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.
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.
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.
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.
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 …’.
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.
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.