Remember My Name

The only thing less polite than forgetting a person’s name is calling a person by the wrong name. I confess I struggle to remember the names of people introduced to me in passing. Generally speaking, once I’ve met a person twice I will retain their name, but otherwise I’m a bit of an idiot on the appellation front. Still, if an interlocutor’s name cannot be teased out of them in some cunning and round-about way, I think it better meekly to ask them to remind you than to take a stab in the dark and get it wrong.

If you're anonymous and want to claim copyright, please make yourself known...

Hardest of all for yours truly is remembering the names of people I have never met, but whom I nevertheless have cause to refer to professionally. This morning, for example, I was trying to cite an authority on Victorian Britain. I could remember the title of the book in question; I could tell you who published it and when; I could even describe the cover to you. But I could not for the life of me remember the author’s name. Utterly frustrating! I’ve only used the book a million times. Still, I’ve never met the man, so the name eludes me. Worse than this, of course, is when students fail to look up the names of their authoritative authors and recall them wrongly in writing. I’ve always maintained that it is a matter of basic manners to get people’s names right, especially if you’re going to refer to them in a text. Needless to say, whatever profound and stunning argument is being attempted fails entirely when couched in such sloppy terms.

As a matter of habit, I try to say a person’s name to myself twice (silently) upon first being introduced, and to use the name soon after meeting. If I lapse in this habit, chances are I don’t know whether you're Adam or Ant. If anyone else has a good method, please share it.

International Be A Gentleman Day

By no means confine your gentlemanliness to a single day, but let February 22^nd, the first International Be A Gentleman Day, be a signpost for the way things should continue. An Australian fellow by the name of Peter Ryan – why is it that I encounter so many good Australians these days? – established the concept and set up Today’s Gentleman last autumn. The ethos of the site is much in the vein of my own, and I’m more than happy to point you generous people in his direction. You can officially declare your taking part on the 22^nd on the facebook event page. What does it entail? I’ll let it stand in Ryan’s own words:

This is a day for all (men and women) to reacquaint themselves with going about their day constantly displaying “Gentlemanly” conduct.

      In the busy, time-poor society of today, sometimes it is a little too easy to forget the importance of courtesy, respect, consideration and, dare I say it: Chivalry.

      This is a day to hold the door open for the next person, give up your seat for someone who needs it more, help someone in need, let the lane changer in, let the person with two items go in front of you in the supermarket queue, hold the lift, share a taxi, look around you and make the world a better place one Gentlemanly action at a time.

      BaG day is also a time to recognise and celebrate those who have consistently displayed these behaviours, and to show others the quality of social interactions possible when everyone is behaving this way.

What makes me certain of his intent is his highlighting of a definition of integrity from dear old Wikipedia. In case you were wondering:

Integrity is a concept of consistency of actions, values, methods, measures, principles, expectations, and outcomes. In ethics, integrity is regarded as the quality of having an intuitive sense of honesty and truthfulness in regard to the motivations for one’s actions. Integrity can be regarded as the opposite of hypocrisy, in that it regards internal consistency as a virtue, and suggests that parties holding apparently conflicting values should account for the discrepancy or alter their beliefs. The word ‘integrity’ stems from the Latin adjective integer (whole, complete). In this context, integrity is the inner sense of ‘wholeness’ deriving from qualities such as honesty and consistency of character. As such, one may judge that others ‘have integrity’ to the extent that one judges whether they behave according to the values, beliefs and principles they claim to hold.

If a man wishes to sponsor integrity, we must only ask where to sign on.

Sins of the Flesh

Not so long ago I introduced the first guest writer to Being Manly. It is now my pleasure to welcome my humble blog’s first guest artist, the venerable and manly Julian Peters, whose literary comic art is making a stir in Montreal. He has kindly lent me these four panels, on the Wicked Ankle Flasher of London Town, to accompany my text on The Sins of the Flesh.

Some moons ago I complained, under the good head of ‘I Like To Be Tied Up’, of the male throat’s loss of erotic status. This could be recovered, I postulated, by the universal adoption of the necktie, which would surely have the effect of sending those who lust after men wild with anticipation for the rare moments when top buttons are loosed. I have noticed some progress out there with regards to tying the knot, but the jury is still out as to its impact on the libido. I must now return to this topic, plunged as I am – like a celebrity neckline – into a culture of fleshly display, and bodily exhibitionism.

It is not only the Germans who have lost the primal instinct when it comes to the flesh. It is a general disease of the West that we are no longer titillated by suggestion, and must instead witness the brutal candour of sex and sexuality at every moment. Once upon a time, a sigh, a lengthened gaze, and a knowing look would have been enough to establish that television characters had done the deed. Now we would not be certain, and we demand the ocular proof. One can blame the internet, if one will, which has taken the shame out of purchasing pornography. Partakers of such things used to get a thrill from the mere daring of having to purchase their visual feast under the gaze of public scrutiny. This also kept up the shame levels, and I believe to some degree kept our baser natures in check. The internet has dispensed with all these balancing forces. The result is a whole new level of exposure, if you will, and now nothing short of the whole hog, sometimes literally, will do the trick. To be sure, the depths of the human imagination have always been plumbed, packaged and sold, for those few who had a taste for it. But now it seems to be the norm, and this is our loss.

