WE’RE BRITISH, Innit

AN IRREVERENT A-Z OF

ALL THINGS BRITISH

IAIN AITCH

Contents

Introduction

Alcopops

Ale

Allotments

Amateurism

Ants

Apologising

The Archers

Architecture

Argos

Aristocracy

ASBOS

Autumnwatch/Springwatch

Badgers

Baked beans

Bandstands

Bangers and mash

Baths

Beach huts

The Beatles

Bed and breakfast

Beefeaters

Binge drinking

Bisto

Blanket

Blitz spirit

Blue Peter

Blyton, Enid

Boat race

Bond, James

Boudica

Bowler hats

Boxing day

The BBC

Britpop

Brussels sprouts

Bulldog

Bunting

Burberry

Burns, Robert

Caravanning

Carry On

Changing the Guard

Chav

Cheese rolling

Chips with

Church bells

Churchill, Winston

Church of England

Cider

Civil service

Class

Commonwealth

Constitution

Coo-ee

Cooking lager

Cool Britannia

Corner shop

Coronation Street

Cricket

Cricket test

Crumpets

Cucumber sandwiches

Custard

Daffodils

Darwin, Charles

Deckchairs

Deep frying

Dickens, Charles

Dining at the roadside

Doctor Who

Dogging

Dogs

Dog poo

Dole

Donkeys

Double-deckers

Double entendre

Drag

Dr Martens boots

Eastenders

Eccentricity

Elgar, Edward

Empire

The English Channel

Ernie

Exploration

Faggots

Fêtes

Fish and chips

Five words

Flasks

Floral clocks

Folk music

Football

Football phone-in shows

Football pools

Fox hunting

Fried breakfast

Fried chicken

Fruitcake

Fudge

Garden fences

Gardening

The Germans

Gin and tonic

Glastonbury

Glyndebourne

Gnomes

Golf

Gossip

Grammar

Grand National

Greasy spoons

Great Britain

Green fields

Guy Fawkes Night

Hackney carriage

Haggis

Half day closing

Harrods

Harris Tweed

Having a go

Hedgerow

Holiday camps

Home internationals

Homosexuality

Hoodies

Hornbies

Horse racing

House prices

HP Sauce

Iceland

Immigration

Imperial mesaurements

Innit

Inventors

Irn Bru

It’s a Knockout

Jerusalem

Jordan

Jumble sales

Kagouls

King Henry V

King Henry VIII

Kissing

Knotted handkerchiefs

Kray twins

Languages

Lawns

Leaving the country

Limousines

Local

Loch Ness Monster

Lock-in

Lurgy

Magna Carta

Marks and Spencer

Marmalade

Marmite

Mathematical possibility

Milkman

Mini

Mini skirt

Model villages

Monarchy

Monty Python

Morris dancing

Mushy peas

Mustn’t grumble

National Anthem

National Health Service

National Lottery

National Trust

Nation of animal lovers

Nelson

Net curtains

Newsnight

Nighties

Oak trees

Old money

Ordnance Survey

Orwell, George

Ovaltine

Oxbridge

Page 3

Panic buying

Pantomime

Passport

Pasties

Pea soupers

Pebbly beaches

Perry, Fred

Pie, mash and liquor

Piers

Pies

Pigeons

Pimms

Police

Poppies

Poor service

Pork scratchings

Pot noodle

Princess Diana

Proms

Pub crawls

Public school

Pubs

Pub triples

Puddings

Punch and Judy

Punk

Queen Elizabeth I

Queen Elizabeth II

Queen’s English

Queen Victoria

Queuing

Radio 4

Rain

Rambling

Readers’ wives

Red Arrows

Rhubarb

Richard, Cliff

Rich Tea biscuits

Roast beef

Robin Hood

Robins

Rock

Rolling hills

Rolls Royce

Rounds

Royal Mail

Royaume Uni

Rude vegetables

Rugby

St Andrew

St David

St George

St George’s flag

St Patrick

Saying hello

Schadenfreude

Scones

Seaside

Shakespeare, William

Shipping forecast

Shock jocks

Skin

Smash

Socks with sandals

Sounds of Britain

Sovereign rings

Sparrows

Spitfire

Spotters

Stag nights

Stiff upper lip

Stonehenge

Strippers

Suet

Sundays

Swinging Sixties

Tabloids

Tea

Tea (as a meal)

Teeth

Telephone boxes

Tennent’s Super

Texting

Thatcher, Margaret

Thomas, Dylan

Times crossword

Tit Tuesday

Tizer

Torremolinos

Tower of London

Town criers

Truculence

The Tube

Tunnock’s

2-Tone

Umbrellas

Understatement

Union Flag

Unswerving Optimism

VAT

Vesta

Vests

Vicars

Villages

V-sign

Wanker

War games

Warm beer

Weather

Whisky

White Cliffs of Dover

Wimbledon

Wimpy

Working men’s clubs

World War II

Xenophobia

X Factor

X-ray

Yard of ale

YBAs

Yellow lines

Y-fronts

Yobs

Zero tolerance

Z-list

Zoophilia

How British Are You?

