Watching the English

by Kate Fox

  I was not taken to any weddings for quite a few years after that, which seems a bit unfair, as I had clearly grasped the essential points, and only got the chronological order of things slightly mixed up. The next one I remember was in America, my father’s second marriage. I was eight or nine – old enough this time for a lecture on bifurcate merging kinship terminology and virilocal versus uxori-local post-marital residence patterns, with diagrams. This did not stop me suffering an attack of (mercifully quiet) giggles during the most solemn part of the ceremony. At the time, I felt rather ashamed of myself for being so childish (my father was always telling me to ‘stop being childish’), but I now realise that my urge to laugh was a very English response. We find solemnity discomforting, and somehow faintly ridiculous; the most serious, formal, earnest bits of important ceremonies have an unfortunate tendency to make us want to laugh. This is an uneasy, nervous sort of laughter, a close relation of our knee-jerk humour reflex. Humour is our favourite coping mechanism, and laughter is our standard way of dealing with our social dis-ease.

  We need this coping mechanism even more now that it has become customary at secular weddings for couples to exchange vows that they have written themselves. Curiously, the gist of these is usually much the same as the traditional church marriage vows, only less eloquently and succinctly expressed. But making earnest speeches, especially about personal feelings, is a supremely awkward undertaking for the English, and listening to these self-written vows makes us squirm with embarrassment, so the guests tend to spend this part of the ceremony trying to suppress giggles. Often, the couple themselves can’t get through this embarrassing process without giggling either.

  Once the uncomfortably earnest bits are over, English wedding receptions – and most other rites of passage – ring with laughter: virtually every conversational exchange is either overtly or subtly humorous. This is not, however, necessarily an indication that everyone is having a happy, jolly time. Some may well be feeling genuinely cheerful, but even they are also simply obeying the unwritten English humour rules – rules so deeply ingrained they have become an unthinking, involuntary impulse.

  Dispatching Rites

  Which is one of the reasons why we have a big problem with funerals. There are few rites of passage on Earth as stilted, uncomfortable and excruciatingly awkward as a typical English funeral.123

  The Humour-vivisection Rule

  At funerals we are deprived of our primary social coping mechanism, as our usual levels of humour and laughter are deemed inappropriate on such an officially sad occasion. At other times, we joke constantly about death, as we do about anything that frightens or disturbs us, but funerals are the one time when humour – or, at least, any humour beyond that which raises a wry, sad smile – would be disrespectful and out of place. Without it, we are left naked, unprotected, our social inadequacies exposed for all to see.

  This is fascinating but painful to watch, like some cruel vivisectionist’s animal-behaviour experiment: observing the English at funerals feels like watching turtles deprived of their shells. Denied the full use of our humour reflex, we seem horribly vulnerable, as though some vital social organ has been removed – which in effect it has. Humour is such an essential, hard-wired element of the English character that forbidding (or severely restricting) its use is the psychological equivalent of amputating our toes – we simply cannot function socially without humour. The English humour rules are ‘rules’ principally in the fourth sense of the term allowed by the Oxford English Dictionary: ‘the normal or usual state of things’. Like having toes. Or breathing. At funerals we are left bereft and helpless. No irony! No mockery! No teasing! No banter! No jokey wordplay or double-entendres! How the hell are we supposed to communicate? Perhaps understandably, the vivisection rule is not always observed, as the English humour reflex often proves stronger than accepted funeral etiquette. Although we may avoid the more obvious forms of humour, we find ways to sneak in at least a subtle bit of irony or understatement.

  Earnestness-taboo Suspension and Tear Quotas

  Not only are we not allowed to relieve tension, break ice and generally self-medicate our chronic social dis-ease by making a joke out of everything, but we are expected to be solemn. Not only is humour drastically restricted, but earnestness, normally tabooed, is actively prescribed. We are supposed to say solemn, earnest, heartfelt things to the bereaved relatives, or respond to these things in a solemn, earnest, heartfelt way if we are the bereaved.

