Why can’t the English…
Literary festivals, eggy bowls, outside clothes
When Queenie was first published, I took my mum to a Candice Carty-Williams event on the Southbank. Mum loves Candice - they bonded at one of my book launches, so she was delighted to hear about her debut.
During the event, while talking about Jamaican culture in the novel, Candice joked about her grandmother’s obsession with cleanliness, telling us it was something of a national trait. I nodded along - her grandmother’s preferences seemed perfectly reasonable, including shoes off in the house and a healthy respect for bleach. Mum, sitting next to me, nodded too - but this was an ominous sign. Because when the time came for questions, who raised their hand? Mum.
She began. ‘It’s not really a question - ’
Oh shit. I thought. The classic. Good thing everyone I know in publishing isn’t here… OH WAIT. They are.
She carried on, beaming. ‘I wanted to say, what you were saying about your grandmother - we Indians are like that too! Definitely no shoes in the house. Or outside clothes on the bed! We’re obsessed with cleanliness too! It’s not just Jamaicans!’
‘Mu-uuum!’ I hissed, dragging her to sit back down next to me. ‘What?’ she said, into the microphone. ‘We’re just like them!’. Hilarity ensued. I was mortified. Candice thought it was very funny, and graciously continued the conversation with Mum at the signing afterwards. I headed straight for the bar, and downed a very large glass of wine while colleagues came up, telling me how delightful my absolute liability of a mother was.
As mum (publicly) pointed out, I was brought up similarly to Candice. To the extent that if my husband does something particularly egregious, like sitting on the bed in clothes that he’s worn while sitting on public transport (taxis count too) - I will, after shrieking ‘WHY ARE YOU WEARING TRAIN CLOTHES ON THE BED!’, mutter words to the effect of ‘what a big English.’ Were he to wash dishes in a bowl of murky water, and then put them in a draining rack unrinsed (mon dieu!) the comments would not be limited to muttering. (Fortunately, this is not how he washes dishes. In turn, he thinks I load the cutlery drawer of the dishwasher like a raccoon on crack.)
This is all (largely) affectionate joshing - the phrase ‘a big English’ is reserved as a term of mild irritation for exclusively domestic-sphere differences. Conversely, in my family, calling someone ‘the best type of English’ is THE highest compliment. It’s generally used for someone of my parents’ generation or above who is open-minded, gracious, and generous with their time. They’re probably well-read, but in no way pretentious. Self-deprecating, amusing and unaffected, neither parochial nor patronising, and most likely mildly eccentric. I add to this list that the ‘best type of English’ are often very good gardeners. (Obviously people can be excellent gardeners and total shits.)
Growing up, the archetype of this ‘best kind of English’ was the senior hospital consultant who trained my dad. The NHS did a massive recruitment drive for doctors from India in the early 80s, which is when my parents came to the UK. Plenty of senior hospital consultants at the time were institutionally and openly racist (others with the thinnest veneer of politeness, which I’ll come to.) But Terry - a total gent, seeing my dad for the completely sound, terrifically hard-working and very funny legend that he is, took him under his wing as a junior doctor, mentoring him through their working relationship. They stayed lifelong friends on Terry’s retirement, and he registered as a patient at my parents’ surgery so dad could look after him as a GP.
Mum was always impressed at Terry’s interest in Indian culture, which I feel more widely was a part of his lack of insularity - finding other people and their cultures interesting, rather than threatening or lesser. Diversity creating not an ‘island of strangers’ - Starmer, you absolute bellend - but an opportunity to meet and interact with people with different backgrounds. (And often marvel at the similarities: see above re Jamaicans & Indians.)
One of my favourite ancient Twitter threads was someone posting about not being able to put a bowl that had contained beaten egg in the dishwasher, because all the glassware would come out of the clean dishwasher still smelling ‘eggy.’ I screengrabbed some of the literally thousands of responses from all around the world, where people found themselves in delighted agreement, thinking this phenomenon was specific to their culture, and feeling suddenly validated that it was turning out an internationally recognised ‘thing’. (Didn’t Twitter used to be a nice place?)
Why did I screengrab it? Because it’s something that my mum has never articulated but clearly always felt, snatching eggy bowls and handwashing them for as long as I can remember. On sending her the screengrabs, she was thrilled. Glassware, she said, smells ‘eggy’ afterwards if an eggy dish goes in the dishwasher, and she’d always felt this without ever saying it. Intrigued, I asked my Bulgarian cleaning lady, who seemed astonished that I didn’t think it was a thing. ‘Of course the glassware comes out of the dishwasher smelling eggy.’ Does my nose just lack… egg receptors? The only nationality in that Twitter thread who were completely bewildered/couldn’t smell a thing were - very interestingly - British and Americans. (For science, you absolutely must comment on this phenomenon below.)
