English

by Ben Fogle

  According to Commentaries on the Laws of England, the ‘superior excellence’ of whale and sturgeon made them uniquely suited to the monarch’s use. The porpoise was later added to the list of Royal Fish. Henry de Bracton, the thirteenth-century author of On the Laws and Customs of England, further refined the law by stating ‘the King owns the head of the whale and the Queen owns the tail’. To this day, even beached whales belong to the Queen.

  I know this for a fact because I had to ask her for one. Well, I didn’t personally say ‘Hello Ma’am, can I please have one of your dead whales?’ because that would have been both weird and inappropriate. But I did formally request one.

  You’re probably wondering what I wanted with a dead whale. Several years ago, I joined a team of zoologists and marine experts on an unprecedented natural history experiment in which we planned to return a dead beached whale, known as a whale fall, to English waters to see what would come and feast on it. There was some hope that we might record the first great white shark in English waters as we dragged the whale off the coast of Devon. Of course, we had first to find our beached whale, and then ask Her Majesty if we could borrow it – or have it, I should probably say.

  I can’t profess to know the exact protocol used, but thankfully the Queen granted us her dead whale and the experiment was a huge success. We ended up attracting a shiver (what a wonderful collective noun!) of nearly two hundred blue sharks, though we failed to find a great white.

  Queen Elizabeth II is also known as Seigneur – meaning Lord – of the Swans. And the title means that by tradition she owns all mute swans (so named, apparently, because they make a lot less noise than other swans) found on Britain’s open waters, although in practice she only exercises that right along the River Thames.

  Once a year, under the stewardship of the Queen’s Swan Marker, a small flotilla of rowing boats in full regal dress set out to count, measure and check the conditions of all Her Majesty’s swans, in an event known as swan upping.

  It takes five days to check all the swans. The term ‘swan upping’ comes from the direction in which the boats travel upstream from Sunbury lock to Abingdon in Oxfordshire.

  Over a decade ago I joined the swan uppers for a day. Ten years on, the Swan Marker, David Barber, invited me and my family to follow this ancient tradition again as they worked their way up the Thames. Aboard boats of all shapes and sizes we made our way downstream, the blue-shirted Royal Dyers in two skiffs, the white-shirted Vintners in another two, while the Queen’s Swan Uppers were all in royal crimson red with the monarch’s insignia emblazoned across the front.

  Until the sixteenth century, the ownership of the swans in a given body of water was commonly granted to the relevant landowners. The only bodies still to use such rights are the two livery companies of the City of London, the Vintners’ Company and the Dyers’ Company. The Worshipful Company of Vintners dates back to the twelfth century and gained its royal charter in 1364 when it acquired the rights to sell wine without a licence. The Dyers, a trade association of companies involved in the dyeing industry, received their charter in 1471. That wine and dyeing should now be involved in the royal protection of swans is both brilliant and bizarre.

  As a special privilege I was given one of the oars on the Queen’s boat. Seated aboard his white ‘throne’, the Swan Marker sat in his velvet crimson jacket with captain’s hat and swan feather, behind him a huge white flag bearing Her Majesty’s insignia and crown. This was true English pomp and circumstance. Next to us, the Vintners’ and Dyers’ skiffs with their ornate swan flags escorted us along the river. Behind us were an armada of other boats, all here to witness this historical spectacle.

  Gently and methodically we worked our way upriver. Huge crowds had gathered along the towpath and bridges in support of the protectors of the swans. ‘All up’ was the cry as the first family of swans came into view.

  The six skiffs all came together as we approached the swans in a kind of pincer movement. Carefully we created a sort of horseshoe around the cob and his family, penning them close to the bank while we surrounded them, making a temporary pen with our wooden skiffs.

  Slowly, the Swan Marker closed the gap, until the family of swans was encircled within reach. ‘It’s yours, Ben,’ smiled David, instructing me to grab one of the cygnets. I enveloped it with my hands and scooped it from the water. One of the Vintners handed me a piece of rope to tie its flippers together, before we gently carried each swan ashore and placed it on the lawn of a house. There were two swans and two cygnets. Each was inspected before having a ring placed on its leg. They were then weighed and had their bills and heads measured.

  In the 1970s, the river’s swan population suddenly declined. The culprit was lead poisoning from the lead used as weights by fishermen on their lines. The weights were banned and swan numbers soon improved, but the swans still face many risks, mainly from dog attacks, but also from the worst of human nature. ‘We find lots have been shot by air rifles,’ explains David. Pollution, population and increased boating traffic have all put pressure on the magnificent swan. ‘We have things like mink now on the Thames, and they take young cygnets, so the conservation side is extremely important. Last year, we only marked eighty-three cygnets. The year before it was a hundred and twenty, so you can see the downturn.

  ‘Hopefully, this year, we can go back up to round about the hundred mark, that we would be happy with. But we’ll just have to see. It’s one of those things, there’s lots of attacks have been going on, so until we get through the week, we won’t know.’

  There are five days, around eighty miles of river and a whole lot of swans to be counted. The ancient tradition is now about conservation and education. In the past it meant a hearty dinner – swan was once a food served at feasts and banquets. But today it is all about the welfare of the swan.

