MALE BONDING: the Mine’s Better Than Yours Rules

The counter-compliment ritual is distinctively English, but it is also distinctively female. One cannot even imagine

men engaging in such an exchange. Think about it. ‘I wish I could play pool as well as you do, I’m so hopeless at

it.’ ‘Oh no, I’m useless, really, that was just a lucky shot – and you’re brilliant at darts!’ If you find that remotely

plausible, try: ‘You’re such a good driver – I’m always stalling and mixing up the gears!’ ‘Me? No, I’m a terrible

driver, honestly – and anyway your car is so much better than mine, more fast and powerful.’ Not very likely, is

it?

English men have different means of achieving social bonding, which at first glance would appear to involve

principles diametrically opposed to those of the counter-compliment ritual. While English women are busy paying

each other compliments, English men are usually putting each other down, in a competitive ritual that I call the

Mine’s Better Than Yours game.

‘Mine’, in this context, can be anything: a make of car, a football team, a political party, a holiday destination,

a type of beer, a philosophical theory – the subject is of little importance. English men can turn almost any

conversation, on any topic, into a Mine’s Better Than Yours game. I once listened to a forty-eight-minute Mine’s

Better Than Yours conversation (yes, I timed it) on the merits of wet-shaving versus electric razors. And

discussions of more ‘highbrow’ issues are no different: a recent lengthy debate on Foucault, conducted in the

letters pages of the Times Literary Supplement, followed exactly the same pattern, and employed much the

same kind of ad hominem arguments, as the shaving debate.

The rules of the game are as follows. You start either by making a statement in praise of your chosen ‘Mine’

(electric razors, Manchester United, Foucault, German cars, whatever) or by challenging someone else’s

assertion, or implication, or hint, that his ‘Mine’ is the best. Your statement will always be countered or

challenged, even if the other male (or males) secretly agrees with you, or could not rationally disagree. One

could hardly even imagine a male-bonding conversation in which a statement such as ‘Don’t know why anyone

would buy that Japanese crap, when you could have a BMW,’ elicited the response ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’ It

would be unthinkable, an unprecedented violation of macho etiquette.

Although these exchanges may become quite noisy, and much swearing and name-calling may be involved, the

Mine’s Better Than Yours game will none the less seem fairly good-natured and amicable, always with an

undercurrent of humour – a mutual understanding that the differences of opinion are not to be taken too

seriously. Swearing, sneering and insults are allowed, even expected, but storming off in a huff, or any other

exhibition of real emotion, is not permitted. The game is all about mock anger, pretend outrage, jokey oneupmanship.

However strongly you may feel about the product, team, theory or shaving method you are

defending, you must not allow these feelings to show. Earnestness is not allowed; zeal is unmanly; both are un-

English and will invite ridicule. And although the name I have given the game might suggest boastfulness,

boasting is not allowed either. The merits of your car, razor, politics or school of literary theory can be glowingly

extolled and explained in minute detail, but your own good taste or judgement or intelligence in preferring these

must be subtly implied, rather than directly stated. Any hint of self-aggrandizement or ostentation is severely

frowned upon, unless it is done ‘ironically’, in such an exaggerated manner as to be clearly intended as a joke.

It is also universally understood that there is no way of actually winning the game. No-one ever capitulates,

or recognises the other’s point of view. The participants simply get bored, or tired, and change the subject,

perhaps shaking their heads in pity at their opponents’ stupidity.

The Mine’s Better Than Yours game is an exclusively male pastime. Accompanying females may occasionally

spoil the fun by misunderstanding the rules and trying to inject an element of reason. They also tend to become

bored with the predictability of the ritual, and may even do something unthinkable, such as asking the

participants if they could not simply agree to disagree. These interjections are usually ignored. What some

exasperated females fail to grasp is that there can be no rational resolution of such debates, nor is there even

any desire to resolve the issue. These are no more genuine debates than the chanting of rival football

supporters, and football fans do not expect their ritual chants to persuade their opponents to agree with them.

(This is not to say that English female-bonding is all ‘sweetness and light’. It may be generally less competitive

than the male variety, but I have recorded female-bonding sessions – mainly among younger women, but of all

social classes – which consisted almost entirely of exchanges of heavily ironic mock-insults, and in which the

participants all referred to each other, with great and obvious affection, as ‘bitch’ or ‘slut’.)

The two examples of bonding-talk – counter-compliment and Mine’s Better Than Yours – at first appear very

different, and may indeed reflect some deep-seated universal differences between males and females. Recent

research in sociolinguistics has focused on this competitive/cooperative divide, and without subscribing to the

more extreme of the ‘genderlect’ theories, it is clear that male bonding-talk often tends to be competitive, while

female bonding typically involves more ‘matching’ and co-operation.

But these bonding-talk rituals also have certain important features in common, in their underlying rules and

values, which may tell us a bit more about Englishness. Both, for example, involve proscription of boasting and

prescription of humour. Both also require a degree of polite hypocrisy – or at least concealment of one’s real

opinions or feelings (feigned admiration in the counter-compliment ritual, and fake light-heartedness in Mine’s

Better Than Yours) – and in both cases, etiquette triumphs over truth and reason.

HUMOUR RULES

In other cultures, there is ‘a time and a place’ for humour; it is a special, separate kind of talk. In English

conversation, there is always an undercurrent of humour. We can barely manage to say ‘hello’ or comment on the

weather without somehow contriving to make a bit of a joke out of it, and most English conversations will involve

at least some degree of banter, teasing, irony, understatement, humorous self-deprecation, mockery or just

silliness. Humour is our ‘default mode’, if you like: we do not have to switch it on deliberately, and we cannot

switch it off. For the English, the rules of humour are the cultural equivalent of natural laws – we obey them

automatically, rather in the way that we obey the law of gravity.

THE IMPORTANCE OF NOT BEING EARNEST RULE

At the most basic level, an underlying rule in all English conversation is the proscription of ‘earnestness’. Although

we may not have a monopoly on humour, or even on irony, the English are probably more acutely sensitive than

any other nation to the distinction between ‘serious’ and ‘solemn’, between ‘sincerity’ and ‘earnestness’.

This distinction is crucial to any kind of understanding of Englishness. I cannot emphasize this strongly

enough: if you are not able to grasp these subtle but vital differences, you will never understand the English –

and even if you speak the language fluently, you will never feel or appear entirely at home in conversation with

the English. Your English may be impeccable, but your behavioural ‘grammar’ will be full of glaring errors.

