by Iain Aitch
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FAGGOTS
Oh, how times change the meaning of a word, with this traditional West Midlands melange of pork offal declining in popularity ever since Hollywood brought us the derogatory American interpretation of the term (see homosexuality). Many men now baulk at the idea of cheerily informing their workmates that they are off into town to pick up some faggots, though some do use this confusion as an excuse to their wives when arrested for offering sexual favours to an undercover police officer at a local public convenience. The main UK manufacturer of faggots is Brain’s, which doesn’t really get the product off on the right foot and lets your mind wander too far from offal. In 2003, Brain’s tried to re-popularise their product by starting a nationwide search for a ‘faggot family’ to head up its National Faggot Week campaign. Our transatlantic cousins found it hard to contain their mirth at the whole concept when it was reported online and on news channels, especially when the names of the winners were announced: the Doody family.
FÊTES
Every summer, our rural communities (see villages) and school playgrounds are filled with the sounds of breaking crockery, smashing pianos and the retching of underage drinkers being sick on some Crème de Menthe that they won on the tombola. The summer fête is both a celebration of the amateur and an insight into the dubious hobbies and talents of those who live around us. So we can enjoy the food-poisoning lottery of various homemade chutneys and cakes as well as discover that our neighbour’s spaniel is a dab hand at doggie gymkhana or that the local greengrocer breeds ferrets and can play almost all of the current top ten on the spoons. The highlight of any fête is always something with a competitive element, whether that is the piano smashing competition between local pubs, the It’s a Knockout contest involving parents and teachers (see it’s a knockout) or simply the awarding of prizes for the finest giant vegetables.
FISH AND CHIPS
Our national snack food combines the essential food groups of protein, carbohydrate and grease into what has traditionally been an affordable staple. Now, though, with dwindling fish stocks and climate change, the meal is becoming more an expensive treat than a regular meal. The white fish (be it cod, haddock, rock salmon or skate) should be dipped in batter and fried as fiercely as the chips. Arguments rage over whether nut oils or lard are best, though everyone agrees that if you are served thin French fry-style chips with your fish then you should legally be allowed to spit in the face of the vendor. Salt and vinegar is essential, though this is also an area of dispute: some chip shops serve malt vinegar, some serve white vinegar and others offer acetic acid, which is branded as ‘non-brewed condiment’.
FIVE WORDS
In 2007, Prime Minister Gordon Brown was searching around for a slogan for Britain that would neatly sum up the nation in five words or so and could be used as something for everyone to get behind. In the 1970s there was the ‘I’m Backing Britain’ campaign, which used similar calls for patriotism to help Britain work itself out of economic strife. Bruce Forsyth even released a record calling on workers to toil for an extra hour for no pay. Nice one, Bruce. Obviously, ‘We’re British, Innit’ would make an ideal slogan for Britain and it’s snappy enough, though ‘Closed Half-Day on Thursday’ would also work. ‘Bugger off Fritz’ would be popular, as would ‘Fuck the French’, especially if painted on the White Cliffs of Dover large enough to be read from Calais. We could use this exercise to make ourselves seem far cooler than we are. ‘We’ll sleep when we’re dead’ makes us sound like rocking party animals and would look pretty good emblazoned on the Union Flag. Perhaps we are better off sticking with what we know best, so ‘Fancy a Cuppa?’ (see tea) or ‘Britain: Bring an Umbrella’ would both be perfect.
FLASKS
Whether you are attending a picnic in June or a football match in January then a flask is an essential piece of kit for keeping your tea or your oxtail soup at the correct temperature. The most British of flasks is the tartan variety, possibly showing the odd dent from picnic frivolity past or from when you had to use it to defend yourself against a gang of Millwall fans at London Bridge station. The vacuum flask (often simply known by the brand name of Thermos) can also be used to keep cold drinks cold, but that would be a very un-British thing to do, with the possible exception of lemon squash on a very hot day (the front page of at least one major tabloid should be about the heat for this to be applicable).
FLORAL CLOCKS
The floral clock is a largely dying art form, which was usually tended by civic gardening teams (see gardening) in seaside towns. These flowery timepieces would be set on cliff tops or prominent roundabouts, with the full clock face made from a bright array of flowers and bedding plants. The most famous floral clock in the UK is the original blooming chronometer in Edinburgh, which has been around since 1903. The Edinburgh clock still keeps time, but many floral clocks around the UK no longer function, simply being correct twice a day and having no actual clock mechanism. Floral clocks are seen as outmoded now, with most of us having watches or mobile phones to tell us the time. Some experiments were made with digital floral clocks in the 1980s, though the form could be in with a chance of a comeback, as Scarborough Town Council seeks to make their resort the first to have a floral internet.
