for any other reason.

Horseracing – another fascinating English sub-culture, which I studied for three years and wrote a book about – actually has more right than football to be called our �national sport’, not in terms of numbers of spectators, but because it attracts a much more representative sample of the population. At the races, you will see even more extreme examples of English observance of the fair-play and underdog rules – and indeed of Englishness in general. At race-meetings, you see the English in the behavioural equivalent of full national costume. The unique �social micro-climate’ of the racecourse, characterized by a combination of (relatively) relaxed inhibitions and exceptionally good manners, also seems to bring out the best in us.

Race-meetings, I found, also provide proof that, contrary to popular belief, it is entirely possible for hordes of young males to congregate, drink large quantities of alcohol, and gamble, in an exciting sporting context, without getting into fights or indeed causing any trouble at all. At the races, the same young males whose violence, vandalism and general bad behaviour at football matches and in town centres on Saturday nights has become legendary, not only exhibit none of these obnoxious qualities, but actually apologise when they bump into people (and even, in true English fashion, when people bump into them), and politely open doors for women.

Club Rules

There is an apparent contradiction, which has puzzled a number of commentators, between the strong individualism of the English and our penchant for forming and joining clubs, between our obsession with privacy and our �clubbability’. Jeremy Paxman notes that the supposedly insular, individualistic, privacy-fixated English have clubs for almost everything: �There are clubs to go fishing, support football teams, play cards, arrange flowers, race pigeons, make jam, ride bicycles, watch birds, even for going on holiday’. I won’t attempt a more comprehensive list – it would take up half the book: just as every conceivable English leisure pursuit has a magazine or six, each one also has clubs, if not a National Society, with a whole network of Regional Groups and subdivisions. Usually there are two rival National Societies, with marginally different views on the activity in question, who spend most of their time happily bickering and squabbling with each other.

Citing de Tocqueville, Paxman wonders how �the English manage to be simultaneously so highly singular, yet to be forever forming clubs and societies: how could the spirit of association and the spirit of exclusion be so highly developed in the same people?’ He seems to accept de Tocqueville’s pragmatic, economic explanation, that the English historically have always formed associations in order to pool resources, when they could not get what they wanted by individual effort – and he also emphasizes the fact that joining clubs is very much a matter of individual choice.

I would argue that clubs are more about social needs than practical or economic ones, but I agree that the issue of choice is important. The English are not keen on random, unstructured, spontaneous, street-corner sociability; we are no good at this, and it makes us uneasy. We prefer to socialize in an organised, ordered manner, at specific times and places of our choosing, with rules that we can argue about, an agenda, minutes and a monthly newsletter. Above all, as with sports and games, we need to pretend that the activity of the club or society (flower-arranging, amateur dramatics, charity, breeding rabbits, whatever) is the real point of the gathering, and that social bonding is just a secondary side-effect.

It’s that self-delusion thing again. The English constantly form clubs and societies for exactly the same reason that we have so many sports and games: we need props and facilitators to help us engage socially with our fellow humans, to overcome our social dis-ease, and we also need the illusion that we are doing something else, that we have come together for some practical purpose, to pursue a specific shared interest, to pool resources in order to achieve something we could not manage alone. The pragmatic de Tocqueville/Paxman explanation of English clubbiness is a very English one: it perfectly describes this illusion, but fails to recognize that it is an illusion – that the real purpose of all these clubs is the social contact and social bonding that we desperately need, but cannot admit to needing, not even to ourselves.

If you are very English, you may well choose to reject my explanation. I don’t like it much myself. I would much rather believe that I joined, say, the Arab Horse Society, and attended meetings of its Chiltern Regional Group, because I had an Arab stallion and was interested in breeding and riding Arab horses and participating in shows, events and discussions with other aficionados. I would like to think that at university I joined umpteen left-wing political groups, and went on countless demonstrations and marches and CND rallies, because of my firmly held convictions and principles⁵⁵. And indeed, these were the conscious reasons. I am not saying that the English deliberately set out to trick themselves into sociability. But if I’m ruthlessly honest with myself, I have to admit that I also liked the sense of belonging, the ease of socializing with people with whom I shared an interest or a cause – compared to the awkwardness of trying to make conversation with strangers in public places or at gatherings where the sole purpose is to gather, to be sociable, without any shared hobbies or horses or political hobby-horses to help things along.

