Watching the English

PUBLIC TRANSPORT RULES

But I'll start with the rules of behaviour on public transport, as these more graphically illustrate the problems faced by the English when we step outside the security and privacy of our homes.

The Denial Rule

Our main coping mechanism on public transport is a form of what psychologists call 'denial': we try to avoid acknowledging that we are among a scary crowd of strangers, and to maintain as much privacy as possible, by pretending that they do not exist - and, much of the time, pretending that we do not exist either. The denial rule requires us to avoid talking to strangers, or even making eye contact with them, or indeed acknowledging their presence in any way unless absolutely necessary. At the same time, the rule imposes an obligation to avoid drawing attention to oneself and to mind one's own business.

It is common, and considered entirely normal, for English commuters to make their morning and evening train journeys with the same group of people for many years without ever exchanging a word. The more you think about this, the more utterly incredible it seems, yet everyone I spoke to confirmed the story.

'After a while,' one commuter told me, 'if you see the same person every morning on the platform, and maybe quite often sit opposite them on the train, you might start to just nod to each other when you arrive, but that's about as far as it goes.' 'How long is "a while"?' I asked. 'Oh, maybe a year or so - it depends; some people are more outgoing than others, you know?' 'Right,' I said (wondering what definition of "outgoing" she could possibly have in mind). 'So, a particularly "outgoing" person might start to greet you with a nod after seeing you every morning for say, what, a couple of months?' 'Mmm, well, maybe,' my informant sounded doubtful, 'but actually that would be a bit, um, forward - a bit pushy; that would make me a bit uncomfortable.'

This informant - a young woman working as a secretary for a PR agency in London - was not an especially shy or retiring person. In fact, I would have described her as quite the opposite: friendly, lively and gregarious. I am quoting her here because her responses are typical - almost all of the commuters I interviewed said that even a brief nod constituted a fairly drastic escalation of intimacy, and most were highly cautious about progressing to this stage, because, as another typical commuter explained, 'Once you start greeting people like that - nodding, I mean - unless you're very careful, you might end up starting to say "good morning" or something, and then you could end up actually having to talk to them.' I recorded other commuters using expressions such as 'tip of the iceberg' and 'slippery slope' to explain their avoidance of premature nodding, or even making eye contact with other commuters (eye contact in public places in England is never more than a fraction of a second: if you do accidentally meet a stranger's eye, you must look away immediately - to maintain eye contact for even a full second may be interpreted as either flirtation or aggression).

But what would be so awful, I asked each of my informants, about a brief friendly chat with a fellow commuter? This was clearly regarded as an exceptionally stupid question. Obviously, the problem with actually speaking to a fellow commuter was that if you did it once, you might be expected to do it again - and again, and again: having acknowledged the person's existence, you could not go back to pretending that they did not exist, and you could end up having to exchange polite words with them every day. You would almost certainly have nothing in common, so these conversations would be highly awkward and embarrassing. Or else you would have to find ways of avoiding the person - standing at the other end of the platform, for example, or hiding behind the coffee kiosk, and deliberately choosing a different compartment on the train, which would be rude and equally embarrassing. The whole thing would become a nightmare; it didn't bear thinking about.

I laughed at all this at first, of course, but after a little soul-searching realised that I have often practised much the same kind of contact-avoidance myself, and actually with rather less justification. How can I laugh at the fears and elaborate avoidance strategies of English commuters, when I employ much the same tactics to save myself from a mere half-hour or so of uncomfortable interaction on a one-off journey? They could be 'stuck with' someone every day for years. They're right: it doesn't bear thinking about. Best not even to nod for at least a year, definitely.

The one exception to my utterly typical English behaviour on public transport is when I am in 'fieldwork mode' - that is, when I have burning questions to ask or hypotheses to test, and I am actively looking for 'subjects' to interview or upon whom to conduct experiments. Other forms of fieldwork, such as simple observation, are entirely compatible with squeamishly English contact-avoidance - in fact, the researcher's notebook serves as a useful barrier-signal. But to interview people or conduct field-experiments, I have to take a deep breath and try to overcome my fears and inhibitions. When interviewing the English on public transport, I have to overcome their inhibitions as well. In a sense, all my field-interviews with commuters and other bus, train and tube passengers were also experiments in rule-breaking, as by speaking to them at all I was automatically in breach of the denial rule. Whenever possible, therefore, I tried to minimize the distress (for both of us) by taking advantage of one of the exceptions to the denial rule.

Exceptions to the Denial Rule

There are three situations in which one is allowed to break the denial rule, acknowledge the existence of other passengers, and actually speak directly to them.