 

Don’t mistake this for prudery. It’s really rather the opposite. We are sensual and thinking beings, and for as long as man has thought, he has known that eros and logos make for a heady cocktail. The greatest thing about humanity’s capacity for the erotic is its elevation above that which is merely animal. It is our sinking to the level of the beast that I decry, and the problem is just too much flesh, too often.

Never was a period more erroneously known for prudery than the Victorian Age. Here were men and women in a state of almost permanent arousal, for their taboos were so far-reaching. The merest improper suggestion could cause embarrassment; the slightest transgression of social inhibitions led to scandal. Quite self-consciously, all talk of sex was strictly censored, or else subject to censure. The only way safely to stay within these bounds was to make sure that one always kept them in mind. In short, Victorians thought about sex all the time. The slightest hint of sexuality sent shivers up the spine. An ankle here, a wrist there, a bat of the eyelids perhaps: any such thing sent a man – or a woman – into an internal frenzy. Just imagine what the bedroom scene must have been like, once all that passion was given an outlet.

In sum, taboos feed the imagination, and it is through our imagination that we thrive as humans. If all our mental capacities are denied to us through a too ready access to images of base animality, then base animals are what we shall become.

Love Thy Neighbour?

It is festive season, and we shall all be drawing together our disparate lives and attending parties and obligations-flying-under-the-banner-of-parties for the next few weeks. I say disparate lives because the Christmas party tends to be an Event that has little to do with conviviality, or spirituality, but rather more to do with an official letting-down of the collective hair of people who normally only see each other at work. One’s colleagues usually have precisely one thing in common with oneself, namely, they work at the same place as one. And to get over the awkwardness of it all, enormous amounts of alcohol are consumed and nefarious activities take place in the vicinity of the photocopier. It is altogether not particularly charming.

Anonymous photocopier Christmas art

And there are the parties with friends and family, which are much more congenial, but these days no less representative of our disparateness. In the age of Facebook, who can say anymore that all their friends and family live close by? Mine don’t, and I shall be making the 4,000 mile trip to see some of them, while leaving others behind. Even then, people will be dispersed across the vast metropolis, and will come together only through Planning, Organising, and the tool that works at any distance, Facebook: in short, through Contrivance. One can never escape the feeling on such reunions that water has passed under the bridge. It is not so much a catching up, as a patching up; re-building ties undone by distance.

Isn't everyone's family gathering like this?

Who here knows their neighbours anymore? I’m afraid to say that over the years I have not known mine, and when I have tried I have found them either unresponsive or transitory. People don’t sit still for long enough, and where they do, the hatches are battened down. This is a shame, but I sense a glimmer of hope in my current abode. I always thought it was a matter of politeness to invite one’s neighbours to a party, since the best way to avoid disturbing them is to include them. I am pleased to report that the slightly eccentric man above us included us in his annual gathering – wine, whiskey, spätzle and a lot of cigarette smoke. It wasn’t our scene at all, but these were neighbours, offering a hand of friendship and hospitality, and we were most gracious. And strangely enough, everyone learnt something in the process: I learnt that even the most ‘ordinary’ of Germans – bad knitwear, leather trousers and the mandatory mullet – value politeness and tend to be decently read. We tiptoed around each other for a while, but soon the language barrier began to melt away. I spent a long time talking to a young man, eager to learn but with little worldly experience, about why one cannot claim multiculturalism to be an utter failure if one hasn’t actually tried it. I think I also successfully introduced this youth to the finer points of single-malt whiskey. The scotch-drinking part of the evening involved the removal of those with a robust palate to a separate room, where history and social policy became the topic of the night. I inferred from our host that those with a taste for fine spirits were more likely to have refined minds, and on the evidence of the evening I cannot argue. It finished with two complete strangers offering me the long-term loan of a guitar and amplifier. I was pleased as punch.

We had made a priori plans to stay an hour and politely take our leave. We left at 1 a.m. The sense of community was unlike the standard fare of the Christmas season, and although I am not known for being a literalist, I began to see the most obvious advantage of the phrase, ‘Love thy neighbour’.

Common Decency Not So Common

Much as we might like to dwell on the finer points of holding open doors for ladies, unfortunately we must complain in general of people and doors. Although I tend to moan about London, at least the vast majority of Londoners understand that in a very difficult and crowded situation, it’s better to let people off the train before trying to embark. However much we may like to confine our lives to the ethereal world, we humans are irrevocably and cumbersomely solid: no amount of pushing will propel us through oncoming persons, and we realise that less haste makes for a speedier, and more civil, commute. This is not the case in Germany.

Unknown in Germany: the orderly queue

I think it’s probably something to do with population, or the lack thereof. Such boisterous pushing and jostling would end in tears before bedtime in Blighty. On the whole, I must say that Germans know very well how to be civil, and would out-compete most nations at the Being Civil Olympics. Politeness is built into their language; the laws are strictly observed (try crossing the road on a red man and listen to the gasps of disapproving locals); little rituals hold sway in everyday life (church, Kaffeetrinken, customer service); everything is on-time. And yet, and yet… Today I was pushed in the back by an old woman who was concerned to beat all the young tykes to a seat on the tram. Everyday, the fit and agile push their way onto the U-Bahn trains before anybody has managed to disembark. A man recently served me with a full body-check as I attempted to leave a carriage carrying a heavy suitcase. I thought we should come to blows, but I held myself in check. One mustn’t sink to their level. And bus queues? Don’t make me laugh! There is a semblance of order, but only until the bus appears on the horizon. Then there is manoeuvring, pushing and place holding like nobody’s business. The fittest survive. The weak, the old (except for today’s grumpy granny), the infirm, the with-child – they all eat dust and end up standing in the aisles. It’s all pretty ordinary, as the Australians put it.