Acknowledgements

Index

Copyright

About the Publisher

Introduction

Whether we see ourselves in the misty mornings of George Orwell’s describing, Bill Bryson’s fondly mocking words, the photographs of Martin Parr or the characters of Little Britain, we Brits are always looking to work out who we are and to maintain our idea of what it is to be British. As an island race, this identity is of paramount importance to us, and one that we have literally fought to maintain over the years. Yet, ask any group of Britons what the ideas, characteristics or items that define the nation are and you will get myriad different answers. It could be fish and chips, a sense of fair play or simply the ability to form an orderly queue at the drop of a hat. Though those questioned are just as likely to pick up on our love of tea, our complete disdain for the metric system or our ability to rattle on endlessly about the weather. Whatever Britain is, it does not stay the same for long. We know what we like and we love our traditions, but we are also endlessly adaptable and willing to give things a go. How else do you explain the success of the chicken tikka massala or dado rails?

This A-Z of Britishness is an attempt to finally pin down what it is that makes us British in the twenty-first century, as well as allowing you to measure your character, loves and dislikes against what I feel is the most definitive list yet created. Think of it as a kind of Citizenship Test for those who already hold a passport or as an alternative learning guide for those who wish to get their hands on one. This is the real Britain, not one filtered through the eyes of civil servants and politicians. This is the dictionary of the Britain that you know and love, whether you ever whisper those three little words to it or not. This is not the sterile Britain shown in the photographs of a pamphlet issued by Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, rather this is the Britain that finds Barbara Windsor as inspiring as Winston Churchill, the Britain that is still mildly suspicious of the ‘continental’ quilt. It is the Britain that wept for Princess Diana yet thinks her brother is a bit smug, the Britain that knows that pub that shows the football on a dodgy satellite hook-up from Turkey. It is the Britain that keeps our manicured lawn so tidy by throwing the slugs over the neighbour’s fence and the Britain that pays the babysitter in alcopops.

This being a list of all things British, it will of course contain a good degree of the humour that we have become noted for. Endlessly self-deprecating, the British sense of humour is a huge part of our make-up. The ability to laugh at ourselves during times of turmoil, tragedy and the wrong kind of snow is what keeps us going when things are at their darkest, which is generally during an August Bank Holiday. Often painted as a pessimistic ‘glass half-empty’ nation, we merely have a point of view that the rest of Europe and the world do not understand. After all, a glass half-empty means that it is probably someone’s round. Cheers! Mine’s a pint of Spitfire. They don’t like it up ‘em the Germans.

Naturally, musing on nationhood and Britishness brings up questions of nationality, nationalism, devolution and where we stand as this uneasy alliance of England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. Is the West Lothian question getting easier every year? And will the broadsheets soon contain pictures of gorgeous blonde twins who have answered it correctly? When are we Great Britain, when are we the United Kingdom and when are we the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland? One thing is for sure, and that is that we are Royaume Uni during the Eurovision Song Contest. This is the only time, apart from during a particularly good Euromillions rollover, when we are ever allowed to think of ourselves as a part of Europe as a whole. Camp disco and camper heavy metal, yes. Single currency and kilometres, no. Such is the complicated nature of Britishness.

Within these pages you will find reference to everything from the rolling hills to the rolling cheeses that descend them on a summer’s day. There are the people who have a special place in our history and those who have a special place in our hearts. Then there are the sights, sounds and even smells that make Britain what it is. Some of you are bound to disagree with the final selections, but let’s not fight about it. Or if we do then at least let us take our jackets off before we begin; after all we are not French. There is an email address at the bottom of the page where you can send your suggestions, condemn me for treason or simply send pictures of things that you think scream Britishness.

Though try not to send those pictures you took to ‘just try out’ your new digital camera. Readers’ Wives is indeed included in this book, but that doesn’t mean I want to see your partner spread-eagled on your DFS corner suite.

For variety, I have variously referred to the subject of this book as the United Kingdom, Britain, Great Britain and various derivations thereof throughout the book. But whichever term I have used I mean the same place: This Sceptered Isle, Blighty, the Queen’s gaff. Our home.

Please send your suggestions for what I have missed to youidiot@britishinnit.com. The five most glaring omissions will be written up by me and included in the paperback edition of the book (and you will, of course, get a copy).

