WATCHING THE ENGLISH

RULES OF PLAY
bookcase for reading while sitting ofl the loo. I have occasionally come across the odd book or maga zlnein loos in other countries, but bogside
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I see Btg Brotheras a useful experiment, testing the stren$h of the 'rules of Englishness'. If even the flagrant exhibidonists on Big Brother conform to these rules, they must be very deeply ingrained in the English
psyche.

Reading Rules

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The English love of words features, in some form, on a large proportion of the lists of our 'national characteristics' that I came across during the research for this book. And the fact that there are so many of these lists only reinforces the point: our response to insecurities about our national identity is to make lists about it - to throw words at the problem. Orwell may have started the list-making trend, but now everyonej seems to be at it.

Jeremy Paxman, whose own Orwellian

list of

reading does not seem to be a firmly established custom or tradidon elsewhere in the way that it is in England. There are many English people - particularly males - who find it very hard to defecate at all unless they have something to read. If there is no proper bogside reading, they will read the instructions on the soap-dispenser or the list of ingredients on the spray-can of air-freshener. A cynical friend pointed out that this might have more to do with the English propensity to constipadon than our love of words, but I am not convinced. It is often said that the English are obsessed with their bowels, and judging by the contents of people's bathroom cabinets (yes, I always snoop - don't you?) and of chemists' shelves, we do indeed seem to use

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our fair share of constipation and diarrhoea

remedies,

Englishnesses includes 'qurzzes and crosswords', calls the English 'a people obsessed by words', and cites the phenomenal output of our

publishing industry (roo,ooo new books a year), more newspapers per head than almost any other country, our 'unstoppable flow of Letters to the Editor', our 'insatiable ,appetite' for all forms of verbal games and puzzles, our thriving theatres and bookshops. I would add that reading books ranks as even more popular than DIY and gardening in national surveys of leisure activity and over 8o per cent of us regularly read a daily newspaper. Our passion for word games and verbal puzzles is well known, but it is also worth nothing that every one of the non-vetbal hobbies and pastimes that occupy our leisure time - such as fishing, stamp-collecting, train-spotting, birdwatching, walking, sports, pets, flower-arranging, kniffing and pigeonfancying has at least one, if not many more specialist magazines devoted to it. The more popular hobbies each have at least half a dozen dedicated weekly or monthly publications, as well as umpteen Internet sites, and we often spend much more time reading about our favourite pastime than we do practising it.
The Rules of Bogside Reading
Sile read compulsively, anytime, anywhere.

of regularity and solidiry But are we more obsessed than the Germans? We do not, as they do, construct our lavatory-bowls with a little shelf for the anxious inspection or smug contemplation of our faeces (at least I assume that's what those shelves are for: they seem to have no other discernible purpose). In factrour bogside-reading customs indicate a degree of embarrassment about the whole process: we would rather distract ourselves with words than focus too intently (Germanically? anally?) on the products of our bowels.'But maybe this is just rnore English hypocrisy. The unwritten rules of bogside reading state that the books and magasuggesting a constant struggle to maintain some elusive ideal state

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books

in question should be of a relatively unserious nature - hurnour, of quotations, collections of letters or diaries, odd or obscure

reference books, old magazines; anything that can be dipped into casually, rather than heavy tomes requiring sustained concentration. Bogside reading, like pretty much everything else in an English home,

is a useful class-indicator:

In many English homes, you

will find what I call 'bogside reading': piles of books and magazines placed next to the loo, or even neatly arranged in a special rack or
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Working-class bogside reading tends to be mostly humorous, light entertainment or sports-related - books of jokes, cartoons, maybe the occasional puzzle-book or quiz-book, and perhaps a few glossy-gossip or sports magazines. You will also sometimes find magazines about hobbies and interests, such as motorcycles, music or skateboardit g.