Also unknown in Germany: the consequences of the disorderly queue

I confess I do not understand why Germany can’t get this right. This and looking after their dogs. Domesticated canines seem to defecate willy-nilly in Berlin, and no one bats an eyelid. Everything else is just tickety-boo, and by-and-large we’re getting on swimmingly. I just can’t help the feeling that such things as these are the cornerstones of civil society. They are the things that, if done properly, help us repress the misanthropic feelings that inevitably arise from living among the urban. Just a semblance of the urbane softens our ire, cools our jets, waters our whiskey. When the common little courtesies among strangers are not observed, we wonder what else is awry, and before we know it we’re in a world of paranoia. So, sort it out please you lovely Berliners. Imagine everyone you see on public transport is your mother and behave accordingly. And clean up after your dogs!

Charm: Offensive?

It was charm again, my dear, simple, creamy English charm, playing tigers…. I was right years ago… when I warned you. I took you out to dinner to warn you of charm…. Charm is the great English blight. It does not exist outside of these damp islands. It spots and kills anything it touches. It kills love; it kills art; I greatly fear, my dear Charles, it has killed you.  

(Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited).

As one who has recently embarked on a charm offensive in a culture susceptible to its seductiveness, I take umbrage at the notion that charm is somehow – offensive. Of course, Anthony Blanche was himself the caricatured embodiment of empty charm, made malignant by a strong current of impoliteness. English charm rather seems to civilise our passions, to order our emotions, and to bolster our reputations. It ought never disconcert, but rather refers those we meet to the respectable heritage from which we spring. It surely goes without saying that the maxim I employed in my last entry works just as well the other way around: how one looks ought to be positively reinforced by what comes out of one’s mouth.

Of course, true charm indicates a certain sincerity. It is not possible, in the longue durée, to be charming without substance, intelligence and good will. No one can be charming through gritted teeth for any great length of time. Such a villain will come unstuck. But its cultivation ultimately has a bearing on one’s character, and it is in its very creamy Englishness that it positively reinforces love. And art? Perhaps. Artfulness? Certainly.

Mum's the Word

I have neglected you. I do apologise. England was as it has always been: vibrant, exciting, damp, a germ-breeding ground. I’m afraid it rather got the better of me this time, and something had to give. Now back in the land of the mullet and the sausage, things will settle down again. The motherland keeps a hold on me, nonetheless.

It is apropos that I mention mothers. Lest we forget, chaps, gallantry begins at home. For many a budding man, the chief experience he will have had with a woman will be with his mother. Please don’t allow your imaginations to run away with you here, but instead pause for a moment to consider how it is that a gentleman learns to treat a lady. The corrections and encouragements offered by one’s mother in early life – providing one’s mother knows how to be polite – become the model of acceptable behaviour for our later relations with the fair sex (for a moment I will bury the alarm wrought by the image of the mother who does not know how to be polite). I confess to be fortunate in this regard, and I dare to suppose that Mrs. VB is the happier for it.

I had the rare opportunity lately to return to the source, and dine out with Mother on a sort of date, if you will. Champagne a-plenty, five splendid French plates, and a dinner service that legitimately lasted for three hours. There was elegance, decorum, decency, and the kind of conversation that Brits can only have once the wall of inhibition has been razed by alcohol. The art of conversation is verisimilitude, but there is rare real truth to be mined under certain conditions, and why should we scruple to shun it when the opportunity arises? One’s own mother is a wealth of history in the autobiographical mode. I fear we seldom ask about it, and therein we risk a terrible loss. For what goes in to fashioning us came, in part, from what made her. To know these important influences is to better know oneself, and we can scarcely be the worse for that. So, dear readers (if you are still reading after I have treated you with such carelessness), I recommend you call your mothers and offer to take them out. Treat her like the lady who made you, give her a drink, and allow her to talk. You (probably) won’t regret it.

Keeping Good Company

     ‘My idea of good company, Mr. Elliot, is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company.’
     ‘You are mistaken,’ said he gently, ‘that is not good company; that is the best…’

(Jane Austen, Persuasion, 1818).

Good company, which Mr. Elliot reduced to the requirements of ‘birth, education, and manners’ is nigh impossible to find. Fortunately, I am blessed by constantly being in the best company, but to understand me correctly requires an explication of Austen’s prose. There is nothing worse, I humbly aver, than people being clever. Intelligence ought to come with modesty, pertinent interventions, and humility. Clever people flaunt their superiority at any opportunity, lacing it with facetiousness and pedantic corrections. Clever people delight in the tripping up of others. Clever people know a variety of stratagems for penetrating the most fortified of hen houses.

So what did ‘clever’ mean? Our old friend Samuel Johnson first defined the word as ‘dextrous, skilful’; his second definition was ‘just, fit, proper, commodious’; and finally, ‘well-shaped, handsome’. Austen’s ‘clever’ company was, therefore, not so much vulpine as perfectly adapted to polite company, in both mental fitness, social appropriateness, and aesthetic appeal. Were such people ‘well-informed’, they would be devastatingly interesting. Their ‘great deal of conversation’ would not be mere artfulness around ladies, but a supreme engagement with the world and the like minds around them. The best company is sympathetic, challenging, and fair.