If you are a member of an English club or society, you may also resent my lumping them all together like this, as though there were no significant difference between the Arab Horse Society and the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, or between, say, a Women’s Institute meeting and a meeting of a bikers’ club. Well, sorry, but I have to report that there is indeed very little difference. I’ve been a member of many English clubs and societies, and gate-crashed a few others in the course of my research, and they are all much of a muchness. Meetings of regional or local branches of the AHS, CND, WI and MAG (Motorcycle Action Group) all follow more or less the same pattern. They start with the usual English awkward greetings and jokes and some preliminary weather-speak. There is tea, and sandwiches or biscuits (both if you’re lucky), a lot of gossip, a lot of ritual moaning and a lot of in-jokes. These are followed by a bit of throat-clearing and attempts to get the meeting started without seeming pompous or officious. The unwritten rules prescribe slightly self-mocking tones when using official meeting-speak terms such as �agenda’, �minutes’ and �chairman’, to show one is not taking the thing too seriously, and eye-rolling at the long-winded speeches of the inevitable club bore who does take it all too seriously.

There is some discussion of important matters, punctuated by jokes, bitching about enemies (or rival clubs with the same interests – MAG members bitch about the British Motorcycle Federation, for example), and polite territorial squabbling among members over largely irrelevant details. Occasionally, a decision or resolution is reached, or at least a consensus of opinion, with the actual decision deferred till the next meeting. Then more tea, with more joking, gossiping and moaning – especially moaning (I defy you to find an English club or society whose members do not feel misunderstood or put-upon in some way), finishing up with the usual prolonged English goodbyes. Sometimes there is a guest speaker, who must be fêted and fussed over and politely applauded, however dull and unenlightening their speech. But the basic pattern is always the same. If you’ve seen one meeting of an English club or society, you’ve seen them all. Even an Anarchist meeting I attended followed the same sequence, although it was much better organized than most, and at the demonstration the next day the members were all dressed in uniform black, carrying professional-looking banners, chanting in unison and marching in step.

Pub Rules

You’ve probably got the message by now that I think pubs are quite an important part of English culture. Of all the �social facilitators’ that help the inhibited English to engage and bond with each other, the pub is the most popular. There are around fifty-thousand or so pubs in England, frequented by three-quarters of the adult population, many of whom are �regulars’, treating their local pub almost as a second home. This national love-affair with the pub shows no sign of waning: overall, about a third of the adult population are �regulars’, visiting the pub at least once a week – but among the younger age-groups, this proportion rises to 64 per cent.

I talk about �the pub’ as though they were all the same, but nowadays there is a bewildering variety of different types: student pubs, youth pubs, theme pubs, family pubs, gastro-pubs, cyber-pubs, sports pubs – as well as a number of other kinds of drinking-places such as café-bars and wine bars. Much fuss has been made about these novelties, of course, much huffing and puffing, dire warnings and doom and gloom. Pubs aren’t what they used to be. It’s all trendy bars now, you can’t find a proper traditional pub. The country’s going to the dogs. The end of the world is nigh, or at least a lot nigher than it was.

The usual nostalgic moaning. The usual premature obituaries (I mean this quite literally: there was a book published about twenty years ago entitled The Death of the English Pub: I can’t help wondering how the author now feels every time he passes a Rose & Crown or a Red Lion and sees people still happily drinking and playing darts). But a lot of this precipitate mourning is just typical English Eeyorishness, and the rest is the result of a syndrome similar to �ethnographic dazzle’: the doom-mongers are so dazzled by superficial differences between the new types of pub and the traditional sort that they cannot see the underlying, enduring similarities – the customs and codes of behaviour that make a pub a pub. Even if the Eeyores were right, the new pubs they object to are still only a small minority, concentrated largely in city centres, and there are still tens of thousands of more traditional �local’ pubs.

