The Carling Black Label advertising campaign of the 1980s
Perhaps the greatest cultural achievement of the Thatcher era, the humour of this campaign, particularly the fondly remembered “very long advert where you kept thinking it was the next one and then it wasn’t”, not to mention “the one with the squirrel and the Mission: Impossible music”, elevated these films above mere commerce. Most striking is the fact that they were enjoyed by millions of people who had no intention of drinking Carling Black Label, a beverage with few merits, none of which the commercials deigned to mention. Surely preservation of these works of art is worthy of some of the funding currently being monopolised by so-called “Inca treasures” which, in fact, have hardly appeared on television at all.
The Hamlet cigars advertising campaign of the 1980s
I mean, that music! The comb-over! Think about that and tell me you give a damn about the Hanging Gardens of Babylon or whatever.
The Hofmeister advertising campaign of the 1980s
This was brilliant as well. That bear must have been an alcoholic! Adverts used to be great.
Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s house
It is one of the most shaming truths about our barbarous age that, while much of the great art, architecture and literature of the past may have survived, so few of the normal houses in which those works were devised have been saved for posterity. This is the house where genius lived – where Brunel worked, designed, fretted. And it’s threatened with demolition to make way for a high speed rail link. Only Unesco can save it now.
The smell of cabbage at Butlins Skegness
As fragile as the Sphinx’s face, as transient as the northern lights, as disconcertingly faecal as Seahenge, this irreplaceable part of our gaseous heritage is literally in danger of being blown out to sea. As Butlins struggles to modernise, introducing climbing walls and a Costa, the great bubbling pots of institutionalised holiday food have long since fallen silent. While we fetishise ancient stonework, molecules of equivalent cultural significance are discriminated against simply for being airborne.
Trident
Britain has always striven, always aspired. We’re a warrior people – we have conquered vast areas of the planet and so surely it is only fitting that, in commemoration of that martial heritage, we should retain the power to wipe humanity off the face of it? The submarines are a nod to our seafaring past, while the state-of-the-art ballistic missiles are a contemporary touch of which Nelson would surely have approved.
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I was shocked by an article in the Guardian that was incredibly down on the Queen’s diamond jubilee. Really humourless and pissy. I was surprised. “If any other country were paying homage to an unelected head of state in this way, while the living standards of the majority of the population fall and schools and hospitals struggle with diminishing resources,” wrote Peter Wilby, “we would call it ‘the cult of the personality’ and probably think about invading.” What a mood-killer. The commemorative shortbread turned to ashes in my mouth and I cast aside my union flag napkin in dismay. From a man who edited the New Statesman for seven years, I’d expected something more fun.
Or maybe I’m the one being humourless and it was a joke? He can’t really think the Queen is a cause for the international community’s concern – a Kim Jong-il figure, but fortunate enough to rule over a population with a bizarre and advanced case of mass Stockholm syndrome. A people so mad they don’t have to be forced into parading and cheering by the muzzles of Soviet-era weapons or the threat of starvation – we’ll turn up and do it voluntarily, and even buy our own flags. The idea of a “cult of the personality” surrounding Her Majesty must surely be meant in jest as she betrays no sign of actually having a personality.
Reading on, it became clear that Wilby was properly pissed off at the prospect of royal-themed festivities, but he did have some jolly suggestions for the sort of jamboree we should be having: “a knees-up to mark the 100th anniversary of the 1884 Reform Act”; “a party, an extra bank holiday and a pageant to celebrate the 800th anniversary of Magna Carta”; and “more parties, pageantry and days off for the 100th anniversary of the Representation of the People Act 1918”.
Those sound like my kinds of celebration! While we’re at it, how about a big pop concert in honour of the Medical Relief Disqualification Removal Act of 1885, or a Spitfire fly-past and fireworks display when the next significant anniversary of Burke’s Civil List and Secret Service Money Act comes round? With the right deployment of public cash, I’m sure we can turn millions of Britons from bunting-obsessed monarchists into hardcore parliamentary reform anoraks.
Of course, there’s a risk that, if our admirably violence-free but consequently abstruse path to democracy became the focus of as much forced jollity as the waving little old lady, it could also evoke as much contrarian disdain – possibly even more, since all those historical documents, important though they are, involve a lot less in the way of gold hats, shiny uniforms and performing horses.
Personally, I don’t mind the monarchy. I know a lot of people do, but I just don’t. I know it’s old-fashioned, illogical, pantomimic and unjust. But it’s also unimportant, entertaining and, crucially, already there. I say better the devil you know. Particularly when it isn’t a devil but a smiling old woman, albeit with a colossal sense of entitlement. Not entitlement, sorry. Duty. Sense of duty. Excuse me while I cut my own head off.
Seriously, though, I bet she thinks she’s pretty special. I mean, how couldn’t she? Everywhere she goes, there are crowds of people cheering and trying to give her flowers, and this has been going on for 60 years. If that doesn’t drive you insane with a sense of your own importance, you must have been insane with self-loathing to start with. I think I’m a relatively modest-seeming person – I don’t often get accused of megalomania – and yet I can sense the lurking tyrant within. “Maybe I’m the best person ever,” I sometimes think. Christ knows what I’d be like if I’d watched millions bow and curtsy before me for several decades.
