Stuff Brits Like

by Fraser McAlpine

  But then there’s afternoon tea, which is the one with the cakes on a stand, the china pot, the finger sandwiches, the fancy saucers and the expectation of immaculate manners. That’s the one that really should be called high tea, but because customs don’t always develop in a sensible order with names that take into account other customs that already exist, it isn’t.

  Now that high tea is called just tea, the term high tea—if it is used at all—refers to a version of dinner (or tea) that involves light foodstuffs, salads, and crudités and dips as well as properly cooked items like pork pies, bubble and squeak (fried leftovers, essentially), crumpets, muffins—more commonly known as English muffins elsewhere in the world, although the Brits do call blueberry muffins muffins too—and cheese and pickles. The term pickles tends to refer to preserves like chutney,* rather than pickled onions or pickled cucumbers, which have their own name: gherkin. This is also the affectionate nickname of the London office building that is shaped like a pickled cucumber.

  Then there are cream teas, which are a less formal kind of afternoon tea—unthinkable without a pot of actual tea—in which a plain scone is sliced in half, and each half is treated to a dollop of clotted cream and a dollop of jam, usually strawberry. If you put the cream on first, you are following a firm tradition of the county of Devon, where cream teas are very popular, particularly for tourists. If you put the jam on first, you are following a firm tradition of the county of Cornwall, where cream teas are also very popular, particularly for tourists. Cornwall and Devon are very much the bickering siblings of the West Country, leaving neighbouring Somerset and Dorset looking on, appalled at the lack of decorum.

  Oh, and it may help you to know that there are even disagreements as to how to pronounce the word scone—“skon” as in “gone” and “skown” as in “bone”. Generally speaking, the “skon” people think that the “skown” people have given themselves unnecessary airs and graces and are aspiring to be posh. And the “skown” people think the “skon” people are common and should really look things up in the dictionary before opening their mouths. The fact that both sides are bickering over the correct pronunciation of a small cake is proof that everyone involved in the argument is posh, and the correct pronunciation is, of course, “scone”.

  WHAT TO SAY: “Put the kettle on, will you? I’m spitting feathers here.”

  WHAT NOT TO SAY: “Actually, I pronounce it ‘skonny.’”

  Comedy

  It feels faintly idiotic to try to corral the history of British comedy into one small chapter. It’s a topic that deserves not so much its own book as its own library. And as discussed in other chapters (not least Sarcasm, Cocking a Snook and National Treasures), humour is one of the most commonly used arrows in the British quiver of social interaction. It might be important to be earnest, but it is vital to be funny.

  There are definite strands to British comedy too. There are the family entertainers and natural clowns who came out of the music hall era: Morecambe and Wise, Tommy Cooper, Frankie Howerd. All of whom could hold an audience in raptures just by being present in a room and raising an eyebrow. It’s a similar power that Eddie Izzard has now, as he emits a gleeful “erm . . .” and pretends to write footnotes on his hand. The heirs to this tradition—Michael McIntyre, Peter Kay, Lee Evans—have the chance to stand on some enormous stages in order to lark about because stand-up comedy is big business in Britain right now (and, as always, a thriving cottage industry, too).

  Then there are the strategists and revolutionaries. Spike Milligan taking radio comedy by the scruff of the neck and turning it inside out with The Goon Show. The Monty Python team taking his lead and creating a sketch show in which the ideas often crash into one another or wander off, dazed. The Fast Show going one step further: a sketch show with no set-ups and no opening lines, just repeated catchphrases in constantly new and inventive contexts.

  Over in the satire corner we begin with Beyond the Fringe—Peter Cook, Dudley Moore, Alan Bennett and Jonathan Miller mocking the British establishment so charmingly and thoroughly they even got to take their very British show to New York and it still worked. Yes Minister (and later Yes, Prime Minister) repeated that trick, being hugely beloved of the people in political office it was created to lampoon. Fast-forward fifty years and we find Armando Iannucci, having filleted British politics and the media with The Day Today, The Thick of It and In the Loop, now repeating Beyond the Fringe’s transatlantic journey with Veep.