You may keep your clever people. I will take the best.

On Becoming Manly, Part IV

It might be thought that the aggregate of pages here on BeingManly would provide sufficient answer to the terminal of my self-imposed questions: why become manly? I know for certain that there are some who would argue otherwise, and in any case, the 50,000 or so words thus far amassed can hardly be said to make for a succinct answer to the question. That answer has to be the basis for my work, and for your reading of it. Although we may differ somewhat on the nitty-gritty bits, we nevertheless need to come to a common understanding of why it is that the world needs the particular breed of manliness here discussed, rather than some empty-headed macho nonsense of which the world already has a surfeit.

It is perhaps through the image of what is undesirable that an answer might be attempted. Negative arguments might be objected on the grounds of being insubstantial, but it seems to me that one has to know what is to be rejected in order to define what is desired (the gradual and incremental description of which is the work in progress of this blog).

So, what do we find in the men of the world that would make us desire an upsurge in manliness? Of men in public life we find dishonesty and double dealing at every turn. Politicians, in the incessant fight for the middle ground (wherein they might appear the most pleasing), and in the embracement of celebrity culture, have foregone intellect, historical knowledge, diplomatic experience, and unshakeable values. The voter, who could never be relied upon to understand any of these things, but who might be deemed capable of recognising his betters, is now faced with mere sound bites and empty charisma, sharp suits, glamorous wives, and a paucity of political substance.

The voter is not helped, of course, by the media, which packages the emptiness of debates among powerful men and turns it into grotesque entertainment. The media has a missing moral compass; it has forgotten its social responsibility; it altogether has no integrity. Hardly anybody, it seems, is able to see fit to restore these qualities.

And then there is the voter. How can this generation fail to be influenced by these powerful but vacuous currents? Increasingly, we suit ourselves in every respect, paying no mind to our neighbour, or our fellow man. We do this in a context of squabbling and deceit, in a world that teaches us not to trust; where spilt milk causes tumultuous schisms, but where the violent shiftings of the earth arouse indifference and inaction. Our attention spans are reduced without limit by the whims of advertisers and the media corporations that depend upon them, and life in general drifts towards the soap operatic.

Is this a picture of life up with which we shall put (apologies to Churchill)? Is not the manly – the intelligent, educated, forthright, honest, hard-working, well-mannered, courageous, sober – individual required, now more than ever, to arrest the decline of civilisation into the tawdriness of a glass-house stone-throwing competition? I suspect that the assembled choir will cry out with one voice ‘Yes!’

E-pistolary E-tiquette

My dear Readers,

Ah, the online world. I loathe it, but cannot live without it. Walking around on the earth, one gets a sense that society hangs by a thread of civility, and that it is ready to crumble at a cross word. Being interpersonally polite keeps everyone in check, on a virtuous circle of humanity and so forth, don’t you agree? The ethereal world knows no such bounds. Have you ever looked at a comments board on youtube? Ever received an email from a person who is not old enough to remember email being invented? Do you indulge in ‘text messages’? I shudder at the thought. The horrors of this angry, invective and illiterate world rather terrify me. I suppose there is no hope of improving it, but I might share with you a notion or two.

When I was at school they used to teach letter-writing skills. These could be usefully employed today, I think. An email, after all, is merely a letter by another name. Start an email with ‘Dear…’ and end it appropriately, depending on the level of formality. If you’re writing to a professional of any stamp, don’t assume a first-name basis, but wait instead for the tone of his/her reply and proceed from there. This might involve finding out if the recipient of your message has any professional qualifications. People who are doctors, professors, and so on, tend not to care for unsolicited epistles that begin ‘Hi John’. If it looks like its heading to first-name terms, you might want to consider ‘Dear John (if I may)’ as a way of politely introducing a less formal correspondence. Sentences should be sentences, with the grammar and punctuation of a person able to function in his own language.

I’m pleased to note that the comments I receive from you on these pages generally do you a great credit, being of a thoughtful and literate kind (I wouldn’t publish them otherwise). So much of what is said online needn’t have been written. If one really has nothing to say, one might consider ‘keeping schtum’.

Back in the day when I used to own a cellular telephone, I confess I occasionally sent a text message. These were the heady days of youth. Least said, soonest mended. Still, when I did put my thumbs to work in this most unnatural fashion my messages were, like my letters, written in full sentences with the correct punctuation. I could not, even then, sully myself with what has become the accepted derogation of the English language. In most cases, if one must communicate so much, I suggest a telephone conversation would be better. It is more personable; more human. So many texts neither say nor mean anything. So why bother?

Wondering what you make of all this, and having gone on too long anyway, I remain

Your humble servant,

VB.

The Retrograde Menu

Twice on our European travels in the last weeks, Mrs. VB and I have been confronted with customs that I presumed were long-since abolished. Readers of this humble blog will know well that although I see clear values and virtues for manly men, these generally tend to be inclusive, considerate and, by-and-large, in keeping with the times. I hold on to traditions where they are important, but I am not hard-headed about the hard-won social victories – progress, if you will – of the last fifty years. For my many female readers, I hope to provide an image of man that they might endorse. It would be remiss of me, therefore, not to call attention to the Retrograde Menu.