It is true that a number of village pubs are struggling, and some in very small villages have had to close, which is sad, as a village is not really a proper village without a pub. Whenever this happens, there are howls of protest in the local papers, and a morose group of villagers is photographed with a handmade �Save Our Pub’ placard. What would save their pub, of course, would be lots of them spending lots of money drinking and eating in it, but they never seem to make this connection. We have the same problem with the Death of the Village Shop: everyone wants to save their village shop; they just don’t particularly want to shop there. The usual English hypocrisies.

But the English pub, as an institution, as a micro-society, is still alive and well. And still governed by a stable, enduring set of unspoken rules. I have already described most of these in the chapter on pub-talk – the pub is an institution devoted to sociability, which even among the English involves communication, so it is not surprising that most of its rules are concerned with language and body language. Some more pub rules were covered in the section on games, but that still leaves a few quite significant ones, such as the rules governing the consumption of alcohol. I don’t mean the official licensing laws, but the much more important unwritten codes of social drinking.

Drinking Rules

You can learn a lot about a culture by studying its drinking rules. And every culture has rules about alcohol: there is no such thing as random drinking. In every culture where alcohol is used, drinking is a rule-governed activity, hedged about with prescriptions and norms concerning who may drink how much of what, when, where, with whom, in what manner and with what effects. This is only to be expected. I have already pointed out that one of the distinguishing characteristics of Homo sapiens is our passion for regulation – our tendency to surround even the most basic, essential activities such as eating and mating with a lot of elaborate rules and rituals. But even more than with sex and food, the specific unwritten rules and norms governing the use of alcohol in different cultures invariably reflect the characteristic values, beliefs and attitudes of those cultures. The anthropologist Dwight Heath put it more eloquently when he wrote that: �just as drinking and its effects are imbedded in other aspects of culture, so are many other aspects of culture imbedded in the act of drinking’. So, if we want to understand Englishness, we need to look more closely at the Englishness of English drinking.

The Rules of Round-buying

Round-buying is the English form of a universal practice: the sharing or reciprocal exchange of drinks. The consumption of alcohol, in all cultures, is a quintessentially social activity, whose ritual practices and etiquettes are designed to promote friendly social interaction. There is certainly nothing uniquely English about reciprocal drink-giving. What is distinctively English, and often baffling or even frightening for foreigners, is the immense, almost religious significance attached to this practice among English pubgoers. Obeying the rules of round-buying is not just good manners, it is a sacred obligation. Failing to buy your round is not just a breach of drinking etiquette: it is heresy.

When I talked to foreign visitors about this, during the research for the pub etiquette book, they found it all a bit extreme. Why, they asked, is round-buying so desperately important to English pubgoers? In the book, I said that round-buying is important to us because it prevents bloodshed. Realizing that this might sound even more extreme, at least to non-anthropologists, I explained a bit further. Reciprocal gift-giving has always been the most effective means of preventing aggression between groups (families, clans, tribes, nations) and between individuals. Among English drinkers, more specifically English male drinkers, this peacekeeping system is essential. This is because the socially challenged English male has a tendency to become aggressive. Male pub-talk, as we have seen, is often highly argumentative, and there is a need for an antidote to these verbal fisticuffs, a means of ensuring that the argument is not taken seriously, and does not escalate into physical aggression. Buying your �opponent’ a drink is a kind of symbolic handshake: it proves that you are still mates. A particularly shrewd (female) publican told me �If the men didn’t buy each other drinks, they’d be at each other’s throats. They can be shouting and swearing, but as long as they are still buying each other drinks, I know I won’t have a fight on my hands’. I have personally witnessed many apparently heated slanging matches which were amicably concluded with the phrase �and anyway, it’s your round!’ or �and I suppose it’s my bloody round again and all, right?’ or �Oh, put a sock in it and get the beers in, will you?’

As well as preventing carnage and mayhem, round-buying is also vitally important because it is an Englishman’s substitute for the expression of emotion. The average English male is terrified of intimacy, but he is also human, and therefore has a need to bond with other humans, particularly with other males. This means finding some way of saying �I like you’ to other males, without, of course, actually having to utter anything quite so soppy. Fortunately, such positive feelings can be expressed, without any loss of masculine dignity, by the reciprocal buying of rounds of drinks.