But I can live with the likelihood that the Queen has an inflated sense of her own significance. It doesn’t bother me – she’s canny enough to conceal it. And I like the monarchy’s effect on the trappings of the British state: the fact that what is officially important isn’t really, that MPs swear an oath “by almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, her heirs and successors” rather than piously promising to defend democracy or serve their constituents. I wouldn’t believe them whatever they swore, so I’d rather it was something that didn’t matter. In an era when few things are what they seem and people seldom say what they really think, our constitution and oaths of allegiance are perfect – they elegantly reflect a hypocritical and duplicitous world. Our monarchy gives us constitutional irony.
The problem with national celebrations is the pressure to join in. Some people relish it – the sort who, at weddings, make it their mission to force the reluctant to dance. But some, myself included, instinctively react against it. “Don’t tell me to have fun!” we want to scream. “Stop enjoying this group thing!”
That’s why making our weird cartoonish monarchy the focus for a national knees-up is so cleverly inclusive: it gives the curmudgeons a role. Peter Wilby moaned that “At times like this, republicans risk being portrayed as killjoys and spoilsports.” But he’s wrong. It’s the other way round: at times like this killjoys and spoilsports get to be portrayed as republicans. The Queen’s existence means that a flabby “Bah humbug!” emotion is given a rational constitutional backbone and transformed into a credible opinion.
If freedom, democracy, creativity or culture were being celebrated, the non-joiners would have no such rationale for dissent. The royals give them their own non-joiners’ campaign to join. They can pretend that this harmless family is actually a serious financial burden and a threat to democracy, that a significant reason “the living standards of the majority of the population fall and schools and hospitals str
uggle with diminishing resources” is this one antique constitutional anomaly.
It’s no help to me, though. I’m stuck in the middle, between Charles I and Cromwell: too curmudgeonly to dance, too much of a traditionalist to ban dancing. No wonder I don’t get invited to many parties.
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On St George’s Day 2013 the English Tourist Board, which these days is called “Visit England”, formally announced a list of “101 Things to Do Before You Go Abroad”. What a helpful side-effect of defeatism, I thought. It’s given up flogging the dead horse of England’s wintry and rain-streaked attractions and instead has come up with a handy checklist for British tourists jetting off overseas.
One hundred and one things sounded like a lot, though – but maybe it’s a real idiot’s guide. Not just “passport, tickets, pants, ready”, but properly digging down into the detail. Travel’s version of Pippa Middleton’s party book. Instead of telling people they can buy food in supermarkets, it’s “Remember to zip up your suitcase before carrying it out of the house” and “Do not be alarmed by the lion on your passport – it’s only a drawing”.
But I was wrong, of course. You probably realised that. I’ve been wasting your time for two paragraphs. I’m still wasting it now. You should stop staring at this page and get out there: there’s a whole country to be discovered. Which is what the list was saying: 101 things that you can do in England before – in the sense “instead of” – going abroad.
I suppose this is the sort of thing Visit England is meant to do. It’s showing the right sort of industry. Tourism. Which is an industry. Not industry as in chimneys. We don’t have that any more. Which is a good job because it puts off tourism. The stench of sulphur dioxide is a real downer when you’re on the hunt for a cream tea.
The list was carefully compiled. First, “trade and consumers” were invited “to nominate their favourite English experiences by uploading suggestions and pictures to the app”, which is certainly the most instinctive way to communicate. As I’m always saying, if you’re dissatisfied with something in the local area, why not upload an angry picture to your MP’s app?
Then, a wealth of attractions and activities having been uploaded, an expert panel was assembled to choose the best 101. As well as the chairman of Visit England, this consisted of the publishing director of Rough Guides, a chef, four television presenters and a yeoman warder. Plus Wallace and Gromit, who were invited to choose the winner of the “Because It’s Awesome” category.
The other categories are “Food and Drink”, “History and Heritage”, “Arts and Culture”, “Wildlife and Nature” and “Health and Fitness” – they seem to be loosely based on Trivial Pursuit, which makes “Because It’s Awesome” a slightly different category of category and, perhaps in recognition of that, it was judged by fictional characters rather than by live humans and Bill Oddie. After much fictional deliberation, the Plasticine national treasures made “cheese-rolling at Cooper’s Hill” the winner, thereby displaying a much better understanding of the concept of brand identity than the member of Visit England’s staff who reckoned “Because It’s Awesome” was an apt turn of phrase with which to associate not only English tourism, but also a cheese-fixated man and his dog from Wigan who don’t really exist.
To be fair, cheese-rolling is tricky to categorise. It could qualify for any of “Health and Fitness”, “History and Heritage” and “Food and Drink”. And who am I to say that it hasn’t got a shout at “Arts and Culture”, too? It says at least as much about the human condition as a pickled shark. However, what it surely cannot be described as, with all due respect to the prolific Lancastrian inventor and his mouthless dog, is “awesome”. It is not awesome. It is daft. And it is old. It could have won the “Because It’s Daft and Old” category now that Lady Thatcher’s dead.