Once you have become sufficiently sensitized to these distinctions, the Importance of Not Being Earnest rule

is really quite simple. Seriousness is acceptable, solemnity is prohibited. Sincerity is allowed, earnestness is

strictly forbidden. Pomposity and self-importance are outlawed. Serious matters can be spoken of seriously, but

one must never take oneself too seriously. The ability to laugh at ourselves, although it may be rooted in a form

of arrogance, is one of the more endearing characteristics of the English. (At least, I hope I am right about this:

if I have overestimated our ability to laugh at ourselves, this book will be rather unpopular.)

To take a deliberately extreme example, the kind of hand-on-heart, gushing earnestness and pompous, Biblethumping

solemnity favoured by almost all American politicians would never win a single vote in this country – we

watch these speeches on our news programmes with a kind of smugly detached amusement, wondering how the

cheering crowds can possibly be so credulous as to fall for this sort of nonsense. When we are not feeling smugly

amused, we are cringing with vicarious embarrassment: how can these politicians bring themselves to utter such

shamefully earnest platitudes, in such ludicrously solemn tones? We expect politicians to speak largely in

platitudes, of course – ours are no different in this respect – it is the earnestness that makes us wince. The

same goes for the gushy, tearful acceptance speeches of American actors at the Oscars and other awards

ceremonies, to which English television viewers across the country all respond with the same finger-down-throat

‘I’m going to be sick’ gesture. You will rarely see English Oscar-winners indulging in these heart-on-sleeve

displays – their speeches tend to be either short and dignified or self-deprecatingly humorous, and even so they

nearly always manage to look uncomfortable and embarrassed. Any English thespian who dares to break these

unwritten rules is ridiculed and dismissed as a ‘luvvie’.

And Americans, although among the easiest to scoff at, are by no means the only targets of our cynical

censure. The sentimental patriotism of leaders and the portentous earnestness of writers, artists, actors,

musicians, pundits and other public figures of all nations are treated with equal derision and disdain by the

English, who can spot the slightest hint of self-importance at twenty paces, even on a grainy television picture

and in a language we don’t understand.

The ‘Oh, Come Off It!’ Rule

The English ban on earnestness, and specifically on taking oneself too seriously, means that our own politicians

and other public figures have a particularly tough time. The sharp-eyed English public is even less tolerant of any

breaches of these rules on home ground, and even the smallest lapse – the tiniest sign that a speaker may be

overdoing the intensity and crossing the fine line from sincerity to earnestness – will be spotted and picked up on

immediately, with scornful cries of ‘Oh, come off it!’

And we are just as hard on each other, in ordinary everyday conversation, as we are on those in the public

eye. In fact, if a country or culture could be said to have a catchphrase, I would propose ‘Oh, come off it!’ as a

strong candidate for England’s national catchphrase. Jeremy Paxman’s candidate is ‘I know my rights’ – well, he

doesn’t actually use the term catchphrase, but he refers to this one frequently, and it is the only such phrase

that he includes in his personal list of defining characteristics of Englishness. I take his point, and ‘I know my

rights’ does beautifully encapsulate a peculiarly English brand of stubborn individualism and a strong sense of

justice. But I would maintain that the armchair cynicism of ‘Oh, come off it!’ is more truly representative of the

English psyche than the belligerent activism suggested by ‘I know my rights’. This may be why, as someone once

said, the English have satire instead of revolutions.

There have certainly been brave individuals who have campaigned for the rights and freedoms we now enjoy,

but most ordinary English people now rather take these for granted, and prefer sniping, pinpricking and grumbling

from the sidelines to any sort of active involvement in defending or maintaining them. Many cannot even be

bothered to vote in national elections, although the pollsters and pundits cannot seem to agree on whether our

shamefully low turnout is due to cynicism or apathy – or, the most likely answer, a bit of both. Most of those

who do vote, do so in much the same highly sceptical spirit, choosing the ‘best of a bad lot’ or the ‘lesser of two

evils’, rather than with any shining-eyed, fervent conviction that this or that party is really going to make the

world a better place. Such a suggestion would be greeted with the customary ‘Oh, come off it!’

Among the young and others susceptible to linguistic fads and fashions, the current response might be the

ironic ‘Yeah, right’ rather than ‘Oh, come off it!’ – but the principle is the same. Similarly, those who break the

Importance of Not Being Earnest rule are described in the latest slang as being ‘up themselves’, rather than the

more traditional ‘full of themselves’. By the time you read this, these may in turn have been superseded by new

expressions, but the underlying rules and values are deep-rooted, and will remain unchanged.

IRONY RULES

The English are not usually given to patriotic boasting – indeed, both patriotism and boasting are regarded as

unseemly, so the combination of these two sins is doubly distasteful. But there is one significant exception to

this rule, and that is the patriotic pride we take in our sense of humour, particularly in our expert use of irony.

The popular belief is that we have a better, more subtle, more highly developed sense of humour than any other

nation, and specifically that other nations are all tediously literal in their thinking and incapable of understanding

or appreciating irony. Almost all of the English people I interviewed subscribed to this belief, and many foreigners,

rather surprisingly, humbly concurred.

Although we seem to have persuaded ourselves and a great many others of our superior sense of irony, I

remain, as I have already indicated, not entirely convinced. Humour is universal; irony is a universally important

ingredient of humour: no single culture can possibly claim a monopoly on it. My research suggests that, yet

again, the irony issue is a question of degree – a matter of quantity rather than quality. What is unique about

English humour is the pervasiveness of irony and the importance we attach to it. Irony is the dominant ingredient

in English humour, not just a piquant flavouring. Irony rules. The English, according to an acute observer of the

minutiae of Englishness18, are ‘conceived in irony. We float in it from the womb. It’s the amniotic fluid . . . Joking

but not joking. Caring but not caring. Serious but not serious.’

It must be said that many of my foreign informants found this aspect of Englishness frustrating, rather than

amusing: ‘The problem with the English,’ complained one American visitor, ‘is that you never know when they are

joking – you never know whether they are being serious or not’. This was a businessman, travelling with a female

colleague from Holland. She considered the issue frowningly for a moment, and then concluded, somewhat

tentatively, ‘I think they are mostly joking, yes?’

