Myths Part One: Politeness

To a visiting American, or Swede or Italian or Canadian, the first thing that strikes them, when they trundle off the Heathrow Express towing vast suitcases filled with Pepto-Bismol (it never hurts to be prepared), is not the grandiose Victorian architecture of Paddington Station (which is now quite difficult to discern as it is hidden behind a century of accumulated soot and more recent scaffolding and plywood terraces) but the teeming mass of unfriendly, unhelpful and generally drunk Brits that shuffle about just past the ticket barriers. God help you if you stop to get your bearings or, even worse, look at a map because merely pausing while caught up in the flow of humanity will unleash upon you a torrent of shrieked curses from very properly attired business women, death threats from football-jersey clad skin-heads and looks of utter contempt from coffee sipping Bobbies.

Welcome to London folks, better get used to it.

Just where this misbegotten notion of English reserve and politeness originated is quite beyond my poor powers of comprehension. The English in general and Londoners in particular are a pissed off lot. Second only to synchronized queuing, the national pastime is drunken brawling in pub car parks. Shopkeepers are renown for their utter indifference to customers and asking directions from a passer-by on a street is seen as an invitation for verbal abuse.

Expressing any degree of politeness to a Londoner can be hazardous. As I was walking up the escalator on my way out of a tube station one evening, I happened to brush against a man who was standing quite far over to the left (Stand to the Right the signs say). I said, “Excuse me mate, sorry about that.” and received the cheery reply, “Fuck-you! I’ll fucking kill you outside!” Charming.

One very particular trait the English have perfected over the years is something that can perhaps best be described as “projective annoyance.” These are the subtle verbal and non-verbal clues a Brit will emanate when they feel wronged or put out in any way.

It’s the tiny grunt and wrinkle of the upper lip when you ask a woman to remove her handbag from the last empty seat on the bus so that you can sit down. Or the disparaging sigh produced by the person behind you in the grocery queue when you take two-seconds too long to readjust the contents of your bag in order to prevent the tomatoes from being liquefied by a five-pound box of laundry detergent.

A word to good intentioned yet ignorant foreigners: Never, ever, under any circumstances, no matter the situation, no matter the degree of urgency, tap a Brit on their shoulder to get their attention. You will be turned upon like a mother bear protecting her young. For your own physical and mental well being it is far better to allow a falling concrete block to actually strike the guy standing next to you in the movie line than to gently touch their shoulder and recommend that they move out of the way. Trust me on this.

I had a friend visiting from San Francisco who, while waiting in the queue at a Post Office in Leeds, tapped the woman ahead of her on the arm and said, “I think that window is open.” The woman spun around and shrieked at her, “DON’T EVER TOUCH ME AGAIN!” To which my friend took mild offence but calmly explained that she didn’t mean any harm, she was just pointing out that a teller was free. No dice. Within seconds the situation turned ugly and when the other customers joined in on the side of the local my friend was forced to flee.