The importance we attach to round-buying is also yet another indicator of our obsession with fair play – round-buying, like queuing, is all about taking turns. But, like every aspect of English etiquette, the unwritten rules of round-buying are complicated, with all the usual sub-clauses and exceptions, and �fairness’ is a somewhat slippery concept – it is not just a simple matter of ensuring roughly equal expenditure on drinks. The rules of round-buying are as follows:

In any group of two or more people, one person must buy a �round’ of drinks for the whole group. This is not an altruistic gesture: the expectation is that the other member or members of the group will each, in turn, buy a round of drinks. When each person has bought a round, the process begins again with the first person.

Unless the group is drinking at the bar counter, the person who buys the round must also act as waiter. �Buying your round’ means not only paying for the drinks, but going to the bar, ordering the drinks and carrying them all back to the table. If there are a lot of drinks, another member of the group will usually offer to help, but this is not compulsory, and the round-buyer may have to make two or three trips. The effort involved is as important as the expenditure: it is part of the �gift’.

�Fairness’ in round-buying is not a matter of strict justice. One person may well end up buying two rounds during a �session’, while the other members of the group have only bought one round each. Over several �sessions’, rough equality is usually achieved, but it is extremely bad manners to appear overly concerned about this.

In fact, any sign of miserliness, calculation or reluctance to participate wholeheartedly in the ritual is severely frowned upon. For an English male, saying that someone �doesn’t buy his round’ is a dire insult. It is thus important to try always to be among the earliest to say �It’s my round,’ rather than waiting until the other members of the group have bought �their’ rounds and it is quite obviously your turn.

Perhaps surprisingly, I found that on average �initiating’ round-buyers (those who regularly buy the first round) actually spend no more money in the long term than �waiting’ round-buyers (those who do not offer a round until later in the session). In fact, far from being out-of-pocket, �initiators’ often end up rather better off than those who wait, because their popularity and reputation for generosity means that others are inclined to be generous towards them.

One should never wait until all one’s companions’ glasses are empty before offering to buy the next round. The correct time to say �It’s my round’ is when the majority of the glasses are about three-quarters empty. This rule is not so much about proving one’s generosity, more a matter of ensuring that the flow of alcohol is continuous – that no-one is ever left without a drink for even a few minutes.

It is acceptable occasionally to refuse a drink during the round-buying process, as long as you do not attempt to make an issue or a moral virtue out of your moderate intake, but this does not exempt you from the round-buying obligation. Even if you are drinking less than the others, you should still �buy your round’. It would be very rude, however, to refuse a drink that is offered as a �peace-making’ gesture, or that is clearly a significant, personal friendship-signal.

There is usually no excuse for failing to perform the sacred round-buying ritual, but there are a few exceptions to the round-buying rules, relating to the size of the drinking group and the demographics of its members.

THE NUMBERS EXCEPTION In a very large group, traditional round-buying can sometimes be prohibitively expensive. This is not, however, usually seen as a valid reason to abandon the ritual altogether. Instead, the large group divides into smaller sub-groups (nobody suggests or organizes this, it just happens), each of which follows the normal round-buying procedure. Alternatively, the principle of gift-giving is maintained by having a �whip round’ – collecting a relatively small sum of money from each person to put into a �kitty’, which is then used to buy rounds of drinks for the whole group. Only as a last resort, perhaps among students or others on very low incomes, will members of a large group agree to purchase drinks individually.

THE COUPLE EXCEPTION In some social groups, couples are treated as one person for the purposes of round-buying, in that only the male half of the couple is expected to �buy his round’. This variation is rarely seen among younger people, unless they are deliberately adopting old-fashioned courtly manners for some special occasion. In normal circumstances, you will only see this practice when the males in the group are over forty. Some older English males cannot cope with the idea of women buying them drinks at all, and extend the couple exception to cover all females in a group, whether or not they are accompanied by an attached male. When out alone with a female, these older, old-fashioned males will also insist on buying all the drinks, whereas younger males will usually expect a female companion to take turns buying rounds in the usual manner.