She had a point. And I felt rather sorry for both of them. I found in my interviews with foreign visitors that the

English predilection for irony posed more of a problem for those here on business than for tourists and other

pleasure-seekers. J. B. Priestley observed that: ‘The atmosphere in which we English live is favourable to humour.

It is so often hazy, and very rarely is everything clear-cut’. And he puts ‘a feeling for irony’ at the top of his list

of ingredients of English humour. Our humour-friendly atmosphere is all very well if you are here on holiday, but

when you are negotiating deals worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, like my hapless informants quoted above,

this hazy, irony-soaked cultural climate can clearly be something of a hindrance.19

For those attempting to acclimatize to this atmosphere, the most important ‘rule’ to remember is that irony is

endemic: like humour in general, irony is a constant, a given, a normal element of ordinary, everyday

conversation. The English may not always be joking, but they are always in a state of readiness for humour. We

do not always say the opposite of what we mean, but we are always alert to the possibility of irony. When we

ask someone a straightforward question (e.g. ‘How are the children?’), we are equally prepared for either a

straightforward response (‘Fine, thanks.’) or an ironic one (‘Oh, they’re delightful – charming, helpful, tidy,

studious . . .’ To which the reply is ‘Oh dear. Been one of those days, has it?’).

The Understatement Rule

I’m putting this as a sub-heading under irony, because understatement is a form of irony, rather than a distinct

and separate type of humour. It is also a very English kind of irony – the understatement rule is a close cousin of

the Importance of Not Being Earnest rule, the ‘Oh, come off it’ rule and the various reserve and modesty rules

that govern our everyday social interactions. Understatement is by no means an exclusively English form of

humour, of course: again, we are talking about quantity rather than quality. George Mikes said that the

understatement ‘is not just a speciality of the English sense of humour; it is a way of life’. The English are rightly

renowned for their use of understatement, not because we invented it or because we do it better than anyone

else, but because we do it so much. (Well, maybe we do do it a little bit better – if only because we get more

practice at it.)

The reasons for our prolific understating are not hard to discover: our strict prohibitions on earnestness,

gushing, emoting and boasting require almost constant use of understatement. Rather than risk exhibiting any

hint of forbidden solemnity, unseemly emotion or excessive zeal, we go to the opposite extreme and feign dry,

deadpan indifference. The understatement rule means that a debilitating and painful chronic illness must be

described as ‘a bit of a nuisance’; a truly horrific experience is ‘well, not exactly what I would have chosen’; a

sight of breathtaking beauty is ‘quite pretty’; an outstanding performance or achievement is ‘not bad’; an act of

abominable cruelty is ‘not very friendly’, and an unforgivably stupid misjudgement is ‘not very clever’; the

Antarctic is ‘rather cold’ and the Sahara ‘a bit too hot for my taste’; and any exceptionally delightful object,

person or event, which in other cultures would warrant streams of superlatives, is pretty much covered by ‘nice’,

or, if we wish to express more ardent approval, ‘very nice’.

Needless to say, the English understatement is another trait that many foreign visitors find utterly bewildering

and infuriating (or, as we English would put it, ‘a bit confusing’). ‘I don’t get it,’ said one exasperated informant.

‘Is it supposed to be funny? If it’s supposed to be funny, why don’t they laugh – or at least smile? Or something.

How the hell are you supposed to know when “not bad” means “absolutely brilliant” and when it just means “OK”?

Is there some secret sign or something that they use? Why can’t they just say what they mean?’

This is the problem with English humour. Much of it, including and perhaps especially the understatement, isn’t

actually very funny – or at least not obviously funny, not laugh-out-loud funny, and definitely not crossculturally

funny. Even the English, who understand it, are not exactly riotously amused by the understatement.

At best, a well-timed, well-turned understatement only raises a slight smirk. But then, this is surely the whole

point of the understatement: it is amusing, but only in an understated way. It is humour, but it is a restrained,

refined, subtle form of humour.

Even those foreigners who appreciate the English understatement, and find it amusing, still experience

considerable difficulties when it comes to using it themselves. My father tells me about some desperately

anglophile Italian friends of his, who were determined to be as English as possible – they spoke perfect English,

wore English clothes, even developed a taste for English food. But they complained that they couldn’t quite ‘do’

the English understatement, and pressed him for instructions. On one occasion, one of them was describing,

heatedly and at some length, a ghastly meal he had had at a local restaurant – the food was inedible, the place

was disgustingly filthy, the service rude beyond belief, etc., etc. ‘Oh,’ said my father, at the end of the tirade,

‘So, you wouldn’t recommend it, then?’ ‘YOU SEE?’ cried his Italian friend. ‘That’s it! How do you do that? How do

you know to do that? How do you know when to do it?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said my father apologetically. ‘I can’t

explain. We just do it. It just comes naturally.’

This is the other problem with the English understatement: it is a rule, but a rule in the fourth OED sense of

‘the normal or usual state of things’ – we are not conscious of obeying it; it is somehow wired into our brains. We

are not taught the use of the understatement, we learn it by osmosis. The understatement ‘comes naturally’

because it is deeply ingrained in our culture, part of the English psyche.

The understatement is also difficult for foreigners to ‘get’ because it is, in effect, an in-joke about our own

unwritten rules of humour. When we describe, say, a horrendous, traumatic and painful experience as ‘not very

pleasant’, we are acknowledging the taboo on earnestness and the rules of irony, but at the same making fun of

our ludicrously rigid obedience to these codes. We are exercising restraint, but in such an exaggerated manner

that we are also (quietly) laughing at ourselves for doing so. We are parodying ourselves. Every understatement

is a little private joke about Englishness.

The Self-deprecation Rule

Like the English understatement, English self-deprecation can be seen as a form of irony. It usually involves not

genuine modesty but saying the opposite of what we really mean – or at least the opposite of what we intend

people to understand.

The issue of English modesty will come up again and again in this book, so I should clear up any

misunderstandings about it straight away. When I speak of ‘modesty rules’, I mean exactly that – not that the

English are somehow naturally more modest and self-effacing than other nations, but that we have strict rules

about the appearance of modesty. These include both ‘negative’ rules, such as prohibitions on boasting and any

form of self-importance, and ‘positive’ rules, actively prescribing self-deprecation and self-mockery. The very

abundance of these unwritten rules suggests that the English are not naturally or instinctively modest: the best

that can be said is that we place a high value on modesty, that we aspire to modesty. The modesty that we

actually display is generally false – or, to put it more charitably, ironic.