On snootiness
You know how certain posh people can weaponise politeness? One of the hospital consultants who trained my parents was known for it. Exaggeratedly surface-level charming, the subtext was that he utterly despised you. (We call it ‘doing a Giles*’ in our house.) I’ve almost never had cause to unleash ‘a Giles’ on someone, but found myself grateful for the technique just before speaking at a literary festival last year.
Minutes before heading out into a packed-out auditorium, I was greeted in the green room by a young man. Well, young-ish, because he must be pushing forty now, as I am. I recognised him immediately as the boy, but now the middle-aged dickhead, who made my life hell at secondary school from 11-13. Bullying, sexual comments - daily, endless, relentless cruelty which turned me from a jolly, bouncy, silly and childish 11 year old into a teenager with such crippling anxiety that she could barely speak a word to her peers from 14-16. The way that he and the other boys would shriek & contort my name - in class, in front of teachers who said nothing - seems to have stayed with me to the point that when my daughter, who is 3 and adorable, occasionally says my full name - pronouncing it beautifully with no distortion - I’ve often had an involuntary reaction, a quick indrawn breath and a horrible feeling in my chest, just from hearing a childish voice - my own child! - saying the two words which make up my name, the cause of so much misery a long time ago. (Like literally why did my parents not call me Jane or Sophie.)
Anyway - this, prick in the green room, let’s call him Fred*. I knew he ran another festival, but why he was in the green room at this one was beyond me. There was only one thing for it. I took a breath, and called on the spirit of Giles.
And boy, did he deliver! How wonderful to see you, I said, smiling my very best social smile as he greeted me. Feigning ignorance as to what he did for a living, I asked if he was he a writer too, perhaps speaking at an event? Oh. I see. Sympathetic voice. Not a writer. You’re a director at the — festival? Oh good for you. And - oh, you’re… you’re coming to my event? How lovely. An audience of 400, and my school bully. Sorry what’s that? You’d like me to come and speak at your festival too ? How wonderful. Yes DO get in touch with my agent. I’d be delighted to speak at your festival when hell burns over. Goddamn it, I thought - he’s DOING A GILES on me too. Bastard bastard bastard. Anyway, must go and prep. Cheery fucking bye!
I was fuming. I should be fair, and say that by sixth form, I’d recovered from my crippling anxiety and had two perfectly happy final years at school, with lovely friends and renewed confidence. Fred, and the others, were civil by then. But thanks to them, 11 year old me lost her sense of childish joy and her illusion that the world is a pleasant, welcoming place. The quite useful ‘talking to your past self’ therapy technique is now something of a fad on TikTok, but not unhelpful here. 11 year old me thought there was something innately wrong with her personality and ‘weird’ name, to be the target of such unending torment. She would be delighted to know that not only did we sell out an event at an international book festival under that very same name, with our closest friends travelling from across the country to support, but that fucking Fred Maltington* had to sit and listen while 399 other audience members nodded, laughed and enjoyed the company of the adult we’ve become, despite his best efforts. He might pronounce the names of international festival guests without a hint of mockery now, while mouthing Giles-ish platitudes, but the best kind of English? He ain’t.
*Giles is not his real name
*Fred Maltington is also not a real name
Thank you so much for reading! I would be delighted to hear your thoughts on this piece - and my apologies it takes me about a week to get back on the comments, I love reading and replying to them but like to do it properly and only get a short window every week before a small person or animal wants attention / a biscuit / both.
Have a lovely week ahead - and if you’ve enjoyed this please do hit the heart button! Mini xx
Never thought about the 'eggy' smell but do always rinse the eggs pot out before washing it, as my mum did. I am 74 so many years, and we are English!
Bullying is terrible at any age but unfortunately has gone on for ever, generations have tried to end it but failed. But we must keep trying.
People, in a vast majority, are lovely whatever their colour, cread or gender, trouble is it's the bad news sells papers syndrome and the bad one get the attention.
Your words are beautiful to read and so honest I applaud you, keep it up and continue passing your thoughts on to everyone.
Train clothes must be decontaminated by hanging in the hall! Your parents sound so lovely- they don’t happen to need any additional children, do they?