Heeding the old rules of etiquette
BEEN reading ‘Don’t: A manual of mistakes and improprieties more or less prevalent in conduct and speech’.
Published in 1886, and for the then princely price of sixpence, it has words of wisdom we might do well to revisit.
The rules of etiquette have changed markedly since Don’t – a guide to being the perfect gentleman – was published.
The pocketbook urged its readers: “Don’t expectorate on the pavement. Go to the kerb-stone and discharge the saliva in the gutter.
“Men who eject great streams of tobacco juice on the pavement, or on the floors of public vehicles, ought to be driven out of civilised society.”
Hear! Hear! Publicly expectorating is disgusting.
However, the 130 year-old booklet says absolutely nothing about urinating in streets.
But then it’s hard to maintain Victorian table manners in today’s glut of fast food restaurants – establishments without waiters, tablecloths, port decanters and cutlery.
Burgers and kebab bars – now slowly awakening from Covid-19 – have not only destroyed old-fashioned culinary values, but junk food can also shorten your life considerably if consumed daily, medics have warned.
On the plus side, think how much time you save on preparation. Fast food and shortened life expectancy probably balance themselves out in the long run.
I can see the epitaph now: She died at 63, but saved seven years in the kitchen.
Some Don’t nuggets still need to be heeded.
“In speech: don’t use profane language.
“Don’t multiply epithets and adjectives; don’t be too fond of superlatives.
“Avoid meaningless exclamations such as “Oh my!” and “Oh, crackey!”
Even in twee Victorian times I doubt anyone hit their thumb with a hammer and screamed: “Oh my! Oh crackey!” But things have gone too far.
You can’t watch TV without enduring violence and swearing of the very worst kind – and that’s simply while trying to wrestle the remote from my wife.
“Swearing,” my mother used to say, “is for those with a very limited vocabulary.”
Not so. I know many words, but still prefer “**** off” to “please go away” and always will.
New Millennium Man’s days of committing social faux pas after social faux pas may now be over, however, thanks to esteemed upper crust publication Country Life.
With the help of celebrities such as Jeremy Paxman, Richard E Grant, Joan Collins and Jilly Cooper, the glossy mag has drawn up a list of “Gentlemanly Commandments”.
Some are plain, common sense. I wholly endorse “never wear fuchsia trousers”, unless you really want to turn heads.
And Country Life’s right: real men don’t neck Malibu, although the sickly drink has been presenting those hooked on white spirit and milk with a crafty alibi for years.
I’d go further. Real men don’t drink cocktails.
I’ve visited a cocktail bar only once and told the waiter: “Get me a single entendre.”
“On second thoughts,” “make it a double.”
“Ooooh, missus!” he gushed, “that’s a large one, sir.”
I also agree that a real gentleman “is mindful of others’ financial circumstances” – that’s why I’ve been sending begging letters to lottery winners for over a decade.
But I don’t buy Country Life’s claims that a 21st century gentleman doesn’t own a cat. I have a cat, Keogh, and don’t feel any less masculine because of the feline.
I find her fascinating.
Last night, I watched Keogh repeatedly hitting the cord to our kitchen blind with her paws for 10 minutes and thought: “Stupid cat, striking a
Iadded, cord for 10 minutes – it doesn’t take much to keep her entertained.”
Then it suddenly dawned on me. I’d been watching a cat striking a cord with her paw for 10 minutes.
The most ludicrous regulation in the Country Life rulebook is number four: “A gentleman makes love on his elbows.”
It beats the top deck of a bus, but I’m not sure where the magazine is coming from.
If it is a sexual position, then “sex elbow” would be a medical complaint, similar to tennis elbow but with more friction burns.
“Never heard of it,” said drinking companion Colin, shaking his head, “and we’ve got a copy of the Kama Sutra. We’re attempting every position in the book.”
“Really?” I gasped.
“Last night, I positioned her in The Plough,” he added. “But it was less than satisfactory.”
“Why?” I asked.
“The landlord barred us.”