And therein lies the humour. Again, we are not talking about obvious, thigh-slapping funniness: the humour of

English self-deprecation, like that of the English understatement, is understated, often to the point of being

almost imperceptible – and bordering on incomprehensible to those unfamiliar with English modesty rules.

To show how it works, however, I will take a relatively blatant example. My fiancé is a brain surgeon. When

we first met, I asked what had led him to choose this profession. ‘Well, um,’ he replied, ‘I read PPE [Philosophy,

Politics and Economics] at Oxford, but I found it all rather beyond me, so, er, I thought I’d better do something a

bit less difficult.’ I laughed, but then, as he must have expected, protested that surely brain surgery could not

really be described as an easy option. This gave him a further opportunity for self-deprecation. ‘Oh no, it’s

nowhere near as clever as it’s cracked up to be; to be honest it’s actually a bit hit-or-miss. It’s just plumbing,

really, plumbing with a microscope – except plumbing’s rather more accurate.’ It later emerged, as he must have

known it would, that far from finding the intellectual demands of Oxford ‘beyond him’, he had entered with a

scholarship and graduated with a First. ‘I was a dreadful little swot,’ he explained.

So was he being truly modest? No, but nor could his humorously self-deprecating responses really be

described as deliberate, calculated ‘false’ modesty. He was simply playing by the rules, dealing with the

embarrassment of success and prestige by making a self-denigrating joke out of it all, as is our custom. And this

is the point, there was nothing extraordinary or remarkable about his humble self-mockery: he was just being

English. We all do this, automatically, all the time. Even those of us with much less impressive achievements or

credentials to disguise. I’m lucky – many people don’t know what an anthropologist is, and those who do

generally regard us as the lowest form of scientific life, so there is very little danger of being thought boastful

when I am asked about my work. But just in case I might be suspected of being (or claiming to be) something

vaguely brainy, I always quickly explain to those unfamiliar with the term that it is ‘just a fancy word for nosey

parker’, and to academics that what I do is in any case ‘only pop-anthropology’, not the proper, intrepid, mudhut

variety.

Among ourselves, this system works perfectly well: everyone understands that the customary selfdeprecation

probably means roughly the opposite of what is said, and is duly impressed, both by one’s

achievements and by one’s reluctance to trumpet them. (Even in my case, when it barely counts as selfdeprecation,

being all too sadly true, people often wrongly assume that what I do must surely be somewhat less

daft than it sounds.) The problems arise when we English attempt to play this game with people from outside our

own culture, who do not understand the rules, fail to appreciate the irony, and therefore have an unfortunate

tendency to take our self-deprecating statements at face value. We make our customary modest noises, the

uninitiated foreigners accept our apparently low estimate of our achievements, and are duly unimpressed. We

cannot very well then turn round and say: ‘No, hey, wait a minute, you’re supposed to give me a sort of

knowingly sceptical smile, showing that you realize I’m being humorously self-deprecating, don’t believe a word of

it and think even more highly of my abilities and my modesty’. They don’t know that this is the prescribed English

response to prescribed English self-deprecation. They don’t know that we are playing a convoluted bluffing game.

They inadvertently call our bluff, and the whole thing backfires on us. And frankly, it serves us right for being so

silly.

HUMOUR AND COMEDY

Because the two are often conflated and confused, it is worth pointing out that I am talking here specifically

about the rules of English humour, rather than English comedy. That is, I am concerned with our use of humour in

everyday life, everyday conversation, rather than with the comic novel, play, film, poem, sketch, cartoon or

stand-up routine. These would require another whole book to analyse – and a book written by someone much

better qualified than I am.

Having said that, and without pretending to any expert knowledge of the subject, it seems clear to me that

English comedy is influenced and informed by the nature of everyday English humour as I have described it here,

and by some of the other ‘rules of Englishness’ identified in other chapters, such as the embarrassment rule (most

English comedy is essentially about embarrassment). English comedy, as one might expect, obeys the rules of

English humour, and also plays an important social role in transmitting and reinforcing them. Almost all of the best

English comedy seems to involve laughing at ourselves.

While I would not claim that English comedy is superior to that of other nations, the fact that we have no

concept of a separate ‘time and place’ for humour, that humour suffuses the English consciousness, does mean

that English comic writers, artists and performers have to work quite hard to make us laugh. They have to

produce something above and beyond the humour that permeates every aspect of our ordinary social

interactions. Just because the English have ‘a good sense of humour’ does not mean that we are easily amused –

quite the opposite: our keen, finely tuned sense of humour, and our irony-saturated culture probably make us

harder to amuse than most other nations. Whether or not this results in better comedy is another matter, but my

impression is that it certainly seems to result in an awful lot of comedy – good, bad or indifferent; if the English

are not amused, it is clearly not for want of effort on the part of our prolific humorists.

I say this with genuine sympathy, as to be honest the kind of anthropology I do is not far removed from

stand-up comedy – at least, the sort of stand-up routines that involve a lot of jokes beginning ‘Have you ever

noticed how people always . . . ?’ The best stand-up comics invariably follow this with some pithy, acute, clever

observation on the minutiae of human behaviour and social relations. Social scientists like me try hard to do the

same, but there is a difference: the stand-up comics have to get it right. If their observation does not ‘ring true’

or ‘strike a chord’, they don’t get a laugh, and if this happens too often, they don’t make a living. Social

scientists can talk utter rubbish for years and still pay their mortgages. At its best, however, social science can

sometimes be almost as insightful as good stand-up comedy.

HUMOUR AND CLASS

Although elsewhere in this book I scrupulously identify class differences and variations in the application and

observance of certain rules, you may have noticed that there has been no mention of class in this chapter. This

is because the ‘guiding principles’ of English humour are classless. The taboo on earnestness, and the rules of

irony, understatement and self-deprecation transcend all class barriers. No social rule is ever universally obeyed,

but among the English these humour rules are universally (albeit subconsciously) understood and accepted.

Whatever the class context, breaches are noticed, frowned upon and ridiculed.

The rules of English humour may be classless, but it must be said that a great deal of everyday English humour

is preoccupied with class issues. This is not surprising, given our national obsession with class, and our

propensity to make everything a subject for humour. We are always laughing at class-related habits and foibles,

mocking the aspirations and embarrassing mistakes of social climbers, and poking gentle fun at the class system.