  But not too heartfelt. This is only a limited, qualified suspension of the normal taboo on earnestness and sentimentality. Even those family and friends who are genuinely sad are not allowed to indulge in any cathartic weeping and wailing. Tears are permitted; a bit of quiet, unobtrusive sobbing and sniffing is acceptable, but the sort of anguished bawling and howling that is considered normal, and indeed expected, at funerals in many other cultures, would in England be regarded as undignified and inappropriate.

  Even the socially approved quiet tears and sniffles become embarrassing and make people uncomfortable if excessively prolonged, and England is possibly the only culture in the world in which no tears at all is entirely normal and acceptable. Most adult English males do not cry publicly at funerals; if their eyes do start to fill, they will usually brush the wetness away with a quick, angry gesture and ‘pull themselves together’. Although female relatives and friends are more likely to shed a few tears, failure to do so is not taken as a sign of callousness or absence of grief, providing a suitably sombre expression is maintained, broken only by an occasional ‘brave smile’.

  In fact, many will regard such restraint as admirable. There may have been criticism of some members of the royal family for their ‘uncaring’ response to the death of Diana, Princess of Wales, but no one was surprised that her young sons shed only the most minimal, discreet tears at her funeral, having maintained their composure throughout the long walk behind her coffin and, indeed, throughout almost all of the funeral service. They were commended for their bravery and dignity; their smiles and murmured thanks as they accepted the condolences of the crowds during a ‘walkabout’ were widely praised, and somehow far more poignant than any amount of uninhibited noisy sobbing. The English do not measure grief in tears. Too many tears are regarded as somewhat self-indulgent, even a bit selfish and unfair. Grief-stricken relatives who do not cry, or cry only briefly, at a funeral are likely to be seen as showing great courtesy and consideration for others, putting on a brave face to reassure their guests, rather than demanding attention and comfort for themselves. To be more precise, and at the risk of getting into pea-counting mode again, my calculations indicate that the optimum ‘tear quota’ at an average English funeral is as follows:

  •Adult males (close relatives or very close friends of the deceased): one or two brief ‘eye-fillings’ during the service, brusquely brushed away. Brave smiles.

  •Adult males (other): none. But maintain sombre/sympathetic expression. Sad/concerned smiles.

  •Adult females (close relatives or very close friends): one or two short weeps during the service, with optional sniffles; occasional eye-filling, apologetically dabbed with hanky, in response to condolences. Brave smiles.

  •Adult females (other): none, or one eye-filling during service. Maintain sad/sympathetic expression. Sad/concerned smiles.

  •Male children (close relatives/friends): unlimited if very young (under ten, say); older boys one weep during service. Brave smiles.

  •Male children (other): same as for adult males (other).

  •Female children (close relatives/friends): unlimited if very young; older girls roughly double the adult female tear quota. Brave smiles.

  •Female children (other): none required, but brief eye-filling/sniffing during service allowed.

  I am, of course, talking here about a ‘normal’ funeral – exceptions to these unspoken rules and tear quotas will be seen at those desperately sad funerals where the deceased is a child, a young adult, or a mot
her or father of young children. But even on these occasions one does not often see any loud, unrestrained expression of grief – and if anyone does ‘break down’, their anguished sobbing will usually be punctuated with reflex ‘sorries’.

  Quite apart from any genuine grief we may be experiencing, the prohibition on humour, the suspension of the earnestness taboo and the tear quotas make English funerals a highly unpleasant business. We are supposed to switch off our humour reflex, express emotions we do not feel, and suppress most of those we do feel. On top of all this, the English regard death itself as rather embarrassing and unseemly, something we prefer not to think or talk about. Our instinctive response to death is a form of denial – we try to ignore it and pretend it is not happening, but this is rather hard to do at a funeral.