  Once they have been documented and checked by the vet, it is time to return them to the water. We held the four swans side by side at the water’s edge before releasing them together on the word of the Swan Marker. ‘Make sure you hold their bottoms away from your body,’ advised one of the Vintners in their starched white shirt, white trousers and white plimsolls, streaked with green guano.

  ‘Don’t hold that bum towards me,’ worried David in his crimson royal jacket. It’s tough to work with animals while wearing ceremonial clothes. We boarded our little skiffs and took to the oars once again as we worked our way towards Marlow.

  Rowing gently upstream is a journey into the heart of England. There is something quintessentially English about rivers, with their weeping willows bowing into the water, the perfectly manicured lawns and English rose gardens of the small houses that line the banks of this iconic river. This is the world of Wind in the Willows and Three Men in a Boat.

  ‘All up’ came the call once again as a larger family of seven swans was corralled between the skiffs. This time it was the turn of my children Ludo and Iona to help with the tagging and measuring. The joy and fascination on their little faces was a joy to behold, and their happiness at holding a small grey cygnet in their arms was enough to make me weep.

  There is something emotive about swans, with their bleached white feathers and their long necks. They glide elegantly on the surface of the water. When it comes to flight they are slightly more ungainly, but they have a magnificence becoming of a queen. Perhaps some of these ancient quirks and foibles have elegance as well as eccentricity?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I’M SORRY, I HAVEN’T A QUEUE

  ‘Manners makyth man’

  William of Wykeham (1320–1404)

  It’s 4.30 a.m. and daylight is just breaking over South London, but already I am surrounded by a swarm of people, shuffling intently, all focused on one thing … the biggest Queue in the world.

  I am in Wimbledon, London SW19, where the world’s greatest tennis tournament is held; but while most might associate the venue with tennis, strawberries and cream and Pimm’s, it is also famous as the venue of th
e world’s most extreme queuing.

  A little before 5 a.m. I reach the gates of the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club; there, a huge sign points me in the direction of a small park, beyond the tennis courts. The sign bears two words: THE QUEUE.

  The Wimbledon Queue is an institution. Venerated and celebrated, it combines two of Britain’s great hobbies: tennis and queuing.

  The sign, and its capitalization, tell a story. This is not just a queue but The Queue: a curiously beautiful and annually growing tradition. Although the majority of the tickets to watch the tennis have already long sold out or been shared between VIPs, the Queue offers a unique last-minute chance to participate in this prestigious tournament, a biff on the nose for elitists and lucky ticket holders. Some people will spend days and even weeks in the Queue, returning each evening after the day’s tennis to rejoin for the following day.

  There is a festival-like atmosphere as I join the marching tide of Queuers on their way to celebrate one of England’s greatest achievements. Hundreds of tents are neatly ordered along marked lines. The overnight Queuers are still asleep, but not for long. I am presented with a Queue card and the all-important ‘Guide to Queuing’. Yes, there is bureaucracy and a codified set of rules for the Queue. Within the pamphlet is a Code of Conduct.

  CODE OF CONDUCT

  The AELTC, in accordance with statutory authority, reserves the right to refuse entry to anyone adopting unreasonable social behaviour or who causes obstruction, danger or annoyance and/or commits any action against the spirit of this Code of Conduct. Please have regard for our neighbours, the facilities and others in The Queue and adopt reasonable social behaviour at all times.

  You are in The Queue if you join it at the end and remain in it until you have acquired a ticket.

  Your position in The Queue cannot be reserved by the placing of equipment – you must be present in person and hold a valid, numbered and dated Queue Card. Queue Cards are issued one per individual and are strictly non-transferable.

  You may not reserve a place in The Queue for somebody else, other than in their short term absence (e.g. toilet break, purchase of refreshments etc.). Temporary absence from The Queue should not exceed 30 minutes.

  Queue jumping is not acceptable and will not be tolerated.

  There are no left luggage facilities inside the Grounds; only one bag per person will be allowed into the Grounds and any item/bag exceeding 40cm x 30cm x 30cm (16in x 12in x 12in) in size or hard-sided bags of any size must be left in one of the facilities outside the Grounds (please note that bags deposited in left luggage should be no bigger than 60cm x 45cm x 25cm).

  The turnstiles accept cash (Sterling) only; if necessary, please ask a Steward for directions to the nearest ATM (cash point).

  Do not leave bags or other items unattended at any time; they will be removed and may be destroyed by the Police.

  Confiscation of a Queue Card constitutes refusal of entry to The Championships’ Grounds.

  Anti-social behaviour likely to cause annoyance or offence to other queuers will not be tolerated.

  SPECIFICALLY:

  – Barbecues or fires are not permitted in The Queue, in Wimbledon Park, the Golf Course or on pavements outside the Park or Golf Course

  – Overnight queuers should use tents which accommodate a maximum of two persons.

  – Please do not bring or erect gazebos.

  – Do not play music or ball games etc. after 10.00pm. At this time all queuers must be close to their tents and settling down for the night, recognizing that other queuers will be going to sleep. This rule is strictly enforced.