  And then there are the sitcoms, the true ensemble performances like Dad’s Army, Green Wing, The Vicar of Dibley, The Good Life and Only Fools and Horses and the shows that exist as cages to house comic monstrosities like Basil Fawlty, Tony Hancock, Old Man Steptoe, Alan Partridge, and Patsy and Edina in Absolutely Fabulous. Some shows are blessed with both, like The Young Ones—or Blackadder, in which the only constant over three series of historical shenanigans is Rowan Atkinson’s weary sigh at having to deal with all of these idiots yet again.

  Some comic talents defy categorization, having built a unique world around themselves. Victoria Wood’s skill at delivering the four Ss—sketches, sitcoms, songs and stand-up—is unrivalled; and her tone of voice, even when delivered through the mouths of long-time collaborators Julie Walters or Celia Imrie, is unmistakable. Alan Bennett has the same quality and has even written himself into his own plays—The Lady in the Van—without it appearing jarring or egotistical.

  You’d think that would be enough to be going on with, but audiences are so entranced by dazzling sparks of comedic wit that now there’s a glut of TV panel shows—in effective, staged parlour games in which comics can show off within a predetermined format—just to keep comedians delivering jokes. So many, in fact, that surely some stand-up comedians make the bulk of their earnings from sitting behind a desk on TV, ready to disrupt proceedings with a sharp quip.

  It doesn’t even matter what the theme of the show is. It can be a quiz, like Never Mind the Buzzcocks or Have I Got News for You; it can be a confessional, like Would I Lie to You? or Room 101; it can provide a framework for comics to joust and parry with their improvisatory (or otherwise) one-liners, like Mock the Week; or it can be a tour of the host’s twisted comic imagination with special guests taking the funny flak, like Shooting Stars or Celebrity Juice.

  Some of the best panel shows are on the radio, possibly because this enhances the idea that everyone is sitting around a big table with you, the listener, at the head. There’s Just a Minute (people talking about stuff without deviation, repetition, hesitation or repetition), The News Quiz (satire) and, best of all, I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue. This claims to be “the antidote to panel shows”, largely by dispensing with the idea that any kind of formal tournament is taking place whatsoever.

  There are also the educational panel shows, such as Radio 4’s science discussion The Infinite Monkey Cage and BBC TV’s QI, which often just trots out facts of astonishment with little in the way of comedic editorial, because the truth is quite funny enough, thank you. Actually, part of the fun with that show is watching the panellists—insubordinate Herberts all—try to undermine Stephen Fry’s professorial authority. An eternally entertaining comic impulse that goes back as far as comedy itself.

  WHAT TO SAY: Any line from any show that takes your fancy. They’re all gold.

  WHAT NOT TO SAY: “Fawlty Towers is all very well and good, but it’s no Big Bang Theory, is it?”

  Village Halls and the WI

  To get the full measure of a community and what it values, a decent place to start is the booking diary of the local village hall or community centre. If you see bookings for youth groups, for weight clubs, for orienteering societies and for musical ensembles to rehearse, a picture starts to form. Maybe there’s a decent-sized population of immigrant families who need somewhere to teach their children about the old country, with food and music and dressing-up. Maybe there’s a child’s birthday party and the kids need somewhere to play pass the parcel or musical chairs without de
stroying a living room in the process.

  You’ll find meetings organized by local politicians, exercise classes for the elderly, bingo nights, karate and ballroom dancing; everything from brass bands to am-dram. Some village halls even become places of worship for families whose religion is not represented by local churches. Visiting priests come from far afield just to conduct the right kind of ceremonies.

  But two organizations in particular have prospered in community halls all over the British Isles over the last one hundred years, to the extent that in some cases they’ve ended up building their own venues that still often resemble village halls: the Scouts and the Women’s Institute.

