eruption of outrage and frustration that can at best cloud an otherwise lovely day, and at worst make you resolve to chuck yourself off the nearest bridge. You are lying in a dentist’s chair, for example, waiting quietly for an anaesthetic to “take”, and the dental nurse says, next to your left ear, “Anyway, I booked that flight and it had gone up forty quid.” At which the dentist says, in your right ear, “No! What, in two hours?” And you say, rather hotly, “Look, I’m not unconscious, you know”, and then they don’t say anything, but you know they are rolling their eyes at each other, and agreeing that you are certifiable or menopausal, or possibly both.
Whether it’s merely a question of advancing years bringing greater intolerance I don’t think I shall bother to establish. I will just say that, for my own part, I need hardly defend myself against any knee-jerk “grumpy old woman” accusations, being self-evidently so young and fresh and liberal and everything. It does, however, have to be admitted that the outrage reflex (“Oh, that’s so RUDE!”) presents itself in most people at just about the same time as their elbow skin starts to give out. Check your own elbow skin. If it snaps back into position after bending, you probably should not be reading this book. If, on the other hand, it just sits there in a puckered fashion, a bit rough and belligerent, then you can probably also name about twenty things, right now, off the top of your head, that drive you nuts: people who chat in the cinema; young people sauntering four-abreast on the pavement; waiters who say, “There you go” as they place your bowl of soup on the table; people not even attempting to lower their voices when they use the “Eff” word. People with young, flexible elbow skin spend less time defining themselves by things they don’t like. Warn a young person that “Each man becomes the thing he hates”, and he is likely to reply, quite cheerfully, that that’s OK, then, since the only thing he really hates is broccoli.
By contrast, I now can’t abide many, many things, and am actually always on the look-out for more things to find completely unacceptable. I find myself thinking that bringing back National Service for men between the ages of 15 and 35 might be an excellent thing. I also entertain pleasant fantasies about the compulsory culling of those who obstinately refuse to learn the rules of the apostrophe. Yet I still, amazingly, deny a rightward drift in my thinking. I merely ask, in all innocence: isn’t it odd, the way many nice, youngish liberal people are beginning secretly to admire the chewing-gum penalties of Singapore? Isn’t it odd, the way nice, youngish liberal people, when faced with a teenaged boy skateboarding in Marks & Spencer’s, feel a righteous urge to stick out a foot and send him somersaulting into the Per Una Section? I will admit that the mere thought of taking such direct and beautiful vengeance – “There he goes!” – fills me with a profound sort of joy.
Why is this not a handbook to good manners? Why will you not find rules about wielding knives and forks, using a mobile phone, and sending thank-you notes? I have several reasons for thinking that the era of the manners book has simply passed. First, what would be the authority of such a book, exactly? Why would anyone pay attention to it? This is an age of lazy moral relativism combined with aggressive social insolence, in which many people have been trained to distrust and reject all categorical answers, and even (I’ve noticed with alarm) to dispute points of actual law without having the shadow of a leg to stand on. However, this is not to say that manners are off the agenda in today’s rude world. Far from it. In fact, what is so interesting about our charming Eff-Off society is that perceived rudeness probably irritates rough, insolent people even more than it peeves polite, deferential ones. As the American writer Mark Caldwell points out in A Short History of Rudeness (1999), if you want to observe statusobsessed people who are exquisitely sensitive to slights, don’t read an Edith Wharton novel, visit San Quentin. Rudeness is a universal flashpoint. My main concern in writing this book is to work out why, all of a sudden, this is the case.
Another argument against laying down rules of etiquette is that we no longer equate posh behaviour with good behaviour, which is a splendid development, posh people being notoriously cruel to wildlife and apt to chuck bread rolls at each other when excited. Who wants to behave like a posh person? I know I don’t. I recently met a very posh person, the husband of (let’s say) a theatrical producer, and when I asked if he was himself in (let’s say) theatrical producing, he just said, “Oh God, no”, and refused to elaborate. Is this good manners? Well, the best you can say about it is that it’s very English, which is not the same. As the anthropologist Kate Fox points out in her fascinating Watching the English (2004), it is a point of honour in English society to effect all social introductions very, very badly. “One must appear self-conscious, ill-at-ease, stiff, awkward, and above all, embarrassed,” she writes. The handshake should be a confusion of half-gestures, apologies, and so on. And as for cheek-kissing, it is an established rule that someone will always have to say, “Oh, are we doing two?” Also essential in the introductory process, she says, is that on no account should you volunteer your own name or ask a direct question to establish the identity of the person you are speaking to.
I must admit that this last rule explained quite a lot to me. My standard behaviour at parties is to announce straight away who I am, and then work quite strenuously to ascertain the name and profession of the person I’m speaking to – mainly because I wish to avoid that familiar heart-stopping moment at the end of the evening when the host says, “So what did you make of my old friend the Archbishop of Canterbury, then? Looks good in mufti, doesn’t he? You seemed to be telling him off-colour jokes for hours.” However, it turns out that asking direct questions is socially naff, while the “Oh God, no” response is the one that is actually demanded by the compensatory instincts of good breeding. No wonder I have so often ended up playing Twenty Questions with chaps who seem to pride themselves on being Mister Clam the Mystery Man.
“So. Here we are at Tate Modern,” I say. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name. I expect you are front-page famous which will make this an embarrassing story to tell all my clued-up friends.”
“Oh no.”
“No?”
“Well, I’m known to a select few, I suppose. Mainly abroad. Nineteen.”
“Pardon?”
“You’ve got nineteen questions left. You’ve just used one.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. All right. Are you in the arts?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. Eighteen.”
“Are you animal, vegetable, or mineral, ha ha?”
“Mm. Like everybody, I believe, I’m mainly water. Seventeen.”
“I see. Well. Look. Are you the Archbishop of Canterbury?”
“No. Although there have been some notable clerics in the female line. Sixteen.”
“Do your bizarre trousers hold any clue to your profession?”
“How very original of you to draw attention to my bizarre trousers. Fifteen.”
“Do you own a famous stately home in the north of England?”
“Um, why do you ask?”
“Just a wild stab.”
“Well, I like your style, but no. Fourteen.”
“I give up. Who are you?”
“Not allowed. Thirteen.”
“All right. I was trying to avoid this. If I got someone strong to pin your arms back, where would I find your wallet?”
It’s always been this way, apparently,