“Because It’s Daft and Old” wouldn’t be a bad slogan for Visit England. I find it a lot more aesthetically appealing than the approach they seem to be taking with this list, which is dispiritingly wholesome, energetic and young. I wouldn’t contemplate doing many of their 101 things for a fee, let alone as part of a holiday. Even the “Food and Drink” section, which I was naturally drawn to, is laced with activities that seem plucky and keen, such as touring a fish market or visiting an English vineyard – ah, the smell of fish and taste of horrible wine! The rest of it is even worse: “Shop ’til you drop at Birmingham’s Bullring”, “Watch an open-air play”, “Catch the Severn Bore”, “Join a bat patrol at Cheddar Gorge”, “Canoe along the Wye Valley”, “Go ape in the Sherwood Pines”, “Raft down an Olympic course”. It’s like a lost verse from “The Chicken Song”.
There are altogether too many helmets on display in the pictures associated with this list. Not helmets from suits of armour in stately homes but helmets on screaming teenagers who are rafting down rapids, or on cavers, or climbers, or athletic mountain bikers. In fact mountain biking makes the list twice, which is more than scones: it’s at number 88, “Mountain biking in Dalby Forest”, and then later at number 97, “Learn the art of mountain biking”, which suggests that the Dalby Forest excursion was a bit of a baptism of fire. What is it about situations with a vastly increased risk of severe head injury that supposedly puts people in the holiday mood?
Then again, there were plenty of daft and old attractions to appeal to the likes of me in the “History and Heritage” section. They ranged from concrete suggestions – “Lincoln Cathedral”, “Tower of London”, “St Michael’s Mount” – to the more nebulous – “Ancient history in Northumberland”, which must be a reference to the shipbuilding industry, and “Follow in Roman footsteps”. I clicked the “read more” button for this last on the “101 Things” website, wondering if it was going to cop out by suggesting a trip to sunny Rome, but could get no further. A window came up that said: “Please connect with Facebook!” With an insistent exclamation mark, as if I’d been told several times before.
I suppose I have, in various ways. It’s stubborn of me not to comply. But, if Visit England is honest, it should admit that the first thing it’s advocating we all do before going abroad is join Facebook. Why? Because there’s no point in resisting – you can’t even find out the opening hours of a castle without it. Because its power and reach are vast and terrifying. Because, as Wallace and Gromit might put it, it’s awesome.
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Americans inclined to mock the British habit of unnecessarily saying sorry may soon be called upon to apologise as a result of research undertaken by their countrymen. A study conducted by Harvard Business School concluded that people who offer apologies for things that aren’t their fault appear more trustworthy and tend to be welcomed more warmly by strangers than those who don’t.
Maybe that was how our empire was won? A vanguard of diffident apologisers popped up all over the world, sweatily begging pardon for the infernal heat/malaria/monsoon/tigers, and the locals were so charmed that, before their oh-it-really-isn’t-your-faults had been translated into the lovable invader’s language, their raw materials had been lugged on to a gunboat which was already breasting the horizon.
The tests used by these Harvard researchers were less geopolitical and largely involved people asking to use strangers’ mobile phones. For example, one was conducted at a rainswept railway station with a male actor asking to borrow people’s phones, but prefacing the request with the phrase “I’m sorry about the rain!” half the time. When he didn’t apologise for the weather, only 9% lent him their phone but, when he did, it rose to nearly 50%.
I am as delighted by the conclusions drawn as I am unimpressed by the anecdotal nature of the evidence. But the findings stand to reason – particularly as it’s weird to ask to borrow someone’s mobile without any preamble. If the control group were being asked for their phones after no more than an introductory “hello”, then that alone could explain the standoffish response. The apology is a bit of humanising chat to make it clear to the phone-owners that they’re not being mugged.
; Still, in picking the phrase “I’m sorry about the rain!”, I think the Americans reveal that they don’t really understand the superfluous apology. No one, not even someone British, could possibly be so consumed by self-loathing that they think the weather is their fault (except, I suppose, a penitent CEO of a fossil fuel conglomerate), so this apology is not credible but jokey, maybe even flirty. I wonder if the male actor was attractive? That might have elevated his post-weather-apology strike-rate.
If I wanted to borrow someone’s phone in the rain, I’d apologise for bothering them or for not having a functioning phone myself, or I’d simply say sorry without attaching a reason – just a general old-world post-imperial apology for existing. That, in my view, is the necessary preface to any conversation with a stranger if one doesn’t wish to come across as a horrendous egotist.
But I’m glad that this research suggests that “sorry” is a persuasive word. Because the sort of person who sets great store by studies like this is also the sort who might think saying sorry is a sign of weakness – that we should be openly brash and unashamed in order to come across as alpha-predators in the business jungle; people who think there is a key to success and that it might be firm handshakes or loud, confident socks or using as many consonants as possible in job interviews. If these people start training themselves to say “sorry”, instead of “stakeholders” or “going forward”, then the world can only be improved.
Thinking About It Only Makes It Worse: And Other Lessons From Modern Life Page 22
