Formed from the ashes of the British Empire (see empire), the Commonwealth is a grouping of 53 nations that come together to discuss and promote common aims around matters such as law, trade and peacekeeping. Additionally, this gives us in Britain something to feel in charge of, as well as bringing together a set of nations that we have some hope of beating in sporting pursuits. Our Queen is the current head of the Commonwealth, as well as head of state of some of the Commonwealth nations, such as Canada, Australia and New Zealand. These countries have been retained in this way as they are some of the tougher Commonwealth nations to beat at the Commonwealth Games and the Queen can simply order them to throw races or matches as she sees fit.
In Britain, we have an unwritten constitution. This works in much the same way that unwritten homework or an unwritten note from your mum to get you out of PE does, in that it does not exist and is therefore pretty much worthless. For example, this means that any old dictator can come along and say ‘Don’t you remember? Killing of the firstborn is part of the unwritten constitution. I am reading it now, in my head.’ There have been many calls for a written constitution or Bill of Rights, but these things are always best agreed upon when a society is in its infancy. Once a country has evolved towards having reality TV shows and worshipping Graham Norton then you just know that the whole thing would be decided in a lengthy vote at primetime on BBC1. Sensible clauses would be voted out in week three, only for ones like ‘the right to visit the corner shop shirtless’ (see corner shop) and ‘the right to urinate in public swimming pools’ ending up as irrevocable law.
This homely greeting is mostly used by ladies of a certain age, usually to call across to a friend who is toting a wheelie bag or zipping by on a mobility scooter. Often called at frequencies that are inaudible to male ears, a call of ‘coo-ee’ can simply mean hello, though it will often be a prelude to an invitation for cake. As everyone knows, British old ladies spend a good amount of time refining and re-refining their fruitcake recipes and this word can act as a code or boast about a particularly fine cake. If you are lucky enough to hear this call then be ready to follow, as it could lead to a secret cake sale, which is kind of like the old lady equivalent of the underground rave scene.
With the spread of pub chains, the growth of vertical drinking establishments and the pressure for breweries to maximise profits, what was once considered an exotic, premium drink has fallen to the very bottom of the heap. This means that standard strength lagers with identikit flavours are now referred to as ‘cooking lager’ rather than by the overseas brand names they bear. Cooking lager is usually brewed in the UK under licence and is the drink for those who have abandoned all hope that their drink will taste of anything at all. They don’t need to ask for it by name, all they want is the worst lager the house has available. Still, at least it is preferable to the ‘wife-beater’ sobriquet that one premium brand has acquired among drinkers.
Inspired by the resurgence of British music and fashion, as well as the changing mood of the country in the run-up to the 1997 Labour Party General election win, Cool Britannia was a handy media tag that encompassed anything that was on the up in the UK at that time. US magazine Vanity Fair summed up the time with the Carnaby Street-inspired headline ‘London Swings Again!’, naming designers such as Alexander McQueen and artist Damien Hirst as prime examples of what was cool about Britain. The cover of the magazine featured celebrity incubator Patsy Kensit sprawled on a Union Flag bedspread with Liam Gallagher. Cool Britannia even made Geri Halliwell look good, with a million middle-aged men committing to memory the image of her in that Union Jack dress. Sadly, the sham fad lasted for less time than the average Kensit marriage and was over by the time Tony Blair was breaking manifesto promises.
No British community is complete without its corner shop. The shop need not actually be situated on the corner of a street to be considered a corner shop, but it should provide the focus for a community by providing overpriced items that you may have forgotten to pick up from the out-of-town superstore. Principal among these items are Pringles, bourbon biscuits, cigarettes, pornographic magazines and bizarre cakes you never see anywhere but in corner shops. Often run by Asian immigrants and their families, some corner shops are still known as ‘Paki shops’ by those locals whose knuckles drag along the pavement as they walk. This tendency towards casual racism and the linking of Asian families to these stores was acknowledged by British-Asian band Cornershop in their choice of name. The band’s tour rider consisted mostly of firelighters, out-of-date boxes of Milk Tray chocolates and Lemsip.
This reality television series about life in northwest England has been running since 1960, giving the rest of Britain a fly-on-the-wall look at the small suburb of Weatherfield, where simple pleasures such as adultery, murder, abduction and having a pint in the Rovers keep the mostly working-class populace happy. Teacher Ken Barlow has been featured in the show since it began, but residents have come and gone over the years, with most getting to sample Betty’s hotpot in the pub and sex with Ken’s wife, Deirdre, though never at the same time (at least not yet). Most fans will have their own view of what constitutes classic ‘Corrie’, though many name motormouthed harridan Hilda Ogden as their favourite character.
The sound of leather on willow and the long shadows on county grounds are often cited as being two of the things that most evoke an image of Britishness, though cricket is really most popular in England, where the sport was invented. It is thought to have been around in the southeast since the fourteenth century in some form, though the development of the cricket tea and the five-day test came somewhat later on. The modern game was given nobility and popularity in the nineteenth century by cricketing legend W G Grace, who is as famous for his lustrous beard as for his skills as a batsman. In recent years the cricketing authorities have tried to sex the game up by introducing ever-shorter matches, but true fans enjoy the endurance and possible letdown of the five-day game, where hours of nothingness are interrupted by the most fleeting moments of action. Watching such a game is as close as the average British male ever comes to a state of Zen, though this is often aided by several pints of lager. Those unable to attend big games should listen in to Radio 4, where commentary on the game is squeezed in between audio clips of elderly men eating cakes.