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WATCHING THE ENGLISH Lower-middles and middle-middles are not so keen on bogside reading: they may well take a book or newspaper into the loo with them, but do not like to advertise this habit by having a

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RULES OF PLAY another big, serious-looking paper. In fact, although we have four of them to choose from, only about 16 per cent of us read the so-called 'quality' national daily papers. These are also known as 'broadsheets', because of their large format. I could never understand why these papers were such an awkward, unwieldy size, until I started watching English commuters reading them on trains, and realized that readability and manoeuvrability were not the point: the point is clearly to have a newspaper large enough to hide behind. The English broadsheet is a formidable example of what psychologists call a 'barcier sign al' - in this case more like a 'fortress signal:. Not only can one conceal oneself completely behind its outsize, outstretched pages - effectively prohibiting any form of interaction with other humans, and successfully maintaining the comfordng illusion that they do not exist - but one is enclosed, cocooned, in a solid wall of
words. How very English Broadsheets also serve, to some extent) as signals of political affiliation. Both The Times and the Daily Telegraph are somewhat to the right of centre - although the Telegraph, also known as the Torygraph, is regarded as more right-wing than The Times. The lndependent and the Gwardian balance things out neatly by being somewhat to the left of centre - again with one, the Guardian, being seen as slightly more left-wing than the other. The term 'Guardian-reader' is often used as shorthand for a woolly, lefty, politically correct, knit-your-own-tofu sort of person. This is England, though, so none of these political positions is in any way extreme; indeed, the differences may be hard to discern unless you are English and familiar with all the subtle nuances. The English do not like extremism, in politics or any other sphere: apart frqm anything else, political extremists and fanatics, whether on the right or the left, invariably break the all-important English humour rules, particularly the Importance of Not Being Earnest rule. Among their many other sins, Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini and Franco were not noted for their use of the understatement. No such totalitarian leaders would ever stand a chance in England - even leaving aside their ethical shortcomings, they would be rejected immediately for taking themselves too seriously. George Orwell, for once, was wrong: T984 would be unlikely to happen in England; our response to Big Brother (the original, not the television programme) would be 'Oh, come off it!'
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permanent bogside collection, which they think might look vulgar. Females of these classes may be reluctant to admit to reading on the loo at all.
Upper-middles are generally much less prudish about such things, and often have mini-libraries in their loos. Some upper-middle bogside collections are a bit pretentious, with books and magazines that appeelr to have been selected to impress, rather than to entertain,sr but many are genuinely eclectic, and so amuqing that guests often get engrossed in them and have to be shouted at to come to the dinner table. Upper-class bogside reading is usually closer to working-class tastes, consisting mainly of sport and humour, although the sporting magazines are more likely to be of the hunting/shooting/ fishing sort than, say football. Some upper-class bogside libraries include fascinating old children's books, and ancient, crumbling copies of Horse and Hound or Country Life, in which you might come across the r9-jos engagement-portrait of the lady of the
house. Newspaper Rules

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When I say, in support of my claims about the English love of words, that over 8o per cent of us read a national daily newspapers', some of those unfamiliar with English cplture may mistakenly imagine a nation of super-literate highbrows, engrossed in the solemn analyses of politics and current affairs in the pages of The Times, The Guardidn or
5r. A little spasm of scrupulous honesty iust propelled me to our own loo tn check the current bogside reading matter. I found a paperback edition of Jane Austen's letters and a mangled copy of the Times Literary Supplement. Oh dear. Could possibly be seen as pretentious. I suppose it's r1o use saying that both are gloriously bitchy and extremely funny. Perhaps I should be less quick to cast aspersions on other people's bogside libraries. Maybe some people really do enjoy reading Habermas and Derrida on the loo. I take it all back. 52. Apparently we read more newspapers than any other nation, except - surprise, surprise - the Japanese. What is it about small, overcrowded islands?