The Retrograde Menu comes in two forms. One of them looks like any other menu, replete with prices. The other contains all of the dishes on offer, but no prices. The latter form is given to the lady, on the nineteenth-century understanding that a woman has a) no understanding of money; b) no income; c) no interest in the ways in which a household’s money is spent; d) no notion of value; e) no intention ever to pay, or contribute to the expense; f) no self-esteem g) no standing whatsoever when in the company of men. Furthermore, she is supposed to be relieved of having avoided the political minefield of choosing a dish that will not offend her male counterpart’s wallet. She may assume, after all, that if he couldn’t afford the Lobster and the Dom Perignon, he wouldn’t have taken her there. For the man of straightened circumstances, the menu for her can simply be dispensed with: he will decide what she would like.

What utter rot! Needless to say, on both occasions Mrs. VB and I studied the same menu. As a form of protest, I suggested in one instance that she might order for me. I do not think, on the whole, that men are still concerned either to pay for everything, or to conceal the price of things from women. This is an empty chivalry, and no way for a modern marriage to function. So why, please somebody tell me, does this custom remain?

I have noticed that the service in those establishments persisting with this system also tends completely to ignore women. When a man and woman walk into a restaurant together, is there not something distinctly odd about the greeting ‘Good afternoon, Sir’? No eye contact for the lady; no words of welcome; not even an acknowledgment that more than one person has entered the room. I do wonder what would happen if a woman were to dine alone in such a place. What a horrible dilemma for the maître d’. He might have to admit that women exist (and, what’s more, earn more than he does).

I was under the impression that we were well beyond reducing women to empty-headed and meaningless extensions of their husbands. To prove that we are not, and to enhance the foul taste that this leaves in our mouths, I hold up for your general derision the Retrograde Menu.

The Gentleman's Club, II

In keeping with the notion that one must seize one’s opportunities, I’m taking the chance to go for lunch at the Oxford and Cambridge Club on Pall Mall next week, before my European voyage comes to an end. Since I have previously maligned the diminished status of the gentleman’s club, I thought it worthy to give credit where it’s due and celebrate the good old ways where they are well preserved. Here, for your general edification, are the basic rules for club members and visitors alike. If more places insisted on the form of decency, would not the substance of decency follow on?

The Club recognises two standards of dress
Before 11.00am on Weekdays and before 6.00pm on Saturdays, Sundays and Bank Holidays smart informal dress is permitted.

At other times, subject to the exceptions set out in the Regulations, gentlemen are required to wear a jacket and tie, and ladies to dress with commensurate formality. Jeans are not permitted. Gentlemen who remove their jackets pursuant to regulation E (2) must wear long sleeved shirts fastened at the cuff.

The Committee considers that the following forms of dress are inappropriate in the Club house at any time: shorts, t-shirts, training shoes, and similar casual wear.

Members, Guests and Reciprocal members who are using the bedrooms are exempted from the dress code when first arriving and last departing.

The use of mobile phones is distracting to others. Their use is unrestricted in the Pall Mall Business Suite. In other areas please switch them to silent or vibrate, and if you have to take or make a call please go to the telephone booth (on the first floor), or the street outside.

Children under ten are generally not admitted to the Club house. If they are to be invited to a Private Function, please discuss with the Secretary when booking.

Animals are not admitted, except guide dogs.

British Humour

A man walked into a bar and ordered a pint of bitter, a G&T and a sticky toffee pudding. ‘It’ll be a twenty-minute wait on the food’, said the barman, ‘do you still want it?’. The man said ‘yes’. Pouring the gin, the barman realised he was out of ice and sent his barmaid to fetch more, telling the man he’d have to wait for his drinks too. Meanwhile, a second man had walked into the bar, followed by a third, followed by a woman. The lack of ice having caused the barman to lose his cool, he knew not in which order the customers came. The third man, being drunk but sensible, suggested the lady be served first. The lady ordered fish and chips and two large glasses of pinot grigio. The ice had not yet arrived. ‘Who’s next?’ asked the barman. ‘It must be me’, said the third man, ‘since I just let her go before me’. Faultless logic, no doubt, for the third man. But the second man took exception. ‘I’ve been waiting bloody ages’, he said. Regardless, the third man was served next, during which time the ice arrived. The second man, thinking he was sure to be next, was disappointed to discover that the man, patiently waiting and observing, could now have his original order filled. ‘Still want that sticky toffee pudding?’ asked the barman. ‘Yes please’, said the man. ‘This is getting beyond a joke’, said the second man. The barman apologised, but pointed out that the man had been waiting for his ice. During the distraction, the returning barmaid decided to serve an American man, lately arrived, who couldn’t quite decide what he wanted, but settled on a glass of water. The second man pointed and loudly observed, ‘Well, I know I was before this geezer!’. On another level entirely, the barman and barmaid were in disarray that erroneous orders had inadvertently been transmitted to the kitchen, wherein the chef was preparing food for nobody in particular, causing the twenty-minute delay for sticky toffee puddings. Apparently the computer printouts were unintelligible, and nobody could think of a better way to communicate orders between front of house and rear: all of twenty yards. The barman, by now heavily sweating, concluded the transaction with the man, telling him he was owed £8.50 change, but handing him only £3.50. Turning to the white-knuckled second man to take his order, the barman was interrupted by the man, who informed him that he had been short-changed a fiver. The second man walked around in circles, fuming. The barman did not apologise to the man, but rather slapped the £5 note into the man’s hands and slammed shut the till. Everybody went away to their respective darkened corners and to the waspish beer garden. And the man thought, ‘this is indeed beyond a joke’.

