In pestilent times, standoffishness has much to recommend it
Anyone in doubt that humans are an adaptable species need only consider how the coronavirus outbreak has been seamlessly repurposed to fit pre-existing narratives. Opponents of free trade have framed the pandemic as a cautionary tale about globalisation; eco-warriors as a parable for our international travel mania. Never one to miss a good bandwagon, here’s my suggestion. Coronavirus, though deeply alarming, offers an opportunity to turn back the clock on some of the most egregious cultural howlers to hit these shores.
Some claim that the “stiff upper lip” was a temporary aberration. In Weeping Britannia, a cultural history of crying, the historian Thomas Dixon describes this national characteristic as a “myth”, drawn from a brief period between the end of the Victorian sentimental era and the funeral of Winston Churchill in 1965, when thousands lined the route with dry-eyed restraint. Three decades later, the death of Diana, Princess of Wales engulfed Britain in a tidal wave of lachrymosity that has never fully subsided. Much as I admire Dixon’s thesis, I say this is quitter’s talk.
Already, the reaction of state and civil society suggests that rumours of the death of British stoicism may be exaggerated. The Government has so far struck the right balance between panic and complacency. We have a new media sensation in the form of the Chief Medical Officer for England, Chris Whitty. An unlikely hero in these fickle, celebrity-obsessed times, to be sure, but so eminently reasonable, so reassuringly bureaucratic, that his mere presence has a soothing effect.
Most impressive of all has been the public. Some frenzied hoarding aside, habits have changed quickly, calmly and with little fanfare. The sight of a group of hand-washers, dutifully humming Happy Birthday or God Save the Queen now fills me with pride.
Introverts have particularly taken to the new regime, relishing the opportunity to spurn social engagements and crowded events. Older folk accept their heightened risks with dour nonchalance. “We’ve all got to die of something,” as my 79-yearold father put it recently. Many view the explosion of dark humour as offensive. To me it is both empowering – showing that we’re not defeated yet – and a welcome return to Anglo-Saxon bloodymindedness.
British reserve could make a reappearance, too, following decades of touchy-feely mission creep. Pleasingly, the enforced chumminess of the sign of peace at my church has been downgraded to nodding, rather than effusive, handshaking.
The middle classes have long felt pressure to engage in the mwahmwah double-cheek peck, perhaps to evoke a sense of continental flair. But, for safety’s sake, we should revert to the restraint preached by Basil and Sybil Fawlty (“What are you doing?” “I’m kissing you, dear.” “Well don’t.”). Perhaps we could even start wearing broadbrimmed hats again, the perfect accessory to keep would-be kissers at bay and make the remote nod a necessity.
In a new era of pandemics, stand-offishness has much to recommend it.