  Not surprisingly, we tend to become tongue-tied, stiff and uncomfortable. There are no universally agreed-upon stock phrases or gestures (particularly among the higher social classes, who regard comforting clichés and platitudes as ‘common’) so we don’t know what to say to each other or what to do with our hands, resulting in a lot of mumbled so-sorries, very-sads and what-can-I-says – and awkward embraces or wooden little arm-pats. Although many funerals are vaguely ‘Christian’, this does not indicate any religious beliefs at all, so references to God or the afterlife are inappropriate unless one is absolutely sure of someone’s faith. If the deceased was over eighty (seventy-five at a pinch) we can mutter something about him or her having had a ‘good innings’ – and some gentle humour is permitted at the post-ceremony gathering – but otherwise we are often reduced to mutely rueful head-shaking and meaningful heavy sighs.

  Clergymen and others delivering formal eulogies at funerals are lucky: they do have stock phrases they can use. Those used to describe the deceased person are a sort of ironic code. It is forbidden to speak ill of the dead, but everyone knows, for example, that ‘always the life and soul of the party’ is a euphemism for drunkenness; ‘didn’t suffer fools gladly’ is a polite way of calling the deceased a mean-spirited, grumpy old sod; ‘generous with her affections’ means she was a promiscuous tart; ‘a tireless raconteur’ means a crashing bore who loved the sound of his/her own voice; and ‘a confirmed bachelor’ has always meant he was gay.

  The ‘Public Outpouring of Grief’ Rule

  Speaking of stock phrases: our reaction to the death and funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales was described by every newspaper, magazine, radio and television reporter as ‘an unprecedented public outpouring of grief’. And I do mean every single one of them – it was almost spooky, the way they all used the exact same phrase. I have already pointed out that this allegedly un-English ‘outpouring’ consisted mainly of orderly, quiet and dignified queuing but, After Diana, the media became very attached to the phrase ‘public outpouring of grief’ and have trotted it out at every possible opportunity ever since. (In fact, contrary to popular opinion, there was no major cultural sea-change in expression of grief following the death of the Princess of Wales: my research on crying indicates that the English are, if anything, rather less inclined to be tearful now than we were before Diana died – and only 11 per cent of us have ever cried at the death of a public figure, so all those famous television images of people crying were of a highly unrepresentative minority. Most of us are made of sterner stuff, or emotionally constipated, depending on your point of view.)

  The considerably more muted response to the Queen Mother’s death (which, incidentally, also consisted largely of queuing) was inevitably described as ‘a public outpouring of grief’. So was the even less impressive reaction to the death of the former Beatle George Harrison. Every time a child or teenager is murdered or dies in some other newsworthy manner, and a dozen or so friends and sympathisers lay flowers outside their house, school gates or local church, this is now a ‘public outpouring of grief’. Pretty much anyone who dies in the public eye, unless they were for some reason widely detested, can nowadays expect nothing less than a ‘public outpouring of grief’.

  The death of a public figure who is widely detested, such as the former prime minister Margaret Thatcher, generally prompts a public outpouring of . . . jokes. Within seconds of the news breaking that Thatcher had died, the torrent of caustic humour began, starting in typical English fashion with a pun: ‘Rust in Peace’ – a reference to Thatcher’s ‘Iron Lady’ nickname.

  More elaborate jokes swiftly followed, including revellers drinking milk and handing out free glasses of milk on the streets, and a milk bottle placed in ironic tribute outside her house – references to an earlier epithet, ‘Maggie Thatcher, Milk Snatcher’, from 1971 when, as education minister, she abolished free milk for schoolchildren, an act seen as an early example of her callous lack of compassion for the less fortunate.

  A media and internet debate ensued about whether or not Thatcher should be given the honour of a full ‘state funeral’, punctuated by jokes such as ‘A state funeral for Thatcher? Surely she would want to go private?’ This was, of course, a reference to her constant championing of private industry at the expense of the public sector, and her penchant for privatising formerly nationalised industries – also highlighted in jokes such as ‘Maggie has only been in Hell for twenty minutes, and she’s already privatised all the furnaces’. When the prolific joke-mongers were criticised for ‘lack of compassion’ towards the deceased, they responded with ‘To those concerned about lack of compassion: don’t worry, it’s what she would have wanted.’