A
ALCOPOPS

Although originally an Australian import, the alcopop became very much a part of the British way of life during the youth alcohol crisis of the 1990s. Teenagers were simply not consuming enough booze, which alcoboffins put down to them not wanting to acquire a taste through beer, cider or Buckfast as their parents had done. The instant gratification generation was in danger of being lost to sobriety, thoughtfulness and good deeds, so the booze manufacturers simply added a 5 per cent alcohol content to the teens’ favourite soft drinks. This allowed them to get hammered on familiar flavours and had the added advantage of allowing them to get their friends unwittingly drunk as well. The side effect of this increase in teen drinking was a correlating rise in teen pregnancy, ensuring that the pensions crisis may yet be averted. Plans to reintroduce milk to primary schools as a 3 per cent alcohol ‘alcomilk’ are merely rumours at the time of going to press.

ALE

If someone comes into your local pub (see pubs) asking the landlord if his beer is alive, they are probably not some kind of extreme animal-rights type who only eats wind-fallen apples and keeps yeast as a pet. They are most likely a real ale enthusiast. An unkempt beard and enormous gut may be other clues to look out for, but nowadays more presentable human beings are enjoying the taste of our country’s ales. There have even been unconfirmed reports that a woman ordered some in the Midlands last year. It is very easy to laugh at hardcore real ale fans. So let’s stop for a moment to do that. Okay, that’s enough. Ale is one thing we do fantastically well in Britain, but it has been largely usurped by the search for the ever-colder pint of lager, with drinkers in the south preferring something approaching a lager Slush Puppy over a beer they can taste. Real ale brewers don’t help themselves by calling their brews Old Dogge Bollocke or giving it some name and back story that you need to have a PhD in naval history to appreciate.

ALLOTMENTS

Like a kind of poor man’s golf club, the allotment has traditionally been seen as a place for a man to be out in the open air, away from his wife and amongst specialist equipment. The knitwear tends to be more downbeat, but there is the added advantage of a shed in which to store pornographic magazines, pipe tobacco and a bottle of something warming. Of course, allotments are also places that can be used to grow vegetables and they are becoming popular once again with city dwellers as the trend for organic and local food grows. Allotments have been around since the eighteenth century, but they really came into their own with the advent of World War II and the Dig For Victory campaign, which encouraged Britons to grow their own food. Allotments are generally owned by local councils or by allotment associations, with the annual rent being fairly cheap. In big cities there are waiting lists for allotments, which also enjoyed a 1970s boom in popularity when The Good Life showed us that self-sufficiency might lead to the ability to make our own cut-price wine or the possibility of sleeping with Felicity Kendall.

AMATEURISM

Sport in Britain was initially divided upon class lines, with superior sporting character bestowed upon those who could afford to compete for the love of the game and those who took a wage being seen as belonging to the lower orders. This distinction can be seen in the naming of the famous Gentlemen versus Players cricket matches of the nineteenth century (see cricket). The Gentlemen were the amateurs and the Players were the professionals, which cast those good enough to play for a living as less-than-noble money-grubbing savages. This belief in the idea of amateurism being a more tasteful and morally superior pursuit has pervaded British society ever since, resulting in our propensity to have a go at any number of things rather than commit ourselves to becoming proficient enough to excel in one. This spirit can be seen in our bank holiday rush to the DIY superstores, our love of gardening and our desire to visit Ann Summers of a weekend. The utensils from all three pastimes may be interchangeable, but some of these things really are best left to a professional.

ANTS

These tiny insects are very much a part of any British summer, be they invading your picnic, running through your food cupboards or being victims of childhood experiments in the garden. Brits see the appearance of more than three ants in one place as some kind of declaration of war (as we know that ants are the only creatures other than humans that wage wars and this brings out the combatant in us). Chemical weapons are purchased from a hardware shop, with the lightly dusted doorstep being doused with boiling water should any enemy ants be subsequently spotted. Children become the SS concentration camp doctors of the summer-long campaign against ants, melting them with magnifying glasses, trying to teach them to swim and seeing what happens when you introduce red ants to a black ants’ nest. The hottest day of the British summer is always that which is known as Flying Ant Day. This is the day (usually in mid-July) when all flying ants hatch and the skies become black with the confused creatures. Ice pops are always free on this day. Just ask at your local newsagent.

APOLOGISING

I am sorry to bring this up and I know it seems a little rude, but we Brits are apologetic to the point of irritation. We are the only nation that offers an apology when someone stands on our toes, barges in front of us in a queue or when we have to send back food in a restaurant (after we have had a five-minute argument with our dining partner about whether it would be too impolite to do so) (see poor service). This character trait has lead to us slipping behind in the field of commerce and innovation in recent years, with inventors often not wanting to seem boastful by telling all and sundry about their cure for cancer or knowing how to start their pitch for investment in their product that will cure world hunger without saying, ‘I’m really sorry, but …’.