The pub into which the man walked. The pudding was good.

I’ll be in Blighty for the month. I hope to share my thoughts more regularly than of late, old-world irritations permitting.

Dear Diary

“Dear Diary,

I have a dilemma. The funny little blog that I’ve been writing for a few months has, much to my eternal surprise, been growing in popularity. Of course, I never meant to journalise per se, and I certainly didn’t want it to be one of those crass and conceited spaces where bored individuals talk endlessly about themselves to no apparent end. Look at me! This was not the kind of attention I desired. No, I meant to create an outlet for some serious thoughts that might nevertheless be cut loose from academic apparatuses: the stifling structures and strictures of my ‘day job’. But then, you know about all that. Of course, one must entertain; such an endeavour is nothing without an audience. Hopefully, they’ll stick with me when we have to go over the hard yards. Anyway, those times are still some way off. To the matter at hand.

I don’t want to dwell on me. This blog is not a diary, after all. I’ve got you for that. But then strange things keep happening to me, and I do wonder what to do. The good people out there in the ether will probably be interested in my stories, but I can’t be seen to preach disapprobation of self-interest and wanton egotism on the one hand – it’s so terribly unmanly – and wax on and on about yours truly on the other. So, I shall commit my story to these pages, and hope in that magical way that you will provide me with the guidance I seek.

I’ve talked on the blog about compliments before, but nothing like this. Today I left my regular seat in the library and went for lunch. On my return I found a hand-written note, tucked under my book. It was from a fellow British historian, unknown to me (and me to him). He’s from a rather nice college in the northern Midwest. Harvard is something of collecting ground, it seems. He can’t have known that we had a research specialism in common. Anyway, the note read:

I love the outfit today. Great hat. Great jacket. And have picked up on you as one of Cambridge’s best-dressed men before today. Would you consider being photographed for an article on this subject?

The note raised a smile, and perhaps a blush. Just for the record, I was wearing the linen blue boating blazer with the confident white stripe, a mid-blue Valentino tie with white collar, and those new 514s I bought the other week. The trusty panama was on the desk. It’s an outfit not unlike the picture of me I have on the blog – you know the one? – only I went with the four-in-hand knot today, and an altogether more summery colour palate.

Now, how does one react to such a note. Of course, I wrote to the email address he left and asked for further details, offering thanks and suchlike. But this is such an unusual turn of events in the ordinary course of a humble man’s life, and I very much doubt that the etiquette guides would have anything to say on the matter. I’d like to ask my public for their opinion, but I loathe attracting attention to me, me, me. So, there it is. I leave it with you, dear Diary, and trust that the answer will somehow emerge.

Thunderstorms forecast for this afternoon. Till tomorrow, then.”

Is This the Real Life?

I wore the infamous plaid trousers today. It’s true that they never fail to attract attention, but aside from the unsolicited compliments (and giggles) from strangers, I am experiencing a general engagement with the man and woman on the street that I thought existed only in bad American comedies where entire communities know each other by first name. On days that I wear The Trousers the engagement level goes up, but it’s happening more and more, regardless of what I happen to be sporting.

Yesterday, on the way to the cobblers, a middle-aged fellow (whom I knew not) greeted me with the words ‘Hello there my brother!’, and I tipped my hat. On the way back from the cobblers – no shoes in hand, there was a mix up with the date – I bumped into the same chap, who declared: ‘We meet again!’. I told him that the third time was a charm, and went on my way. Today, heading back to the cobblers in The Trousers, a woman actually interrupted her telephone conversation in order to stop me in the street and make her favourable opinion known. On the way back – shoes perfectly mended – an elderly gentleman called after me as I passed him: ‘Good morning Sir!’, he said. ‘Hello’, I replied. ‘Beautiful weather today!’, he went on. So congenial. So friendly. What the bloody hell is going on?

I’m not complaining. It’s simply that years of contrary experiences lead me to be suspicious. I must be on film: my own personal Truman Show.

Discarding paranoia, I can only conclude that dressing well is attracting positive attention. I don’t think it’s me who has changed so much as it is the public’s attitude to smartness that has altered. There is a glut of stylish shows on the television; a raft of societies and clubs for men who are attempting to reinvigorate the connections among looking good, feeling good, and being good: it is all clearly having an effect. If Joe Public looks me up and down and determines that here is a man to whom I should say ‘hello’, I for one welcome the change.

Or is this fantasy?

Being Boring

Mother always used to say ‘there’s nothing more boring than the bored’. Indeed, having to endure the ennui of another is insufferably dull, and best avoided. At least, however, the bored can be ignored. They can languish in their lack of imagination for all I care. I shall pay them no heed. You will find me out doing (not to mention outdoing), getting, living, being. One mustn’t forget that being manly is inherently active. It needs constantly to be brought about, vigilantly recapitulated, vigorously upheld. This ‘blog’ would perhaps have found a more appropriate title in ‘becoming manly’.