The Politeness Exception

The first situation is one I call the 'politeness exception': when not speaking would constitute a greater rudeness than the invasion of privacy by speaking - such as when one accidentally bumps into people and must apologize, or when one must say 'excuse me' to get past them, or ask if the seat next to them is free, or if they mind having the window open. It is important to note, however, that these politenesses are not regarded as ice-breakers or legitimate preludes to any further conversation: having made your necessary apology or request, you must immediately revert to the denial state, both parties pretending that the other does not exist. The politeness exception is therefore not of much use for research purposes, except as a means of gauging the degree of distress or irritation likely to be caused by any attempt at further interaction: if the response to my polite apology or request was grudgingly monosyllabic, or a mere non-verbal signal such as a curt nod, I would be less inclined to regard the person as a potential informant.

The Information Exception

Somewhat more helpful was the 'information exception', whereby one may break the denial rule to ask for vital information, such as 'Is this the right train for Paddington?' or 'Does this one stop at Reading?' or 'Do you know if this is the right platform for Clapham Junction?' The responses to such questions are often mildly humorous: I've lost count of the number of times my panicky 'Is this the right train for Paddington?' has prompted replies such as 'Well, I certainly hope so!' or 'If it's not, I'm in trouble!' When I ask: 'Is this the fast train to London?' (meaning the direct train, as opposed to the 'stopping' train that calls at lots of small stations), some Eeyorish wit is sure to respond with 'Well, depends what you mean by "fast"...' Although technically the same principle applies as with the politeness exception, in that one is supposed to revert to the denial state once the necessary information has been imparted, the more humorous responses can sometimes indicate a greater willingness to exchange at least a few more words - particularly if one can subtly engineer the conversation towards the 'moan exception' category.

The Moan Exception

The 'moan exception' to the denial rule normally only occurs when something goes wrong - such as an announcement over the loudspeakers that the train or plane will be delayed or cancelled, or the train or tube stopping in the middle of nowhere or in a tunnel for no apparent reason, or an inordinately long wait for the bus to change drivers, or some other unforeseen problem or disruption.

On these occasions, English passengers appear suddenly to become aware of each other's existence. Our reactions are always the same and minutely predictable, almost as though they had been choreographed. A loudspeaker platform announcement of a delayed train, or an abrupt jerking stop in the middle of the countryside, prompts an immediate outbreak of sociable body language: people make eye contact; sigh noisily; exchange long-suffering smiles, shrugs, raised eyebrows and eye-rolling grimaces - invariably followed or accompanied by snide or weary comments on the dire state of the railway system. Someone will always say 'Huh, typical!', another will say 'Oh, now what?' or 'For Christ's sake, what is it this time?' or the more succinct ''kinell!'

Nowadays, you will also nearly always hear at least one comment containing the phrase 'the wrong sort of leaves', a reference to a now legendary excuse offered by the railway operators when 'leaves on the track' caused extensive disruption to a large part of the railway system. When it was pointed out to them that fallen leaves were a perfectly normal feature of autumn and had never previously brought the railways to a halt, they responded plaintively that these were 'the wrong sort of leaves.' This admittedly daft remark made headlines in all the newspapers and news broadcasts at the time, and has been a standing joke ever since. It is often adapted to suit the circumstances of the delay or disruption in question: if the loudspeaker announcement blames snow for the delay, someone will invariably say: 'The wrong sort of snow, I suppose!' I was once waiting for a train at my local station in Oxford when the loudspeaker announced a delay due to 'a cow on the line outside Banbury'32: three people on the platform simultaneously piped up: 'The wrong sort of cow!'

Such problems seem to have an instant bonding effect on English passengers, clearly based on the 'them and us' principle. The opportunity to moan or, even better, the opportunity to indulge in witty moaning, is irresistible. The moan-fests prompted by delayed trains or other public-transport disruptions are very much like weather-moaning: utterly pointless, in that we all know and stoically accept that nothing can or will be done to remedy the situation, but enjoyable and highly effective as facilitators of social interaction.

The moan exception turns out, however, to be yet another of those 'exceptions that prove the rule'. Although we appear to break the denial rule to indulge in this favourite pastime, and may even engage in quite prolonged discussion of the flaws and failings of the relevant public-transport system (and by extension the incompetence of the authorities, companies or government departments deemed responsible for its inadequacies) it is universally understood that such conversations are a 'one-off'. What is involved is not a true breach of the denial rule, but a temporary suspension. Commuters know that they can share an enjoyable moan about a delayed train without incurring any obligation to talk to their fellow moaners again the next morning, or even to acknowledge their existence. The denial rule is suspended only for the duration of the collective whinge. Once we have completed our moan, silence is resumed, and we can go back to ignoring each other for another year or so - or until the next plague of delinquent leaves or suicidal cows. The moan exception proves the rule precisely because it is specifically recognized as an exception.