HUMOUR RULES AND ENGLISHNESS

What do these rules of humour tell us about Englishness? I said that the value we put on humour, its central role

in English culture and conversation, was the main defining characteristic, rather than any specific feature of the

humour itself. But we still need to ask whether there is something distinctive about English humour apart from its

dominance and pervasiveness, whether we are talking about a matter of quality as well as quantity. I think the

answer is a qualified ‘yes’.

The Importance of Not Being Earnest rule is not just another way of saying ‘humour rules’: it is about the fine

line between seriousness and solemnity, and it seems to me that our acute sensitivity to this distinction, and our

intolerance of earnestness, are distinctively English.

There is also something quintessentially English about the nature of our response to earnestness. The ‘Oh,

come off it!’ rule encapsulates a peculiarly English blend of armchair cynicism, ironic detachment, a squeamish

distaste for sentimentality, a stubborn refusal to be duped or taken in by fine rhetoric, and a mischievous delight

in pinpricking the balloons of pomposity and self-importance.

We also looked at the rules of irony, and its sub-rules of understatement and humorous self-deprecation, and

I think we can conclude that while none of these forms of humour is in itself unique to the English, the sheer

extent of their use in English conversation gives a ‘flavour’ to our humour that is distinctively English. And if

practice makes perfect, the English certainly ought to have achieved a somewhat greater mastery of irony and

its close comic relations than other less compulsively humorous cultures. So, without wanting to blow our own

trumpet or come over all patriotic, I think we can safely say that our skills in the arts of irony, understatement

and self-mockery are, on the whole, not bad.

AMERICAN HUMOR

Humor is universal, however each culture finds different things funny. If you have ever tried to translate a joke from your native language into another language for someone, you were probably disappointed because your listener may not have thought it was funny. Something was literally lost in the translation.

American humor, as it is seen by native Americans, may be strange at times. For, instance, Americans enjoy making jokes about politicians and government policies. They even print ‘bumper stickers’ that feature funny sayings about their attitudes and occupations, such as “Nurses are patient people”.

Evidently, American humor is less subtle than British – do you remember that English culture is “compulsively humorous” and prides itself on maintaining “the Not-being -earnest rule”?

Nevertheless, Americans also value the ability to laugh at oneself and others. They enjoy jokes which make fun of professions like doctors, lawyers and politicians. They also like ethnic jokes, and jokes about mothers-in-law, wives husbands, religion and sex.

Here are some examples.

1. A doctor, a priest and a lawyer found themselves stranded in the ocean. Aftr their boat tipped over, a shark appeared and promptly ate the doctor and the priest. Then he carried the lawyer on his back to safety. The lawyer was very surprised and asked the shark why he had killed the others but spared his life. The shark replied, “ Professional courtesy”.

2. A doctor told his patient that he needed surgery immediately. The cost was $ 12,000, but the patient could pay it off at the rate of $300 per month. “My goodness”, replied the patient, “That’s as much as buying a car!” “Yes”, said the doctor, “I am.”

Americans also enjoy humor that employs puns that are based on the interplay of different meanings of the word. For example, are aware of the first and second meanings of the following words: patient, swingers, class, pull, kick?

Can you explain the humor of the one-liners below?

Nurses are patient people.

Tennis is for swingers.

Teachers have class.

Voters have pull.

Soccer players get a kick out of life.

Saying like that are often found on T-shirts, car bumper stickers, and buttons in the US.

 How do you understand “Bald is beautiful”?

+“Communicative phonetics” about humour.

PRESENTATION

LINGUISTIC CLASS CODES

BEFORE READING TRY TO GUESS WHAT THE HEADING MIGHT ENTAIL. DOES CLASSCONSCIOUSNESS REVEAL ITSELF VERBALLY?

One cannot talk about English conversation codes without talking about class. And one cannot talk at all

without immediately revealing one’s own social class. COMMENT This may to some extent apply internationally, but the most

frequently quoted comments on the issue are English – from Ben Jonson’s ‘Language most shows a man. Speak

that I may see thee’ to George Bernard Shaw’s rather more explicitly class-related: ‘It is impossible for an

Englishman to open his mouth without making some other Englishman hate him or despise him’. We may like to

think that we have become less class-obsessed in recent times, but Shaw’s observation is as pertinent now as it

ever was. All English people, whether they admit it or not, are fitted with a sort of social Global Positioning

Satellite computer that tells us a person’s position on the class map as soon as he or she begins to speak.

There are two main factors involved in the calculation of this position: terminology and pronunciation – the

words you use and how you say them. Pronunciation is a more reliable indicator (it is relatively easy to learn the

terminology of a different class), so I’ll start with that.

THE VOWELS VS CONSONANTS RULE

The first class indicator concerns which type of letter you favour in your pronunciation – or rather, which type

you fail to pronounce. Those at the top of the social scale like to think that their way of speaking is ‘correct’, as

it is clear and intelligible and accurate, while lower-class speech is ‘incorrect’, a ‘lazy’ way of talking – unclear,

often unintelligible, and just plain wrong. Exhibit A in this argument is the lower-class failure to pronounce

consonants, in particular the glottal stop – the omission (swallowing, dropping) of ‘t’s – and the dropping of ‘h’s.

But this is a case of the pot calling the kettle (or ke’le, if you prefer) black. The lower ranks may drop their

consonants, but the upper class are equally guilty of dropping their vowels. If you ask them the time, for

example, the lower classes may tell you it is ‘’alf past ten’ but the upper class will say ‘hpstn’. A handkerchief in

working-class speech is ‘’ankercheef’, but in upper-class pronunciation becomes ‘hnkrchf’.

Upper-class vowel-dropping may be frightfully smart, but it still sounds like a mobile-phone text message, and

unless you are used to this clipped, abbreviated way of talking, it is no more intelligible than lower-class

consonant-dropping. The only advantage of this SMS-speak is that it can be done without moving the mouth

very much, allowing the speaker to maintain an aloof, deadpan expression and a stiff upper lip.

The upper class, and the upper-middle and middle-middle classes, do at least pronounce their consonants

correctly – well, you’d better, if you’re going to leave out half of your vowels – whereas the lower classes often

pronounce ‘th’ as ‘f’ (‘teeth’ becomes ‘teef’, ‘thing’ becomes ‘fing’) or sometimes as ‘v’ (‘that’ becomes ‘vat’,

‘Worthing’ is ‘Worving’). Final ‘g’s can become ‘k’s, as in ‘somefink’ and ‘nuffink’. Pronunciation of vowels is also a

helpful class indicator. Lower-class ‘a’s are often pronounced as long ‘i’s – Dive for Dave, Tricey for Tracey.