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WATCHING THE ENGLISH

RULES OF PLAY
is a difference in style between the 'popular' and the 'quality' press, but

Tabloids, otherwise known as the 'popular' press, are smaller (although still large enough to cbnceal one's head and shoulders) and
somewhat less challenging, both intellectually and physically. The people

who read the broadsheets occasionally lower their printed barriersignals to look down their noses at those who read the tabloids. When broadsheet readers complain about the awfulness of 'the press', which

they do constantly, they usuall/ mean the tabloids. A MORI survey found that more people are 'dissatisfied' than 'satisfied' with our national press, but the margin was quite small, and, as the researchers pointed out, 'filled with an irony'. The balance against the press was tipped by broadsheet readers (the minority), who are much more likely to say they are 'dissatisfied' with our national press than tabloid readers (the majority). Broadsheet readers are unlikely to be dissatisfied with the papers they actually buy themselves, say the MORI researchers, so they are presumably expressing dissatisfaction with newspapers they do not read. The press as a whole is condemned by Ipeople who don't actually read what they take exception to!' Fair point. The English love to,complain, and the Fnglish educated classes do have a tendency to complain noisily about matters of which they have little o'r no knowledg.. But I would hazard a guess that the broadsheet readers are in fact quite likely to be expressing dissadsfaction with the papers they do read, xS well as the ones they don't. Just because the English boy somethirg, it doesn't follow that we actually lik-e it, or are even 'satisfied' with it, and it certainly doesn't mean we won't moan and complain about it. Given an opportunity for a pointless whinge - such as a clipboard-toting MORI researcher showing interest in our opinions ' we will complain about pretty much anything. As a paid-up member of the broadsheet-reading classes, I will probably be regarded as a traitor for saying anything nice about the tabloids, but I think that in some respects they are unfairly maligned. Yes, I get fed up with their sensationalism and scare-mongering, but the so-called 'quality' Press is often just as guilty of these sins. We have no less than eight main national daily papers - four tabloids, four broadsheets - in cut-throat competition for a relatively small market, and all of them sometimes feel obliged to mislead or exaggerate in their efforts to attract our attention. But leaving the moral issues to one side, the quality of the writing on both broadsheets and tabloids is generally excellent. There zz4

the skill of the writers is equally outstanding. This is not surprising, as th.y are often the same writers: journalists move back and forth between tabloids and broadsheets, or even write regularly for botlr. It seems to me that the English love of words - and particularly the universal nature of this passion, which transcends all class barriers - is most perfectly demonstrated not by the erudite wit of the broadsheet columnists, brilliant though they are, but by the journalists and subeditors who write the headlines in the tabloids. Take a random selec-

tion of English tabloids and flip through them: you will soon notice that almost every other headline involves sorne kind of play on words - a pun, a double meaning, a delibe rate jokey misspelling, a literary or historical reference, a clever neologism, an ironic put-down, a cunning rhyme or amusing alliteration, and so on.
Yes, many

of the puns

are dreadful; much

of the humour is laboured,

vulgar or childish; the sexual innuendo is overdone; and the relentlessness of the wordplay can become wearin g after a while. You may find yourself longing for a headline that simply gives you the gist of the story, without trying to be funny or clever. But the sheer ingenuity and
,

linguistic pldyfulness must be admired, and all this compulsive punning,

rhyming and joking is uniquely and gloriously English. Other countries may have 'quality' newspapers at least as learned and well written as ours, but no other national press can rival the manic wordplay of English tabloid .headlines. So there we are: something to be proud of.
Cyberspace Rules

In recent times, the English have found a new and perfect excuse to stay at home, pull up the imaginary drawbridge and avoid the traumas of face-to-face social interaction: the lnternet. Email, chatrooms, surfing, messagittg - the whole thing could have been invented for the insular, socially handicapped, word-loving English. In cyberspace, we are in our element: a world of disembodied lvords. No need to worry about what to wear, whether to make eye contact, whether to shake hands or kiss cheeks or just smile. No awkward pauses or embarrassing false starts; no need to fill uncomfortable silences with

weather-speak; no polite procrastinating or tea-making or other displacement activity; no need for the usual prolonged -goodbyes.
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