  There were also many less humorous and more vitriolic comments, as well as demonstrations, burning of effigies and so on – and, of course, many reverent eulogies from Thatcher’s equally numerous supporters. But these were all pretty much what one would expect at the death of a controversial leader in any country with free speech – although media reaction in the US to the death of Thatcher’s equally controversial ally Ronald Reagan seemed to consist almost entirely of gushing tributes.

  The media here, by contrast, generally seem to accept that the ‘speak no ill of the dead’ rule for friends and relations at private funerals does not apply to public discourse about a dead politician. They gave more or less equal coverage to the eulogisers and to the protesters and satirists. When one satirist’s campaign managed within a week to propel the song ‘Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead’ to number two in that week’s pop charts, the BBC came under intense pressure from Tory MPs not to play it on the official Radio 1 chart show. In typically English fashion, the BBC eventually compromised, playing a short clip that included all of the ‘controversial’ chorus, but not the entire song. Neither side was entirely happy with this decision, but both were able to claim a victory of sorts.

  CALENDRICAL RITES AND OTHER TRANSITIONS

  Calendrical rites include big celebrations such as Christmas and New Year’s Eve, and others that occur at the same time every year, such as Easter, May Day, harvest festival, Hallowe’en and Guy Fawkes’ Night, as well as Mothering Sunday, Valentine’s Day and bank holidays. I’m including our annual summer holidays in this category, as they are seasonal and therefore essentially calendrical, even though they do not occur on fixed dates. (Some nit-pickers might argue that the summer holiday is not, strictly speaking, a ‘rite’, or at least not in the same sense as Christmas or harvest festival, but I think it qualifies, and will explain why later.) Also in this category would be the daily/weekly work-to-play transitional ritual of after-work drinks in the pub, but I’ve already covered this one in detail in Work to Rule (page 301).

  Under ‘other transitions’, I’m including life-cycle rites of passage other than the major ones covered above – such as retirement celebrations, ‘significant’ birthdays (decade marks) and wedding anniversaries (silver, golden) – and rituals marking other social/place/status/lifestyle transitions, such as housewarmings and ‘leaving dos’.

  This all adds up to an awful lot of rites, many of which, like the major life-cycle transitions, are in most respects largely similar to their equivalents in other moder
n Western industrialised cultures. Gifts, parties, special meals, songs and decorations at Christmas; chocolate eggs at Easter; cards and flowers on Valentine’s Day; alcohol at almost all festive occasions; food at most; etc. Rather than attempt to describe each rite in exhaustive detail, I will focus mainly on the broader unwritten social rules governing peculiarly English patterns of behaviour associated with these rites.

  All human cultures have seasonal and transitional celebratory rites of some sort. Other animals just automatically register things such as the passing of the seasons, and adjust their behaviour accordingly: humans have to make a huge song-and-dance about every little calendrical punctuation mark. Fortunately for anthropologists, humans are also quite predictable, and tend to make pretty much the same kind of song-and-dance about such things – or, at least, the festivities of different cultures tend to have a lot of features in common. Singing and dancing, for example. Most also involve eating, and virtually all involve alcohol.

  The Role of Alcohol

  The role of alcohol in celebration is particularly important in understanding the English, and requires a little bit of explanation. In all cultures where alcohol is used at all, it is a central element of celebration. There are two main reasons for this. First, carnivals and festivals are more than just a bit of fun: in most cultures, these events involve a degree of ‘cultural remission’ or even ‘festive inversion’. Behaviour that would normally be frowned upon or even explicitly forbidden (e.g. promiscuous flirting, raucous singing, cross-dressing, jumping in fountains, talking to strangers, etc.) may, for the duration of the festivities, be actively encouraged. These are liminal periods – marginal, borderline intervals, segregated from everyday existence, allowing us, briefly, to explore alternative ways of being. There is a natural affinity between alcohol and liminality, whereby the experience of intoxication mirrors the experience of ritually induced liminality. The chemical effects of alcohol echo the cultural chemistry of the festival.