FOLK MUSIC
British folk music could be said to be a major influence in the history of modern music, with many of the songs from these shores wending their way across the Atlantic and, eventually, into the roots of American rock. Yet our folk music is generally derided, not least of all by ourselves. Irish and American folk are both celebrated and perfectly acceptable to play at a party, whereas ours would generally clear a room. This is a shame, as our legacy of song includes some of the most interesting, twisted and violent ditties known to man. Even Eminem or 50 Cent would blush at some of the material. Though the legacy of British folk has been tainted by the existence of horribly floral saccharine folk-pop acts like Steeleye Span and the popularity of Scotland the Brave as a digital watch alarm tune during the early 1980s. But for that, teenagers would be standing on street corners trying to work out a three-part harmony to a particularly beautiful number about incest, rape and murder.
FOOTBALL
The people’s game, as it is often known, was actually developed and established at fancy schools and universities in the mid-nineteenth century, though it eventually found its audience and its enthusiasts among working class men. The Football Association was founded in England in 1863 and some of those original founders still remain in charge of the English game, being kept alive in oxygen tents at Soho Square and occasionally suckling at the man-breasts of Brian Barwick. The world’s first international game was in 1872, between England and Scotland, and the FA Cup was founded the same year. Games from Britain are now seen the world over, meaning that up to 65 per cent of the world’s population dislike Robbie Savage intensely, while an estimated 40 per cent are totally disinterested in the league position of Wigan Athletic.
FOOTBALL PHONE-IN SHOWS
We are the nation that gave football to the world, meaning that we have had the longest to develop folklore, rivalries, passion and incoherent bile about the beautiful game. All of these things and more come to a head on the football phone-in radio (or even, somewhat perversely, TV) shows, which usually take place just after games have finished. Fans call in to express elation or to contemplate managerial changes and new tactical formations, sometimes from the precipices of tall buildings. Everything from slating players’ wages to suggesting the manager utilise a fifteen-year-old youth team player is acceptable, as is questioning the parentage of referees and the perceived sexual practices of rival teams’ players. If possible, disputes from games in the early 1900s should be dragged up and used to rubbish opponents’ ethics, playing style or choice of shirt design.
FOOTBALL POOLS
This system of guessing the outcome of various football matches has always been seen as the working man’s way of escaping his lot and striking it rich, enabling him to
stick two fingers up to the boss and buy a villa in Spain. Started by Littlewoods in 1923, the predicting of draws or wins was seen as a skill rather than game of chance, placing it outside the existing gambling laws. Before long the prizes available ran into hundreds of thousands of pounds and then reached a million pounds. Gathering around the radio or television for the football results at 4.45 pm on a Saturday became an act of almost religious significance for huge swathes of the population. During the winter months a shadowy cabal known as the Pools Panel sit in darkened rooms to decide what they think the outcome of postponed matches would have been, so that the right number of points can be awarded to those who have predicted the game may have been a win or draw. No one knows who the members of the panel are, though recent rumours have included Elvis, Lord Lucan and Shergar, who is said to stamp once for a draw and twice for an away win.
FOX HUNTING
Mixing our propensity for caring about anything with a fluffy tail (see nation of animal lovers) with our natural urge to wage class war, the subject of fox hunting has been a political hot potato for over a hundred years. A ban on the bloodsport came into force in February 2005, with members of the pro-hunting Countryside Alliance predicting that the countryside would become a barren wasteland without large groups of people in red coats riding around chasing after foxes. But it was all still there last time I looked, green fields and all. Many of the hunts have found ways of defying the ban, now having to be every bit as ingenious as those who used to campaign against and sabotage hunts. Perhaps the most marvellous part of the whole hunt ban end game was the surreal sight of thousands of tweed-clad toffs (see harris tweed) marching through the streets of London while crusty punks stood on the sidelines cheering on police brutality and pondering whether these people didn’t have jobs to go to (with many being from the landed gentry they indeed did not have jobs to go to, unless you count their seat in the House of Lords).
FRIED BREAKFAST
Also known as the full breakfast and usually featuring the name of the part of Britain it is served in, this is the breakfast that tourists expect to be faced with when they visit the UK (see bed and breakfast). There are various arguments about what it should include, but bacon, sausage, fried eggs and some form of tomato seem to be agreed upon by all, with baked beans (see baked beans) being essential unless you are served it somewhere that fancies itself as upmarket. The full English can include fried bread and black (‘blood’) pudding, whereas the full Scottish can also feature white pudding and a slice of square sausage. Welsh diners expect lava bread (a mix of oats and seaweed) before their breakfast can be considered ‘full’, and an Ulster fry must contain a slice or two of the soda bread, known as farl, before it is complete. A full breakfast should feature tea and toast and be followed by ten hours of punishing physical labour or a two-hour lie-down. Overseas visitors should not attempt to complete the breakfast ritual on successive days without training their stomach for at least two weeks before their trip to the UK by swallowing at least a kilo of bread soaked in animal fat each day.