  – Pizza/‘take-away’ orders must be arranged for delivery at the Wimbledon Park Road gate only.

  – Excessive consumption of alcohol and/or drunken behaviour will not be tolerated and will result in the confiscation of your Queue Card and removal from The Queue. There is a limit of alcohol allowed into the Grounds of one 75cl bottle of wine, or two 500ml cans of beer, or two cans of premixed aperitifs per person. Bottles of spirits or fortified wines will not be allowed into the Grounds.

  – Please use the litter bins provided.

  – Loud music must NOT be played at any time (use personal headphones).

  – The Stewards have the AELTC’s authority, supported by Security Officers and the Police, to confiscate your Queue Card and therefore refuse entry to the Grounds.

  By 5.45 a.m. the stewards are beginning to wake the overnight Queuers. ‘Morning,’ they whisper gently. The Queuers emerge from their tents slowly, then start to brush their teeth and their hair. Women of all ages are busy applying make-up while Queue officials wander round. We Queuers are preparing for the day ahead. The officials commence the process to ‘consolidate’ the Queue. The tents are taken down and we start to close up into tighter formation. There is a grace and natural ease with which we English can form a queue; it almost feels like synchronized swimming, so adept and well-trained are we. A recognizable Queue rapidly emerges. A man with a huge yellow flag bearing the letter ‘Q’ marks the back of the Queue. It’s both fantastically complicated and highly organized.

  Despite the long, winding, snaking line of people, there is never a question of where the Queue begins and ends. Everyone adheres to the strict code and there is a jovial pride in our unique ability to organize chaos into structure.

  We respect the queue, but we also love to hate it. We have a strict social code that is fantastically nuanced, and woe betide anyone who transgresses the set-in-stone conventions.

  We queue for everything. Buses, trains, tubes, tickets, at restaurants, sporting events, for ice cream, even to have our cheese cut at the supermarket counter. In his 1944 essay, The English People, George Orwell imagined that a foreign observer would be struck by English crowds’ ‘willingness to form queues’; while the Hungarian-born English writer George Mikes wrote in his 1946 book How to Be an Alien that ‘an Englishman, even if he is alone, forms an orderly queue of one’. In 1947 the historian Ernest Barker said, ‘There will be some bad manners and a little thrusting but the institution for the queue is of that order will be made to work.’

  If there is one thing at which the English excel, it is the art of queuing. Some would say that the British are good at organizing themselves into a queue but not so good at waiting in it. This is perhaps the reason we are so intolerant of queue jumpers. We have all been overseas, where, shall we say, they have a more liberal code of conduct when it comes to queuing. Where someone has ‘pushed’ in front of us, we tut and sulk and try to make it difficult for them, but we will rarely confront them. That would be terribly unEnglish.

  Queuing is what the English are renowned for doing – and doing very well. We do it better than anyone else in the world: we are the world champions of queuing.

  Queues are, or have been, a symbol of our own society: polite, orderly and hierarchical. If there was one single national trait that demonstrates our social etiquette, it is queuing. The word itself comes from the Latin word cauda, meaning ‘tail’; in fact in the mid-eighteenth century the word ‘queue’ meant primarily a plaited ponytail hairstyle. The earliest use of the word in the context of a line was in 1837 by the historian Thomas Carlyle, in which he complimented the French for their talent of ‘standing in a queue’.

  It’s not known where the idea really came from, but the sense of ‘first come, first served’ always prevails; whether the same was true centuries ago we can’t be sure. One theory is that queuing became a necessity as shops sprang up with the growth in town and city populations. An informal chat with the butcher at a market stall became a more anonymous transaction when there were many other people around. To ensure fairness, people stood in a line. And then, as cities became tougher and tougher to survive in, the queue took on a social dimension. ‘Queuing started to become associated with extreme hardship as the poor had to queue to access handouts and charity,’ says Dr Kate Bradley, a lecturer in social history and social policy at the University of Kent.


  The government formally encouraged queuing during the Second World War. ‘Propaganda at the time was all about doing your duty and taking your turn,’ says Bradley. ‘It was a way the government tried to control a situation in uncertain times.’ There was a guilt trip associated with not waiting your turn, which was considered very unEnglish. This carried on after the war until, again, queues, like the dole queue, started to become indicators of low class.

  More recent research shows that not all English queues are the same. There is a difference between a regulated queue like that at the supermarket checkout, at a bank or a restaurant waiting to be taken to a table, and a bus-stop queue, or sometimes at the pub. Where people aren’t shown the way to queue, the system breaks down and it becomes more of a free-for-all.

  The thing about queues is that we love to hate them. According to research from University College London, the English wait for an average of just six minutes in a queue before giving up in frustration. The study also revealed we are unlikely to join a queue if there are more than six people in it … but the likelihood of giving up on a queue disappears if the number of people behind us has grown to more than six. And there is nothing – and I mean nothing – the English like more than the satisfaction of knowing they are at the head of a lengthy queue. Just look at the anxiety on people’s faces in the supermarket as they check if they are in the fastest-moving queue, and the look of relief when they realize they are.