THE FEMALE EXCEPTION Women generally have considerably less reverence for the round-buying rules than men. In mixed-sex groups, they play along, humouring their male companions by following the prescribed etiquette, but in all-female gatherings you see all sorts of odd variations and even outright flouting of the rules. They do buy each other drinks, but round-buying is just not such a big issue for them – they don’t keep track of whose round it is, or have endless friendly disputes about who has or hasn’t bought their round, and they tend to find the male obsession with round-buying somewhat tedious and irritating.

This is mainly because English females have much less need for the �liquid handshake’ of reciprocal drink-buying than English males: the argument is not their primary form of communication, so there is no need for peacekeeping gestures, and they are quite capable of conveying that they like each other and achieving intimacy by other means, such as compliments, gossip and reciprocal disclosure. English women may not be as free-and-easy with their disclosures as women from other, less inhibited cultures: they do not tend to tell you all about their divorce and their hysterectomy and what their therapist said within five minutes of meeting you. But once English females become friends, such discussions are commonplace, whereas most English males never get to this stage, even with their best and closest friends.

Even the word �friend’ is a bit difficult, a bit too touchy-feely, for some English males: they prefer to use the term �mate’. You can be �mates’ with someone without necessarily knowing anything at all about his personal life, let alone his feelings, hopes or fears – except where these concern the performance of his football team or his car. The terms �mate’, �good mate’ and �best mate’ are ostensibly used to convey varying degrees of intimacy, but even your �best mate’ may know little or nothing about your marital problems – or only as much as can be conveyed in a jokey-blokey, mock-moaning manner, to which he can respond, �Women! Huh! Typical!’ You would, of course, risk your life for him, and he for you. Your �best mate’ may have a better idea of your golf handicap than the names of your children, but you actually care deeply about each other. Still, that goes without saying, right, so there’s no need to cause unnecessary embarrassment by saying it. And anyway, it’s your round, mate.

You Are What You Drink

Another �human universal’ is important here: in all cultures where more than one type of alcoholic drink is available, drinks are classified in terms of their social meaning, and these classifications help to define the social world. No alcoholic drink is ever �socially neutral’. In England, as elsewhere, �What’s yours?’ is a socially loaded question, and we judge and classify people on their answer. Choice of beverage is rarely just a matter of personal taste.

Among other symbolic functions, drinks can be used as indicators of social status, and as gender differentiators. These are the two most important symbolic functions of alcoholic beverages among the English: your choice of drink (in public at least) is determined mainly by your sex and social class, with some age-related variations. The rules are as follows:

Working-class and lower-middle-class females have the widest choice of drinks. Almost anything is socially acceptable – cocktails, sweet or creamy liqueurs, all soft-drinks, beers and so-called �designer’ drinks (pre-mixed drinks in bottles). There is really only one restriction: the size of glass from which lower-class women may drink beer. Drinking �pints’, in many working-class and lower-middle circles, is regarded as unfeminine and unladylike, so most women in this social group drink �halves’ (half-pints) of beer. Drinking pint glasses of beer would classify you as a �ladette’ – a female �lad’, a woman who imitates the loutish, raucous behaviour of hard-drinking males. Some women are happy with this image, but they are still a minority.

Next on the freedom-of-choice scale are middle-middle to upper-class females. Their choice is more restricted: the more sickly-sweet drinks, and cream-based liqueurs and cocktails, are regarded as a bit vulgar – ordering a Bailey’s or a Babycham would certainly cause a few raised eyebrows and sideways looks – but they can drink more or less any wines, spirits, sherries, soft-drinks, ciders or beers. Female pint-drinking is also more acceptable in this social category, at least among the younger women, particularly students. Among upper-middle-class female students, I found that many felt that they had to give an explanation if they ordered a �girly’ half rather than a pint.

The choices of middle- and upper-class males are far more restricted than those of their female counterparts. They may drink only beer, spirits (mixers are acceptable), wine (must be dry, not sweet) and soft-drinks. Anything sweet or creamy is regarded as suspiciously �feminine’, and cocktails are only acceptable at cocktail parties or in a cocktail bar – you would never order them in a pub or ordinary bar.

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