(Working-class Northerners tend to elongate the ‘a’s, and might also reveal their class by saying ‘Our Daaave’

and ‘Our Traaacey’.) Working class ‘i’s, in turn, may be pronounced ‘oi’, while some very upper-class ‘o’s become

‘or’s, as in ‘naff orf’. But the upper class don’t say ‘I’ at all if they can help it: one prefers to refer to oneself as

‘one’. In fact, they are not too keen on pronouns in general, omitting them, along with articles and conjunctions,

wherever possible – as though they were sending a frightfully expensive telegram. Despite all these peculiarities,

the upper classes remain convinced that their way of speaking is the only proper way: their speech is the norm,

everyone else’s is ‘an accent’ – and when the upper classes say that someone speaks with ‘an accent’, what

they mean is a working-class accent.

Although upper-class speech as a whole is not necessarily any more intelligible than lower-class speech, it

must be said that mispronunciation of certain words is often a lower-class signal, indicating a less-educated

speaker. For example: saying ‘nucular’ instead of ‘nuclear’, and ‘prostrate gland’ for ‘prostate gland’, are common

mistakes, in both senses of the word ‘common’. EXPLAIN There is, however, a distinction between upper-class speech and ‘educated’ speech – they are not necessarily the same thing. What you may hear referred to as ‘BBC English’ or ‘Oxford English’ is a kind of ‘educated’ speech – but it is more upper-middle than upper: it lacks the haw-haw tones, vowel swallowing and pronoun-phobia of upper-class speech, and is certainly more intelligible to the uninitiated. COMMENT

While mispronunciations are generally seen as lower-class indicators, and this includes mispronunciation of

foreign words and names, attempts at overly foreign pronunciation of frequently used foreign expressions and

place-names are a different matter. Trying to do a throaty French ‘r’ in ‘en route’, for example, or saying

‘Barthelona’ with a lispy Spanish ‘c’, or telling everyone that you are going to Firenze rather than Florence – even

if you pronounce them correctly – is affected and pretentious, which almost invariably means lower-middle or

middle-middle class. The upper-middle, upper and working classes usually do not feel the need to show off in this

way. If you are a fluent speaker of the language in question, you might just, perhaps, be forgiven for lapsing into

correct foreign pronunciation of these words – although it would be far more English and modest of you to avoid

exhibiting your skill.

We are frequently told that regional accents have become much more acceptable nowadays – even desirable,

if you want a career in broadcasting – and that a person with, say, a Yorkshire, Scouse, Geordie or West Country

accent is no longer looked down upon as automatically lower class. Yes, well, maybe. I am not convinced. The

fact that many presenters of popular television and radio programmes now have regional accents may well

indicate that people find these accents attractive, but it does not prove that the class associations of regional

accents have somehow disappeared. We may like a regional accent, and even find it delightful, melodious and

charming, while still recognising it as clearly working class. If what is really meant is that being working class has

become more acceptable in many formerly snobby occupations, then this is what should be said, rather than a lot

of mealy-mouthed polite euphemisms about regional accents.

TERMINOLOGY RULES – U AND NON-U REVISITED

Nancy Mitford coined the phrase ‘U and Non-U’ – referring to upper-class and non-upper-class words – in an

article in Encounter in 1955, and although some of her class-indicator words are now outdated, the principle

remains. Some of the shibboleths may have changed, but there are still plenty of them, and we still judge your

class on whether, for example, you call the midday meal ‘lunch’ or ‘dinner’.

Mitford’s simple binary model is not, however, quite subtle enough for my purposes: some shibboleths may

simply separate the upper class from the rest, but others more specifically separate the working class from the

lower-middle, or the middle-middle from the upper-middle. In a few cases, working-class and upper-class usage is

remarkably similar, and differs significantly from the classes in between.

The Seven Deadly Sins

There are, however, seven words that the English uppers and upper-middles regard as infallible shibboleths. Utter

any one of these ‘seven deadly sins’ in the presence of these higher classes, and their on-board class-radar

devices will start bleeping and flashing: you will immediately be demoted to middle-middle class, at best, probably

lower – and in some cases automatically classified as working class.

Pardon

This word is the most notorious pet hate of the upper and upper-middle classes. Jilly Cooper recalls overhearing

her son telling a friend ‘Mummy says that “pardon” is a much worse word than “fuck”’. He was quite right: to the

uppers and upper-middles, using such an unmistakably lower-class term is worse than swearing. Some even refer

to lower-middle-class suburbs as ‘Pardonia’. Here is a good class-test you can try: when talking to an English

person, deliberately say something too quietly for them to hear you properly. A lower-middle or middle-middle

person will say ‘Pardon?’; an upper-middle will say ‘Sorry?’ (or perhaps ‘Sorry – what?’ or ‘What – sorry?’); but an

upper-class and a working-class person will both just say ‘What?’ The working-class person may drop the ‘t’ –

‘Wha’?’ – but this will be the only difference. Some upper-working-class people with middle-class aspirations

might say ‘pardon’, in a misguided attempt to sound ‘posh’.

Toilet

‘Toilet’ is another word that makes the higher classes flinch – or exchange knowing looks, if it is uttered by a

would-be social climber. The correct upper-middle/upper term is ‘loo’ or ‘lavatory’ (pronounced lavuhtry, with the

accent on the first syllable). ‘Bog’ is occasionally acceptable, but only if it is said in an obviously ironic-jocular

manner, as though in quotes. The working classes all say ‘toilet’, as do most lower-middles and middle-middles,

the only difference being the working-class omission of the final ‘t’. (The working classes may also sometimes say

‘bog’, but without the ironic quotation marks.) Those lower- and middle-middles with pretensions or aspirations,

however, may eschew ‘toilet’ in favour of suburban-genteel euphemisms such as ‘gents’, ‘ladies’, ‘bathroom’,

‘powder room’, ‘facilities’ and ‘convenience’; or jokey euphemisms such as ‘latrines’, ‘heads’ and ‘privy’ (females

tend to use the former, males the latter).