  The Scouts continue in much the same vein as they always have. They start young, with Rainbow Guides and Beaver Cubs, and then work up through Brownies and Cubs to Guides and Scouts. There’s still a uniform—although the girls are not expected to wear Guide dresses any more—and the vows and practices are still the same as ever. An oath of allegiance is sworn to God and the reigning monarch, and there’s a huge emphasis on games, learning skills, badges and camping. This is how a nation, terrified of the prospect of feral youths running in packs, took matters in hand in the Victorian era, and this is the way it continues to do so now. Of course the kinds of youths who tend to run in packs would not be seen dead in a Scout uniform of any description, but that’s not to decry the movement as a whole.

  The Women’s Institute may appear to be similarly buried by its own history, but it is a far more reactive organization than it seems. To look back over the history of the WI (as it is commonly known) in Britain is to view an alternative history of the twentieth century. Although the original aim of the organization—started in Llanfairpwllgwyn-gyll, Wales, in 1915—was to encourage women to take an active role in food production during the First World War, as well as other steps to improve the local community, the WI very quickly became involved in the issues of the day, not least the campaign for women’s suffrage, and began educational programmes that continue to this day. So it promotes that same inspiring mix of self-betterment and community involvement that feeds the Scouting movement (see also: Libraries). This is clearly not something anyone wants to crow about, because that would be unseemly, so certain affectionate myths are commonly bandied about, such as that the WI is all about home baking and Jerusalem—to the extent that when Jennifer Saunders and Abigail Wilson wrote their comedy about a fictitious women’s organization of a similar bent to the WI, they called it Jam & Jerusalem.

  In truth a lot of crafting is involved, whether it’s baking or bunting or pickling, but that’s come back into vogue in recent years in any case. Plus, as any doughnut would demand to know, what’s wrong with jam? And as for “Jerusalem”, William Blake’s mystical lyric describes a spark of the divine landing on British soil and a struggle for the people touched by that spark to make a better world in the midst of industrial wastelands. It’s a perfect metaphor for groups like the WI (and the Scouts), while being opaque enough to sustain the affections of people from any point on the political compass.

  You can see the same combination of aspiration and affectionate rib-digging in the movie Calendar Girls, which is based on the true story of members of the Rylstone Women’s Institute creating a tastefully nude calendar to raise money for leukaemia research. Members may find themselves willingly falling in line with the organization’s traditions on a regular basis, but that doesn’t mean they’re above the odd raised eyebrow (and voice) here and there when the red tape gets a bit too sticky.

  To this day, women go to the WI partly to see what it is about, with a sceptical smirk at the wholesome do-goodery, and before you can say “plum jam” they’re in for the long haul. A branch in Liverpool was even created to welcome women with a particular affection for alternative culture—metal, goth, burlesque and the like. They are called the Iron Maidens, a name that deserves not just a round of applause but that devil-horns hand signal in the air too.

  Their jam is probably Marmite.

  WHAT TO SAY: “Who wants to learn how to make s’mores?”

  WHAT NOT TO SAY: “So this William Blake guy asks a bunch of unanswerable spiritual questions and then talks passionately about getting up and doing something? That’s like every stoner I knew in college.”

  The Archers

  Imagine you’re in a pitch meeting for a brand-new serial drama, one you hope will keep going for sixty-five years or even longer. Sitting around a conference table are some of the finest creative minds in the media, each having been told to work up a locality to start from. All soaps are set in a community in which things happen, and they have to keep happening at just the right velocity to keep people tuning in over and over again. They will require cliff-hangers and intense story lines that play out over several weeks, with sudden twists and turns that no one would have seen coming—acts of betrayal piled upon lastminute changes of heart resting atop the smoking remains of a crashed airplane in the middle of a churchful of wedding guests, just after the bride has run off with a robot replica of the best man’s mum.