What mother did not mention was what to do with the actively boring. For it transpires that some people are perfectly happy to share the day-to-day, hour-to-hour, minute-to-minute experiences of their mundane lives, as well as anything and everything that has ever happened to them, with anyone within earshot. This can be so utterly mind-numbing that there is serious risk of them turning their listeners into the bored. These people are reprehensible because they begin a vicious circle of decline in others. They bore you, you become bored; you become boring, others are bored, etc. The actively boring violently assault the lives of interesting people by having no notion of when is enough. One is tempted to pierce one’s own skin with needles just to make sure one is alive.



If you are wont to drone on – if you’re not sure, solicit the honesty of someone you trust – ask yourself occasionally when it was that you last heard someone else’s voice. Gauge your audience: if you’re a particle physicist and you happen to be conversing with philatelists, chances are you are going to need a third subject in order to find common ground. In certain parts, there may be class distinctions to bear in mind. The local costermonger support group (i.e. the pub) is not likely to want to hear about your most recent skiing holiday. Likewise, the costermonger probably doesn’t care for the professor’s continual irritation with the former’s use of punctuation. In short, it’s important to be rounded. A one dimensional life isn’t likely to gain dynamism in conversation.

There’s nothing more boring than the bored. There’s nothing more irritating than the actively boring.

An Elegant Weapon for a more Civilised Age

Yesterday I was almost decapitated by an umbrella, twice. In truth, the second occasion was more of a narrow escape from having my eye skewered. The first incident caused me to limbo in the most ungainly fashion, and it really wasn’t the weather for limbo. Both assailants were cursed, roundly and loudly. Neither paid the slightest attention.

What is to be done? I regret that I was not carrying my own umbrella at the time, for this would surely have acted as my force field. But I am having umbrella difficulties at present, exacerbated by my having to keep on crossing international borders. The gentleman’s umbrella, for all its dignity and refinement, has a pointy metal bit at the end and looks too much like an offensive weapon for most carriers. This is a gross prejudice. As I have discovered, the crass and wholly unpleasant common-or-garden umbrella, in pastel shades and pretty patterns, destined to blow out and crumple at the slightest puff of wind, is also a lethal weapon! And for all its look-at-me-I’m-compact-and-modern glibness, this is a brute of a device. When closed, it is more akin to a police baton than to a rapier; when open, it bespeaks Medieval torture device, rather than rain shield. With their short shafts and inadequate canopies, they obscure the vision of their carriers, who lead with spokes primed, ready to assail the unsuspecting eyeball. And really, nobody looks where he is going anymore. Walking is just one big imperialist adventure, with territory conceded only at a high price.

I must make a plea for a return to gentlemanly standards of rain protection (and ladies, for you too there really are preferable options to the aforementioned unfurling truncheons). A proper umbrella will last a long time; it will be too big to forget in every taxi, pub, restaurant, etc.; it will not be so big that walking down the street is an impossibility (golf umbrella wielders take note: you belong on a golf course); it will allow you to see while you walk; it will allow you a companion, with a reasonable expectation of staying dry. Back when we knew how to be civilised, a man would not be without such a device in periods of inclemency. And if the need arose – let’s say, a young oik threatened to encumber your way with his inadequate brolly – when properly furled this instrument served very nicely as an idiot deterrent. The next time I am assailed by walking imperialists with no style and much less manners, I shall give them cause to say touché.

The Toothpick and the Symphony

Rules and good form not being what they were, you can pretty much wear anything to the symphony these days. By and large people do their best to doff their personages (few have a hat) out of respect for the institution. Being affordably seated myself, I togged up a couple of levels under the nines (I could dwell on the etymology here, for the internet is sorely lacking in an explanation of this phrase. My own guess is a contraction of ‘nigh on’, as in ‘dressed to nigh on perfection’). Still, I was collared and tied, and happily shod in my newly refurbished Bruno Maglis.

Imagine my surprise, among the eccentrics and kooks, to see just how far the finery has fallen for some. Across the aisle, a white-haired and potentially elegant couple had chosen to don anoraks, Reeboks and, much to everyone’s eternal pleasure, were handing out the toothpicks. Obviously their pre-symphony caviar was lodged in the odd molar, and nothing else would do. Having thoroughly scraped and scoured the deepest regions of their oral cavities, the toothpicks were then thoroughly chewed until grey and soggy. Charming. Obviously the ideal preparation for Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade.

Rimsky-Korsakov

I might have hoped that the offending articles were miniature batons, bought in some kitsch souvenir shop, but no. One had simply to look away. Unfortunately, also in my midst were first-time symphony goers who quelled their apprehensions though intermittent chatter. Perhaps it is a symptom of our times that the young cannot survive for more than five minutes without opening their mouths. All around me there was tension, wrought by not knowing what to do about these uncouth whisperers. Incredulous women, appalled at the ignorance, were furrowing brows and shooting daggers with their eyes; men attempted to suppress the tension by shutting their eyes and wishing themselves elsewhere. The offending couple, of course, did not have the requisite social graces to intuit that they were causing offense, and yet nobody did anything to stop them. This was vapidity par excellence.

