By Kate Fox. Find the book.
An upper-class Tory MP once sneered at fellow Tory Michael Heseltine by remarking that Heseltine had ‘had to buy all his own furniture’–the put-down implication being that only nouveaux have to buy their furniture: genuinely upper-class furniture is inherited.
— p. 117
When talking about your house move, it must always be described as traumatic, fraught with difficulty and disruption, even if in fact the process was completed smoothly and without noticeable stress. This rule applies to the intital house-hunting, the purchase of the house, the move itself, any DIY undertaken upon moving in, and ‘having the builders in’: it is universally understood that all of these are ‘a nightmare’. To describe them in any more favourable or even neutral terms would be regarded as odd, possible even as arrogant–as somehow implying that you are immune to the stresses and upsets afflicting all normal house-buyers.
— p. 119
When I asked people to account for their aversion to estate agents, the responses were vague, inconsistent and often contradictory: estate agents were ridiculed as stupid and incompetent ‘twits’, but also reviled as sly, grasping, cunning and deceitful. Finding it hard to see how estate agents could manage to be simultaneously dim-witted and deviously clever, I eventually gave up pressing for a rational explanation of their unpopularity, and tried instead to look for clues in the detailed mechanics of our interactions with them. What exactly do estate agents do? They come to inspect your house, look around it with an objective eye, put a value on it, advertise it, show people round it and try to sell it. What is so terribly offensive about that? Well, everything, if you replace the word ‘house’ with ‘identity’, ‘personality’, ‘social status’ or ‘taste’. Everything that estate agents do involves passing judgement not on some neutral piece of property but on us, on our lifestyle, our social position, our character, our private self. And sticking a price tag on it. No wonder we can’t stand them. By making them the butt of our jokes and scorn, we minimize their power to hurt our feelings: if estate agents are universally agreed to be stupid, ineffectual and insincere, their opinions and judgements become less meaningful, their intrusions into our private sphere less traumatic.
— p. 124
The ‘exception’ to the no-sitting-in-front-gardens rule is clearly an act of deliberate disobedience: the seat is always a sofa, never a wooden bench or plastic chair or any other piece of furniture that might possible be regarded as suitable for outdoor use. This flaccid, often damp and eventually rotting sofa is a statement, and one that tends to be found in conjunction with other statements such as drinking herbal tea, eating organic vegan food, smoking ganja, wearing the latest eco-warrior fashions, decoration the windows with ‘So No to GMO’ posters … the themes and fashions vary, but you know what I mean: the usual counter-culture cluster.
— p. 127
Leaving aside the proletarian neatness of nanny-gardeners, if you do spot an unexpectedly and unmistakably plebian feature in such a garden, it is worth asking the owner about it. The response will tell you much more about the owner’s class than the feature itself. I once expressed mild surprise at the presence of a garden gnome in an upper-middle-class garden (I said something intelligent like ‘Oh, a gnome’). The owner of the garden explained that the gnome was ‘ironic’. I asked him, with apologies for my ignorance, how one could tell that his garden gnome was supposed to be an ironic statement, as opposed to, you know, just a gnome. He rather sniffily replied that I only had to look at the rest of the garden for it to be obvious that the gnome was a tongue-in-cheek joke.
But surely, I persisted, garden gnomes are always something of a joke, in any garden–I mean, no-one actually takes them seriously or regards them as works of art. His response was rather rambling and confused (not to mention somewhat huffy), but the gist seemed to be that while lower class saw gnomes as intrinsically amusing, his gnome was amusing only because of its incongruous appearance in a ‘smart’ garden. In other words, council-house gnomes were a joke, but his gnome was a joke about council-house tastes, effectively a joke about class. A subtle but clearly very important distinction. Needless to say, I was not invited back.
This man’s reaction to my questions clearly defined him as upper-middle, rather than upper class. In fact, his pointing out that the gnome I had noticed as ‘ironic’ had already demoted him by half a class from my original assessment. A genuine member of the upper classes would either have boldly admitted to a passion for garden gnomes (and eagerly pointed out other examples of the genre dotted about his otherwise effortlessly elegant garden) or said something like ‘Ah yes, my gnome. I’m very fond of my gnome.’ and left me to draw my own conclusions. The upper classes to not care what a nosey anthropologist (or indeed anyone else) thinks of them, and in any case do not need ironic gnomes to emphasise their status.
— p. 132-133
The term ‘Guardian-reader’ is often used as shorthand for a wooly, lefty, politicaly correct, knit-your-own-tofu sort of person.
— p. 223
There is a tacit understanding among English shoppers to the effect that shopping is not an act of spending, but an act of saving. You do not speak of having ‘spent’ x amount on an item of food or clothing, but of having ‘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. … 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 an income level, but the principle is the same: whatever price you paid, you should if possible claim that it somehow constituted a saving.
— p. 230
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 see 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.
— p. 232
It is no accident that almost all of the most popular sports and games played around the world today originated in England. Football, baseball, rugby and tennis were all invented here, and even when we did not actually invent a sport or game, the English were usually the first to lay down a proper, official set of rules for it (hockey, horseracing, polo, swimming, rowing, boxing–and even skiing, for heaven’s sake). And that’s not counting all the rather less athletic games and pastimes such as darts, pool, billiards, cards, cribbage and skittles. And let’s not forget hunting, shooting and fishing. We didn’t create or codify all of these, of course, but sports and games are widely recognized as an essential part of our culture, our heritage and our legacy–one cannot talk about Englishness without talking about sports and games.
— p. 239
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.
— p. 256
Ideally, the English male would rather not issue any definite invitation at all, sexual or social, preferring to achieve his goal through a series of subtle hints and oblique manoeuvres, often so understated as to be almost undetectable. This ‘uncertainly principle’ has a number of advantages: the English male is not required to exhibit any emotions; he avoids entangling himself too soon in anything that could possible be described as a ‘relationship’ (a term he detest even more than ‘date’); he does not have to do or say anything ‘soppy’, so he maintains his stiff-upper-lipped masculine dignity; and, above all, by never making any direct, unequivocal request, he avoids the humiliation of a direct, unequivocal rejection.
— p. 335
… 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:
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Working-class and lower-middle-class females have the widest choice of drinks. Almost anything is socially acceptable–cocktails, sweet or creamy liquery, 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 unlady-like, 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 a minority.
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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 liquers 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.
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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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Working-class males have virtually no choice at all. They can drink only beer and spirits–everything else is effeminate. Among older working-class males, even some mixers may be forbidden: gin-and-tonic may be just about acceptable in some circles, but more obscure combinations are frowned upon. Younger working-class males have a bit more freedom: vodka-and-coke is acceptable, for example, as are the latest novelties and “designer” bottled drinks, providing they have a high enough alcohol content.
— pp. 259-261
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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.
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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”.
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“Fairness” is round-buying is not a matter of strict justice. One person may well end up buying two rounds during a “session”, while 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.
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In fact, any sign of miserliness, calculation or reluctance to participate wholeheartedly in the ritual is severly 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.
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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.
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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 even for a few minutes.
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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 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 excuses 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. …
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”. … In normal circumstances, you will only see this practice when the males in the group are over forty. …
THE FEMALE EXCEPTION Women generally have considerably less reverence fo 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.
— pp. 256-258