I eat my peas with honey…

Buddy – I’d find it really difficult to refer anyone or anything as my buddy, since it’s an American-English word and would kind of stick in the back of my throat. I know what it means, of course, and I know it probably came from British-English in the first place. I believe coalminers in Wales, Oop North and so forth used once to refer to their working partners as ‘butty’ since underground they would be working, literally, butt to butt.

Unfortunately,

a) there aren’t many miners or mines left, since Mrs Thatcher disposed of them;

b) ‘butty’ now means, in British-English, a kind of sandwich – because of the butter. One favourite Oop North, at least in the time of the Beatles, used to be the chip butty, which was a sandwich made with butter (of course) and chips. Except I think chips are called French fries in America – as well as over here, when the eating establishment is trying to make chips sound slightly more upper class, or – as they used to say in the fifties, when Nancy Mitford ruled the social scene – ‘U’. One was either ‘U’ (upper class) or ‘non-U’ (non-upper class) you see. Technically ‘U’ and ‘non-U’ usage is one of Britain’s many, many, many subtle sociolects, or social dialects.

Language is a minefield.

If you were middle class around the same time – and by way of kicking the metaphorical cat, as it were – you might have described a working-class person as ‘milk first’. This was social shorthand: a milk-first person was so very common that she knew no better than to put milk in her teacup and then pour tea on top of it, when it manifestly ought to be the other way round.

A middle-class person would take it for granted that a working-class person would shovel up his peas on the inside of the fork and gobble them down; instead of squashing two or three of them at a time on the back of a fork, anchored there by whatever suitably squashy substance happened to be on his plate.

With so many rules to adhere to mealtimes must have lasted forever. However, that was the point. If you were wealthy you had forever, since time and money are rough equivalents. If you were wealthy you weren’t going to be ravenous by the time the next meal came round: money also equals food as and when required, always, and no hard physical work to burn it off. It’s an attitude that lingers today in cordon bleu restaurants, where a couple of artfully-arranged rocket leaves and a teaspoonful of ‘jus’ are considered exquisitely filling and well worth the huge bill that will land on your table once you have consumed them.

You might think ‘fifties ‘U’/non ‘U’snobbery was aimed at the working classes, but you would be wrong. It was aimed by the upper classes squarely at the middle classes – those who aspired to become, or be accepted as, upper class. And who stood no chance whatsoever.

The upper classes have nothing much to fear from the working classes. These two groups will often use the same word for things – simple, plain, traditional words. The upper class have no anxiety as to their status. The accent says all that needs to be said, so one can call a spade a spade. No need to simper about a relative having passed on or passed over or even (does anyone say this nowadays?) gone beyond the veil – when in fact they have died.

Here, for your delectation and delight, is a list of what you were and were not supposed to say in the 1950s. Faint echoes of ‘common’ or ‘posh’ do still attach to some of the terms. I put them in bold, but they’re personal choices and I may, by now, be wrong. Most of them have simply become antiquated and died the death: anybody referring to radio as a ‘the wireless’ nowadays would either be very old or cultivating some sort of ironic literary fogeyish-ness. I know of no one nowadays who would refer to jam as ‘preserve’ or vegetables as ‘greens’ – but who knows.

I’ll put the ‘U’ word in ordinary type and the ‘non-U’ in italics next to it:

Bike or bicycle – Cycle

Dinner Jacket – Dress suit

Knave – Jack

Vegetables – Greens

Ice – Ice Cream

Scent – Perfume

They’ve got a very nice house – They have got a lovely home

Ill (in bed) – Sick (in bed)

Looking glass – Mirror

Chimneypiece – Mantelpiece

Graveyard – Cemetery

Spectacles – Glasses

False teeth – Dentures

Die – Pass on

Mad – Mental

Jam – Preserve

Napkin – Serviette

Sofa – Settee or Couch

Lavatory or loo – Toilet

Rich (Wealthy)

What? (Pardon?)