Serviette

A ‘serviette’ is what the inhabitants of Pardonia call a napkin. This is another example of a ‘genteelism’, in this

case a misguided attempt to enhance one’s status by using a fancy French word rather than a plain old English

one. It has been suggested that ‘serviette’ was taken up by squeamish lower-middles who found ‘napkin’ a bit too

close to ‘nappy’, and wanted something that sounded a bit more refined. Whatever its origins, ‘serviette’ is now

regarded as irredeemably lower class. Upper-middle and upper-class mothers get very upset when their children

learn to say ‘serviette’ from well-meaning lower-class nannies, and have to be painstakingly retrained to say

‘napkin’.

Dinner

There is nothing wrong with the word ‘dinner’ in itself: it is only a working-class hallmark if you use it to refer to

the midday meal, which should be called ‘lunch’. Calling your evening meal ‘tea’ is also a working-class indicator:

the higher echelons call this meal ‘dinner’ or ‘supper’. (Technically, a dinner is a somewhat grander meal than a

supper: if you are invited to ‘supper’, this is likely to be an informal family meal, eaten in the kitchen – sometimes

this is made explicit, as in ‘family supper’ or ‘kitchen supper’. The uppers and upper-middles use the term ‘supper’

more than the middle- and lower-middles). ‘Tea’, for the higher classes, is taken at around four o’clock, and

consists of tea and cakes or scones (which they pronounce with a short ‘o’), and perhaps little sandwiches

(pronounced ‘sanwidges’, not ‘sand-witches’). The lower classes call this ‘afternoon tea’. All this can pose a few

problems for foreign visitors: if you are invited to ‘dinner’, should you turn up at midday or in the evening? Does

‘come for tea’ mean four o’clock or seven o’clock? To be safe, you will have to ask what time you are expected.

The answer will help you to place your hosts on the social scale.

Settee

Or you could ask your hosts what they call their furniture. If an upholstered seat for two or more people is called

a settee or a couch, they are no higher than middle-middle. If it is a sofa, they are upper-middle or above. There

are occasional exceptions to this rule, which is not quite as accurate a class indicator as ‘pardon’. Some younger

upper-middles, influenced by American films and television programmes, might say ‘couch’ – although they are

unlikely to say ‘settee’, except as a joke or to annoy their class-anxious parents. If you like, you can amuse

yourself by making predictions based on correlations with other class indicators such as those covered later in

the chapter on Home Rules. For example: if the item in question is part of a brand-new matching three-piece

suite, which also matches the curtains, its owners are likely to call it a settee.

Lounge

And what do they call the room in which the settee/sofa is to be found? Settees are found in ‘lounges’ or ‘living

rooms’, sofas in ‘sitting rooms’ or ‘drawing rooms’. ‘Drawing room’ (short for ‘withdrawing room’) used to be the

only ‘correct’ term, but many upper-middles and uppers feel it is bit silly and pretentious to call, say, a small room

in an ordinary terraced house the ‘drawing room’, so ‘sitting room’ has become acceptable. You may occasionally

hear an upper-middle-class person say ‘living room’, although this is frowned upon, but only middle-middles and

below say ‘lounge’. This is a particularly useful word for spotting middle-middle social climbers trying to pass as

upper-middle: they may have learnt not to say ‘pardon’ and ‘toilet’, but they are often not aware that ‘lounge’ is

also a deadly sin.

Sweet

Like ‘dinner’, this word is not in itself a class indicator, but it becomes one when misapplied. The upper-middle

and upper classes insist that the sweet course at the end of a meal is called the ‘pudding’ – never the ‘sweet’, or

‘afters’, or ‘dessert’, all of which are déclassé, unacceptable words. ‘Sweet’ can be used freely as an adjective,

but as a noun it is piece of confectionary – what the Americans call ‘candy’ – and nothing else. The course at

the end of the meal is always ‘pudding’, whatever it consists of: a slice of cake is ‘pudding’, so is a lemon sorbet.

Asking: ‘Does anyone want a sweet?’ at the end of a meal will get you immediately classified as middle-middle or

below. ‘Afters’ will also activate the class-radar and get you demoted. Some American-influenced young uppermiddles

are starting to say ‘dessert’, and this is therefore the least offensive of the three – and the least reliable

as a class indicator. It can also cause confusion as, to the upper classes, ‘dessert’ traditionally means a selection

of fresh fruit, served right at the end of a dinner, after the pudding, and eaten with a knife and fork.

CAN YOU COME UP WITH SIMILAR ”DEADLY SINS” FROM THE RUSSIAN LANGUAGE? YOUR SECOND FOREIGN LANGUAGE?

‘Smart’ and ‘Common’ Rules

The ‘seven deadly sins’ are the most obvious and reliable class indicators, but a number of other terms will also

register on our highly sensitive class-radar devices. If you want to ‘talk posh’, you will have to stop using the

term ‘posh’, for a start: the correct upper-class word is ‘smart’. In upper-middle and upper-class circles, ‘posh’

can only be used ironically, in a jokey tone of voice to show that you know it is a low-class word.

The opposite of ‘smart’ is what everyone from the middle-middles upwards calls ‘common’ – a snobbish

euphemism for ‘working class’. But beware: using this term too often is a sure sign of middle-middle class-anxiety.

Calling things and people ‘common’ all the time is protesting too much, trying too hard to distance yourself from

the lower classes. Only the insecure wear their snobbery on their sleeve in this way. ‘Naff’ is a better option, as

it is a more ambiguous term, which can mean the same as ‘common’, but can also just mean ‘tacky’ or ‘in bad

taste’. It has become a generic, all-purpose expression of disapproval/dislike: teenagers often use ‘naff’ more or

less interchangeably with ‘uncool’ and ‘mainstream’, their favourite dire insults.

If they are ‘common’, these young people will call their parents Mum and Dad; ‘smart’ children say Mummy and

Daddy (some used to say Ma and Pa, but these are now seen as very old-fashioned). When talking about their

parents, common children refer to them as ‘my Mum’ and ‘my Dad’ (or ‘me Mam’ and ‘me Dad’), while smart

children say ‘my mother’ and ‘my father’. These are not infallible indicators, as some higher-class children now say

Mum and Dad, and some very young working-class children might say Mummy and Daddy; but if the child is over

the age of ten, maybe twelve to be safe, still calling his or her mother Mummy is a fairly reliable higher-class

indicator. Grown-ups who still say Mummy and Daddy are almost certainly upper-middle or above.