THE ARCHERS

Rumty-tumti-tumti-tum, rumty-tum-tralala. These are the opening sounds of the show that keeps Britain in touch with our rural communities and Radio 4 listeners convinced that they would be able to deliver a piglet if the need were to ever arise in some kind of unlikely porcine life-or-death emergency. It is really good fun to refer to it as Britain’s oldest soap opera when you encounter an avid listener. Many Radio 4 listeners see themselves as above soaps, thinking of them (probably rightly) as full of planes crashing into bisexual threesomes at the top of an already flaming boozer run by small-time crooks with improper diction and a confusing family back story that involves siblings appearing and then reappearing with someone else’s face (see eastenders). The best bit about The Archers is spotting when some snippet of farming news or politics is slipped in, sounding like the kind of clanging, clumsy insert you may expect on North Korean radio. All farmhands speak in a subhuman grunt language, which is both scary and sexually arousing for regular listeners.

ARCHITECTURE

Britain is littered with glorious examples of historical architecture, from the spectacular St Paul’s dome by Christopher Wren to the innovation of Charles Rennie Mackintosh as well as a historical array that stretches from Tudor houses to spectacular statement buildings by Norman Foster or Richard Rogers. When it comes to our homes, things are a little less exciting. The fact that we call anything designed after 1900 ‘modern’ could explain our attitude, as does the realisation that most new houses are some kind of Tudor-Georgian-Victorian cocktail, with windows about the size of the defensive arrow slits in old castles. Ask most Britons what they think ‘contemporary home design’ is and they will probably tell you it is a house that comes with the satellite dish already installed.

ARGOS

The rich have Harrods and Harvey Nichols, the middle class have Habitat and John Lewis and the poor have Argos, which combines low prices, high security and tacky jewellery under one enormous roof. You can buy your Reebok Classics, Nike tracksuit, sovereign ring (see sovereign rings) and pay-as-you- go mobile at Argos, as well as picking up a plasma screen and a PlayStation 3. In fact, if the store were to branch out into booze, fags and a bit of weed then there really would be no need for Britain’s underclass to shop anywhere else. In fact, if we just built an Argos into the middle of every new estate, put high fences around the perimeter…sorry, where was I? Oh yes, they have a strange system of shopping, whereby you have to select your item from an in-store catalogue, pay at a till and then collect your goods elsewhere in the store. A bit like internet shopping without the internet and with more people in Burberry baseball caps (see burberry) smoking on your way in.

ARISTOCRACY

This thoroughbred strand of our society is born to lead, rule and have no chin. The chin was deliberately bred out of the class when it was found to inhibit correct soup eating, shouting ‘yah’ really loudly and certain secret aristocratic sex rituals, the likes of which we can only imagine. The chin also stops the nose being able to get quite so close to the cocaine, for a clean, mess-free snort. Previously entitled to rule via hereditary seats in the House of Lords, the old aristocracy is giving way to a new financial aristocracy who buy their seats in the new ‘more democratic’ upper house. This leaves the old aristocracy more time to murder nannies, shoot stuff and drive around their land wearing tweed (see harris tweed).

ASBOS

The Antisocial Behaviour Order is not, as some think, a court order that means you must behave in an antisocial manner, like some magistrate-lead game of Simon Says. Instead, it is an order of merit awarded to those who have proven great skill in the pursuit of being an absolute twat. As sought after as a place on the New Year’s Honours list or a military decoration, the ASBO is a sign you have arrived and done great works among your community, whether it be playing the same Kylie record over and over at ear-splitting volume or punching out anyone who looks at you slightly askance. Winners of ASBOs are given special privileges, which means that they do not have to work ever again. Employers are instructed to not take them on, even if they beg, as their place in society is beyond mere employment.

AUTUMNWATCH/SPRINGWATCH

An orgy of frolicking, foraging and fornication, this hidden camera television show lets us see what our wonderful wildlife is getting up to when we are off at work or tucked up in bed. This is fairly passable if you catch it once while eating your dinner from a tray on your knees, but watch it more than once and you may find yourself caring more about a family of ducks than is actually healthy for a sane adult. The topic is interesting though, so what may liven things up is having former Goodie Bill Oddie trade jobs with investigative blowhard Donal McIntyre. That way McIntyre can report on the problems of violence among gangs of blackbirds while Oddie can hole up in a caravan on a Leeds housing estate, commentating on feral youth and the disintegration of society. ‘Aw, look. Here comes one of our crackheads, I think…yes, it’s Dean and is that Tracy with him? Yes it is, and she is carrying their new crack baby. Now over to Kate, who has just caught a lovely happy slapping in Aberdeen.’

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