FRIED CHICKEN
In the beginning we only had Kentucky Fried Chicken in the UK, with their creepy Colonel Sanders, their bargain buckets and their secret blend of herbs and spices. Being Brits, we grew tired of this chickenopoly and so imitations began to spring up in every town centre, meaning that the streets became ankle deep in chicken bones and our high streets ever more emblazoned with the stars and stripes of the USA. Naturally none of these shops could claim to be making fried chicken that hailed from Kentucky, so they instead invoked the name of any vaguely southern-sounding state or just added something folksy to the word ‘chicken’, so we wound up with Dixy Chicken and the fantastically poorly-judged Chicken Cottage. Presumably no one has told them that the name of their restaurants make them sound like a public toilet where one might go to pick up young boys. Oh, come on! People are sniggering as they go past.
FRUITCAKE
The combination of dried fruits, nuts and spices into a cake makes for one of our nation’s favourite accompaniments to tea and provides a truly evocative taste of Britain. Whether soaked in whisky, smothered in Christmas icing or made eggless in wartime, the fruitcake is a staple that we do not like to go too long without. It is often the subject of a ‘guess the weight of the cake’ competition at village fêtes (see fêtes) and has also sustained and cheered British troops in battle. The cake also gives us just one of the many British names for the eccentrics that make up our populace, with a fruitcake being shorthand for a lovable-yet-unhinged individual. It is a little known fact that the Queen is a dab hand at making fruitcake and enters her efforts into the baking competition at a local fête, using a pseudonym. Her Dundee cake won second prize last year, though her standard fruitcake was unplaced.
FUDGE
No matter where you go in the UK you will be able to walk into a shop in that town and buy a box of fudge with a picture postcard of where you are attached to the front. The fudge industry is now more important than coal mining, with many small towns now living on a fudge-based economy. This has been taken to its logical and almost terrifying conclusion in the New Forest town of Burley, where every retail outlet has now been turned over to the selling of fudge. This has lead to several problems in the area, with those new to the area running out to the corner shop for milk only to return with a half-pound of rum and raisin-flavoured fudge. Similarly, the takeaway food options are somewhat unorthodox, with local byelaws dictating that The Peking restaurant can only offer Szechuan fudge or a very sweet and only slightly sour fudge dish.
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GARDEN FENCES
A good garden fence is said to make for good neighbours. It should be large enough to stop them peering over whenever you are having a barbecue or when your teenage daughter is experimenting with topless sunbathing, but it should also be low enough so you can at least exchange a few words about the weather over it. Ownership and repair of fences can be a great source of trouble between neighbours, but you should remember that ownership in most cases is split right down the middle of the fence itself. You own the piece that is on your side of the property, so even if your neighbour had paid for it to be put up you still have the right to draw an oversized phallus on your side, accompanied by an arrow and the word ‘wanker’ (see wanker). The growing of Leylandii trees as fencing caused a large number of neighbour disputes in Britain, with the fast-growing trees eventually tamed by the Anti-Social Behaviour Act of 2003 (see asbo), which was a bit of a letdown for vindictive lonely types with green fingers.
GARDENING
The British love of gardening is reflected in our economy, our leisure activities and our television scheduling, with even the time away from digging and hoeing spent buying books to tell us how to do it better, travelling to garden centres or watching programmes about it. The garden is our gym, our therapist and our escape. Without begonias to pot on, leaves to mulch and slugs to kill we would probably be engaged in some kind of bloody civil war. The Radio 4 programme Gardener’s Question Time is essential listening for anyone who wishes to understand our love of the pastime. The show shifts the subject of gardening up towards the intensity of fierce political debate, and there was even gossip about the formation of a breakaway provisional wing of the Royal Horticultural Society after a 1992 on-air disagreement between panellists about the correct pruning of fruit trees.
THE GERMANS
We shall fight them on the beaches (see churchill, winston), we shall fight them on the football field and we shall fight them over the sunloungers. Everyone needs a nemesis and our longest-running, most deep-rooted animosity is definitely reserved for Germany and its people. Every sitcom has had its German victims (most notably in the ‘Don’t mention the war’ skit in Fawlty Towers) and the tabloid press (see tabloids) goes into anti-German overdrive when we come up against Fritz – I mean Germany – in a football tournament. Names such as krauts, the Hun, the Bosch, squareheads and sauerkraut-munchers are bandied around and allusions to our vict
ories in ‘two World Wars and one World Cup’ are made. This conflict goes back to World War I and beyond, though the uncomfortable truth may be that our hatred is largely due to a loathing of how closely we resemble our Teutonic cousins. They are, after all, the mainstream Europeans that white Britons most resemble physically, our cuisines are held in similar disdain and both sides of the British Royal Family have German ancestry. We fight them because we fear becoming them, with their efficient motor industry, much-admired economy and tendency to examine their stools of a morning.