Mothers who are called Mum carry a ‘handbag’; mothers called Mummy just call it a ‘bag’. Mums wear

‘perfume’; Mummies call it ‘scent’. Parents called Mum and Dad go ‘horseracing’; smart Mummies and Daddies call it ‘racing’. Common people go to a ‘do’; middle-middles might call it a ‘function’; smart people just call it a party.

‘Refreshments’ are served at middle-class ‘functions’; the higher echelons’ parties just have food and drink.

Lower- and middle-middles eat their food in ‘portions’; upper-middles and above have ‘helpings’. Common people

have a ‘starter’; smart people have a ‘first course’ (although this one is rather less reliable).

Lower- and middle-middles talk about their ‘home’ or ‘property’; upper-middles and above say ‘house’. Common

people’s homes have ‘patios’; smart people’s houses have ‘terraces’. Working-class people say ‘indoors’ when

they mean ‘at home’ (as in ‘I left it indoors’ and ‘’er indoors’ meaning ‘my wife’). This is by no means an

exhaustive list: class pervades every aspect of English life, and you will find yet more verbal class indicators in

almost every chapter of this book – as well as dozens of non-verbal class signals.

Class-denial Rules

We are clearly as acutely class-conscious as we have ever been, but in these ‘politically correct’ times, many of

us are increasingly embarrassed about our class-consciousness, and do our best to deny or disguise it. The

middle classes are particularly uncomfortable about class, and well-meaning upper-middles are the most

squeamish of all. They will go to great lengths to avoid calling anyone or anything ‘working class’ – resorting to

polite euphemisms such as ‘low-income groups’, ‘less privileged’, ‘ordinary people’, ‘less educated’, ‘the man in the

street’, ‘tabloid readers’, ‘blue collar’, ‘state school’, ‘council estate’, ‘popular’ (or sometimes, among themselves,

less polite euphemisms such as ‘Sharon and Tracey’, ‘Kevins’, ‘Essex Man’ and ‘Mondeo Man’).

These over-tactful upper-middles may even try to avoid using the word ‘class’ at all, carefully talking about

someone’s ‘background’ instead – which always makes me imagine the person emerging from either a Lowry street

scene or a Gainsborough or Reynolds country-manor portrait, depending on the class to which ‘background’ is

intended to refer. (This is always obvious from the context: ‘Well, with that sort of background, you have to

make allowances . . .’ is Lowry; ‘We prefer Saskia and Fiona to mix with girls from the same background . . .’ is

Gainsborough/Reynolds.)

All this diplomatic euphemising is quite unnecessary, though, as working-class English people generally do not

have a problem with the c-word, and are quite happy to call themselves working class. Upper-class English

people are also often rather blunt and no-nonsense about class. It is not that these top and bottom classes are

any less class-conscious than the middle ranks; they just tend to be less angst-ridden and embarrassed about it

all. Their class-consciousness is also, in many cases, rather less subtle and complex than that of the middle

classes: they tend not to perceive as many layers or delicate distinctions. Their class-radar recognizes at the

most three classes: working, middle and upper; and sometimes only two, with the working class dividing the world

into ‘us and the posh’, and the upper class seeing only ‘us and the plebs’.

Nancy Mitford is a good example, with her simple binary division of society into ‘U and non-U’, which takes no

account of the fine gradations between lower-middle, middle-middle and upper-middle – let alone the even more

microscopic nuances distinguishing, say, ‘secure, established upper-middle’ from ‘anxious, borderline upper-middle’that are only of interest to the tortured middle classes. And to nosey social anthropologists.

UNIT 5. BEHAVIOUR CODES

POLITENESS

Politeness is a trait that has always been considered stereotypically English. This is the way K.Fox sees politeness:

English rules of politeness are undeniably rather complex,

and, in their tortuous attempts to deny or disguise the realities of status differences, clearly hypocritical. But

then, surely all politeness is a form of hypocrisy: almost by definition, it involves pretence. The sociolinguists

Brown and Levinson argue that politeness ‘presupposes [the] potential for aggression as it seeks to disarm it, and

makes possible communication between potentially aggressive parties’. Also in the context of a discussion of

aggression, Jeremy Paxman observes that our strict codes of manners and etiquette seem ‘to have been

developed by the English to protect themselves from themselves’. COMMENT

We are, perhaps more than many other cultures, intensely conscious of class and status differences. George

Orwell correctly described England as ‘the most class-ridden country under the sun’. Our labyrinthine rules and

codes of polite egalitarianism are a disguise, an elaborate charade, a severe collective case of what

psychotherapists would call ‘denial’. Our polite egalitarianism is not an expression of our true social relations, any

more than a polite smile is a manifestation of genuine pleasure or a polite nod a signal of real agreement. Our

endless pleases disguise orders and instructions as requests; our constant thank-yous maintain an illusion of

friendly equality; the ‘And one for yourself?’ ritual requires an extraordinary act of communal self-deception,

whereby we all agree to pretend that nothing so vulgar as money nor so degrading as ‘service’ is involved in the

purchase of drinks in a bar.

Hypocrisy? At one level, clearly, yes: our politenesses are all sham, pretence, dissimulation – an artificial

veneer of harmony and parity masking quite different social realities. COMMENT But I have always understood the term hypocrisy to imply conscious, deliberate deception of others, whereas English polite egalitarianism seems to involve a collective, even collaborative, self-delusion. Our politenesses are evidently not a reflection of sincere,

heartfelt beliefs, but neither are they cynical, calculating attempts to deceive. COMMENT And perhaps we need our polite

egalitarianism to protect us from ourselves – to prevent our acute consciousness of class differences from

expressing itself in less acceptable ways.

HAS THE CONCEPT OF INVARIABLE ENGLISH POLITENESS BECOME MORE CLEAR TO YOU? HAS IT EVER OCCURRED TO YOU THAT ENGLISH POLITE EGALITARIANISM, AS K.FOX CALLS IT, MAY CONCEAL SOMETHING ELSE – BEHIND AGREEMENT AND POSITIVE ATTITUDE?

HERE ARE TWO MORE PASSAGES ABOUT POLITENESS OF BRITONS IN THE PUB AND ON PUBLIC TRANSPORT

The correct way to order a beer is ‘A pint of bitter [or lager], please’. For a half-pint, this

is always shortened to ‘Half a bitter [or lager], 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 – 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 an equivalent, when you hand over the money. The generic rule is