Good Health (Cheers)

Lunch – Dinner (for midday meal)

Pudding – Sweet

Drawing-room – Lounge

Writing-paper – Note-paper

How d’you do? – Pleased to meet you

Wireless – Radio

School(master), mistress – Teacher

Nowadays no one’s much bothered, but in the ‘fifties people took it very seriously. Even in the sixties. As an awkward, anxious teenager I once borrowed a book from my local library – Etiquette for Young Ladies. I remember the peas-to-be-squashed-on-the-back-of-the-fork thing, and practicing it at the kitchen table with mashed potato. Not that I ever went anywhere to be observed eating peas.

peas honey 3

There was something about the length of white gloves, I recall – short, elbow-length or really long white gloves being wearable with different kinds of ‘gown’. I never had a gown, but if I had had one I would have known which species of white glove to wear – if I’d had any white gloves.

There was stuff about getting out of a low-slung sports car like a model, so that one’s underwear didn’t show. That’s all gone out of the window now, to judge by all those paparazzi snaps of drunken starlets coming out of or going into nightclubs. Underwear of any kind would be nice. There was stuff about deportment. I remember walking round the kitchen with a short-lived stack of books on my head.

But if you are American, Australian or any other kind of non-Brit – no worries, sport – the unwritten rules, even what remains of them, do not apply to you and never have. Nobody will expect you to use one word in preference to another as long as your meaning is clear. In my experience Brits – perhaps having been an island race for so long – are intrigued and delighted by other accents and other people’s languages and eccentric turns-of-phrase and will go out of their way to communicate with a struggling visitor, just as long as he/she doesn’t appear to be potentially embarrassing, attention-attracting, knife-wielding or outright mad/mental.

If you do appear to be… any of the above… you may find yourself suddenly invisible having unwittingly strayed into Nutter on the Bus territory. But Nutters on Buses – they deserve a post of their own.

peas honey 2

The Absolute End: tourists

(First published in The Lady, February 1988)

I ALWAYS wanted to go to Land’s End. Even as a small child I had been fascinated by the name; it had a ring of finality and desolation about it, of the ultimate secret to be disclosed, of ancient magic. Fanciful? Yes of course, but I’m not alone in such fancies. People have been making pilgrimages to Land’s End ever since the seventeenth century, when the round trip of ‘neere six hundred miles’ from London would surely have been as great an adventure as a present-day trek across the Sahara. The Methodist preacher John Wesley went there twice and Turner made a painting of it. With the opening of the London to Penzance railway in 1859 Land’s End became a tourist attraction on a much grander scale. The souvenir guide shows photos of Victorians posing outside the First and Last House, smiling sombrely in black and white, clinging to their parasols – rather hoping, one suspects, that the Ultimate Secret wouldn’t choose to leap out at them.

I must admit it didn’t leap out at us either. Our first encounter was with queues of cars, their occupants sizzling gently in the dry summer heat, with men in dusty blazers demanding money for the car park and coaches decanting wave after wave of Japanese tourists. Still, we were at The End of England, practically.

We bought all the brochures and launched a determined assault upon the various shops and exhibitions. We attempted to be fascinated by fuzzy blown-up pictures of a lifeboat rescue in 1917 but couldn’t help being more taken by those of a nude marathon bicycle ride from Land’s End to John O’Groats in 1965. We watched a man making glass ornaments, an ex-flower person carving lions and tigers and alphabet letters out of wood, and another making belts, bookmarks and key-rings out of leather.

We browsed around the seashell jewellery, the cane furniture, the wicker birdcages and the dangly stained-glass butterfly sun-catchers, and then decided it was high time for an ice cream.

The couple running the café were arguing in ferocious whispers, between customers, as to whose fault it was that the freezer had ceased to work and whose task it was to be to clear up the mess. Sneaking a look over the counter I saw that the linoleum was awash with ice cream which stuck to the soles of their sandals each time they moved. My heart went out to them.

It was time to go and look for the End – the real end. Perhaps it would be less crowded down there. Perhaps we would be able to recapture what the very first men and women felt as they stood on these same cliffs gazing out at the vast, and at that time nameless, ocean. There were plenty of little rocky prominences, just right for perching on and viewing the Atlantic. Sadly, there were also lots and lots of people perching, and taking photographs of one another pretending to view. Which of the prominences was the End? Perhaps none of them were. Suddenly we were dispirited, and finding that the End did not seem nearly as important as finding some lunch, we went away.