The temporary suspension of the denial rule during moaning-opportunities does, however, offer the intrepid researcher a little chink in the privacy armour of the English commuter - a brief chance to ask a few pertinent questions without seeming to pry or intrude. I had to be quick, though, to avoid giving the impression that I had misunderstood the strictly temporary nature of the moan exception and was settling in for a long chat.

Waiting for moan-worthy mishaps and disruptions may sound like a rather unsatisfactory and unreliable way to conduct field-research interviews - if you are unfamiliar with the vagaries of English public transport, that is. Anyone who lives here will know that few journeys are completed without at least one delay or interruption, and if you are English (and generous-spirited), you will no doubt be pleased to hear that there is one person in the country who actively benefits from all those leaves, cows, floods, engine troubles, bottlenecks, AWOL drivers, signal faults, points failures and other obscure malfunctions and obstructions.

Apart from moan-exception interview opportunities, public transport was one of the field locations in which I was often obliged to conduct 'formal' interviews, by which I mean interviews where the subjects knew that they were being interviewed. My preferred method of disguising interviews as casual, ordinary conversations - a highly effective technique at pub bar counters, at the races, at parties and other locations where conversation between strangers is permitted (although regulated by strict protocols) - was not suitable in environments subject to the denial rule. Under these conditions, it was less threatening to come clean and tell people that I was doing research for a book, asking politely if they would mind answering 'just a couple of questions', rather than attempting to break the denial rule and engage them in spontaneous chat. A researcher with a notebook is a nuisance, of course, but much less scary than a random stranger trying to start a conversation for no apparent reason. If you simply start chatting to English people on trains or buses, they tend to assume that you are either drunk, drugged or deranged.33 Social scientists are not universally liked or appreciated, but we are still marginally more acceptable than alcoholics and escaped lunatics.

This formal approach was not necessary with foreigners, however, as they do not suffer from English fears, inhibitions and privacy obsessions, and seemed generally quite happy to engage in casual chat. In fact, many tourists were positively delighted to encounter, at last, a 'sociable', 'friendly' native, especially one who expressed genuine interest in their impressions of England and the English. Quite apart from my preference for informal, incognito interviews, I could not bring myself to dispel their illusions and spoil their holiday by revealing my ulterior motives - although I must admit to an occasional twinge of conscience when effusive visitors confided that I had caused them to revise their view of the English as a cold and standoffish race. Whenever possible, I did my best to explain that most English people observe the denial rule on public transport, and tried to direct them towards more sociable environments such as pub bar counters - but if you are one of the hapless tourists who were misled by my 'interviews', I can only apologize, thank you for your contribution to my research, and hope that this book will clear up any confusions I may have caused.

The Mobile-phone Ostrich Exception

I mentioned earlier that there are two aspects to the denial rule: pretending that other people do not exist, and also, much of the time, pretending that we do not exist either. On public transport, it is considered unseemly to draw attention to oneself. There are people who violate this rule, talking and laughing loudly with each other instead of hiding quietly behind their newspapers in the approved manner, but they have always been a much-frowned-upon minority.

Until the advent of the mobile phone, which brings out the ostrich in us: just as the dimwit ostrich with its head in the sand believes that it is invisible, the dimwit English passenger on a mobile phone imagines that he or she is inaudible. People on mobiles often seem to go about in a little personal bubble, oblivious to the crowds around them, connected only to the person at the other end of the phone. They will happily discuss the details of their domestic or business affairs, matters that would normally be considered private or confidential, in tones loud enough for half a train carriage to hear. Tremendously useful for eavesdropping nosey researchers - I get a lot of data from mobile-phone ostriches - but irritating for all the other passengers. Not that they would actually do anything about it, of course, except tut and sigh and roll their eyes and shake their heads.

We are not all ostriches. Many English passengers - the majority, even - are smart enough to realise that other people can in fact hear what you are saying on your mobile, and we do our best to keep our voices down. The oblivious loudmouths are still a minority, but they are a highly noticeable and annoying minority. Part of the problem is that the English will not complain - not directly, to the person making the noise, only quietly to each other, or to colleagues when they get to work, or to their spouse when they get home, or in letters to the newspapers. Our television and radio comedy programmes are full of amusing sketches about the infuriating stupidity of noisy mobile-phone ostriches, and the banality or utter pointlessness of their 'I'm on a train!' conversations. Newspaper columnists are equally witty on the subject.

In typically English fashion, we channel our anger into endless clever jokes and ritual moans, reams of print and hours of airtime, but fail to address the real source of the problem. Not one of us is brave or blunt enough to go up to a mobile-phone ostrich and simply ask him or her to keep it down. The train companies are aware of the issue, and some have designated certain sections of their trains as 'quiet' carriages, where the use of mobile phones is prohibited. Most people observe this rule, but when an occasional rogue ostrich ignores the signs, nobody dares to confront the offender. Even in a designated 'quiet' carriage, the worst an ostrich can expect is a lot of glares and pointed looks.