After several repeat offences with no checks, I took matters in hand. Reaching a little awkwardly past a few people, I did the job of those more conveniently placed and poked one of the novices in the shoulder, thereafter giving him a finger to the lips and a condescending scowl. It was fascinating to witness the process of emasculation at this point, as the ‘fashionably’ bestubbled victim shrank into his seat. It was just the trick; not a peep more was heard. So, after a symphony of whispers and an unpleasant assault on the eye with a toothpick, I was finally afforded the opportunity of listening, at ease, to the music. Nothing like a rousing bit of Orientalism to round off a manly evening of high culture!

Diffident Dealings; or, Cobblers!

I would not want to convey the impression that Daniel Deronda is the only book I know, but it is the book on my nightstand, and since my library currently resides in another country I find myself returning to it often. Nor should I complain, for George Eliot is by no means a meagre resource on matters manly. Today’s errands caused me to look up a certain passage, as I reflected on my reserved disposition in the face of compound annoyance:

…a great deal of life goes on without strong passion: myriads of cravats are carefully tied, dinners attended, even speeches made proposing the health of august personages, without the zest arising from strong desire. And a man may make a good appearance in high social positions – may be supposed to know the classics, to have his reserves on science, a strong though repressed opinion on politics, and all the sentiments of an English gentleman, at a small expense of vital energy. Also, he may be obstinate or persistent at the same low rate, and may even show sudden impulses which have a false air of daemonic strength because they seem inexplicable, though perhaps their secret lies merely in the want of regulated channels for the soul to move in – good and sufficient ducts of habit without which our nature easily turns to mere ooze and mud, and at any pressure yields nothing but a spurt or a puddle.

The supermarket, no doubt suffering under Barack Obama’s socialist grip, had run out of food. Men and women harangued the long-suffering staff: ‘where is the food? Why is there no food here?’ A delivery, so they were informed, was awaited (actually, they were told that a delivery was waited on, instead of for, but I will hold back my ire over such grammatical bagatelles in the spirit of general diffidence with which I confronted my day). Faces of incredulity were shot back at the redundant shelf-stackers. ‘Has it come to this? Has America come to this?’

Yes, we have no bananas.

I only wanted some bananas and some Greek yoghurt with honey, but there had been a rush on these staples and the shelves lay bereft of nourishment. I left the acrimony behind, as if by some strange Lamarckian process my soul remembered the Blitz. Wailing and crying does not rebuild one’s house. Reserve allows for the necessary welling of strength and courage, and with these qualities, and with uncomplaining graft, one rebuilds one’s house.

Off to the cobblers for me. My Chelsea boots were worn to the quick. I thought a place I’d seen in Harvard Square would be reliable. I should have known not to judge a book by its cover, even though it does have a lovely art nouveau shop front, in wood and plate glass, dating to 1913. First of all, the door was locked. More socialist cutbacks? I waited, diffidently. When the cobbler appeared, he unlocked the door and then waved a cursory finger at me to come in. Not sure why he didn’t open the door for me, but I pressed on. Within 45 seconds he had talked up the price for soles alone on the Chelsea boots from $47 to $80, with all kinds of nonsense about having to ‘build up the toe’. With the heels on top I was looking at $110 for repairs to shoes that had cost me $90 (half price, of course). I tried not to sneer, and told him rather plainly that his quote was ridiculous. Telling me to suit myself, he tossed my shoes back at me across his tasteful counter, and I quietly left his tasteful shop, wondering if the real cobbler was bound and gagged in the back. Perhaps this was a narrow escape.

Retreating to the library, I simmered gently within earshot of an Israeli fellow who talked so loudly on his telephone that it is some wonder he even needed one. I resolved to wait until he had finished his conversation – that is only polite – before pointing out to him the seven signs instructing him not to engage in telephone conversations. He carried on at length, however, so I moved calmly to another room without huffs, puffs, or performances.

In short, I have held together my vessels of mud and ooze. I returned home to find the most marvellous testimonial (duly posted) from ‘Sonny’, whom I do not know, and raised to him a glass over dinner. I did so, he will no doubt be heartened to learn, with no great expense of vital energy.

Something to Chew on for Travellers

Given the choice, I would not travel coach, let alone by coach. The powers that be have conspired against a civilised link between Montreal and Boston – flights prohibitively expensive, trains only via New York over two days – so there is little choice. The newer buses, with reliable temperature control, reading lights that work, and wireless connections, ought not to be too terrible. Unfortunately I find the selling points of even the most up-to-date Greyhounds to be defective. On the latest trip it was 80 degrees, my reading light didn’t work (putting paid to the objectionable book), and the wireless was patchy at best. These modern contrivances only add frustration to the general unpleasantness of travel when they do not work.

For all that, it is not so much the bus itself that gets my goat as the other people with whom I have to share space. Other people will always be objectionable, and it is just as well. If we went around instantly liking everyone the world would be unbearable. Still, I would like it very much if the following might actually be observed when in close proximity of strangers over the course of seven hours, with no possibility for escape:

1. When the driver says ‘turn off your cell phone ringer’, do it.
2. Select some food that tastes great but which you alone can smell.
3. Chewing gum over many hours is unsavoury enough. But with your mouth open? Please.
4. I will take it on trust that your music rocks. I do not need to hear it.
5. You are an inveterate snorer. Don’t go to sleep.

I might add, for those travelling across international borders, if your passport or credentials are remotely incredible, please don’t travel at all. Being on a bus that moves is bad enough. Being on one that is parked at the border while we wait for you, possibly not to be let in, is just too much to bear.

Happy travels.