  A half hour in, every idea has been savagely torn apart by a shadowy figure sitting at the head of the table. His caustic cigar smoke provides some cover for shame-watered eyes, as the group watch their dreams of making Space Camp 2000 or Wild West Prairie Veterinarians lie scorched and crumpled on the tabletop.

  Then one enterprising soul—the last to speak—pipes up: “Sir,” he begins in a faltering tone, “sir, what if we made a soap opera . . .”

  “Continuing drama,” rasps the voice from the top end. “We never say ‘soap opera’.”

  “Y-yes, sir, that’s what I meant, sir. I mean to say, what if we made a continuing drama about a small rural village in England? We could make it an everyday drama about farming folk . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, and they all end up kissing in the hay. I’ve heard it all before.”

  “No, sir! That is to say, yes, there will be some kissing, of course. But it’s not going to be just an excuse to get beautiful people to flirt. And here’s why: first, we’re going to make the story lines actually focus on the genuine working lives of farming folk . . .”

  “Genuine working li—”

  “And then we’re going to put everything on the radio—a wholesome and respected station like BBC Radio Four—so that no one can even see their faces. We’ll have stories about actual farming problems, with genuinely good advice for any farmers listening in, because that’ll be really useful when we start broadcasting just after the Second World War. But it won’t just be agricultural; we’ll keep abreast of the changing times, of course, and over the course of sixty-five years (and more) we’ll have to explore all manner of dark story lines, but it won’t feel tokenistic and it won’t be rushed just to fit within the repetitive format.”

  “Son, are you telling me—”

  “And the best thing of all, sir, is that we won’t bother with all of those endless extreme cliff-hangers. In fact, most of the time the episodes will just end on the most mundane of climaxes imaginable. None of this Flash Gordon stuff; we just get to the end of the scene at the end of the episode and then—bam!—we’re gone.”

  “But why will anyone want to tune in the next day?”

  “Because they will come to see these people as an extended part of the family; because listening will become part of their routine, part of the fabric of their existence; because we will make sure nothing happens that smacks of sensationalism or artifice. These will be ordinary people doing ordinary things. They won’t be artificially witty or suffer unlikely miscarriages of justice just to keep the ratings up. Their tragedies and celebrations will be exactly the same as those of the people tuning in. No matter what happens, what peaks and troughs the people of . . . of . . . Ambridge!—no matter what they have to put up with, they will endure, life will continue.

  “And we’ll put an incredibly chirpy theme song at the beginning of every episode to welcome listeners, and they’ll be reassured to hea
r it, and eventually it will resound back down their lives to when they were tiny children and they won’t be able to remember a time when they didn’t know what it meant. Even people who don’t listen to the show will find the theme tune reassuring. It will become an alternative national anthem for people who are far from home and in need of comfort.”

  “People will really do that?”

  “If we get the tune just right they will. In fact, if we get the tone of this thing just so, I bet you we can get some listeners to refuse to admit it is even a drama being made at all. We’ll make them feel so welcome that they’ll deliberately avoid finding out the names of the actors and actresses—we’ll have lots and lots and lots of characters so that it’ll be hard to learn them all in any case, and we’ll strongly resist any behind-the-scenes extra footage or documentaries about the making of the show. We will make this community so vivid and real, fans will feel they are sticking their heads into a comfortable world. Bad things will happen, there will be jeopardy and unpleasantness, but nothing so explosive that it lowers the tone.”

  “Hmm. And what if you haven’t grown up with it? What then?”

  “Well, that’s the point. It’s not as if you need to carry a lot of unspoken backstory in your mind the first time you listen. It will be just like overhearing a conversation in a café or on a bus . . .”

  “A what, now?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what I was thinking. I meant to say, like overhearing a conversation at the Ritz . . . It won’t take any time at all to catch up because even the big events will be interspersed with little ones. We’ll have light and shade, tragedy and comedy, intelligence and stupidity, and a really, really good theme tune.”