Britain has forgotten its manners. Now it's every man for himself

Telegraph

2 days ago

At first glance it sounds like a terrible insult, a slap in the face of British hospitality; those pesky yanks pulling our legs and being decidedly unfunny. Gruel Britannia is an establishment in Fairfield, Connecticut, in the northeastern United States. Pop a pin on Long Island and the fictional town of West Egg, home of Jay Gatsby, wouldn't be too far away. It's a prosperous part of the New York metropolitan area, specifically at 2217 Post Road. And Gruel Britannia is, apparently, frequented by the silver foxes of Long Island Sound, no longer commuting to the metropolis of NYC.
They swing by Gruel Britannia for a taste of the old country, which is not actually, as the name implies, a glorification of the culinary offerings of Dickens or the rationing years. In fact, in a room adorned with Union flags and with shelves that heave with Colman's mustard, Sarson's vinegar and Marmite, there's a dinner menu delivering prawn cocktail, mushrooms on toast and sticky toffee pudding. Come tea time, sandwiches of cucumber and coronation chicken are on offer. Some of the breakfast dishes seem lost in translation, though, in particular 'The British Breakfast Plate', which features toad in the hole, bubble and squeak, baked beans and onion gravy.
One imagines a Dick Van Dyke character doing his worst cockney ('Alright, ladies and gents?') as he brings dishes to the table.
But the place is actually run as an affectionate tribute to the UK. And such is its popularity that a second branch is now opening at nearby Westport. And it's at GB2, at 161 Cross Highway, that the owners are now offering a more immersive British experience, including lessons in British etiquette. As British co-owner Karen Hubrich put it this week, 'It's a de facto portal to London.'
Which makes me wonder if Ms Hubrich has been to London recently, because the current state of manners on display in the UK's capital is less tea and crumpets, more marijuana puffs in your face and a stabbing.
Offer someone a seat on the Tube and you'll likely be accused of ageism; open a door for people while remarking 'ladies first' and you'll be labelled a chauvinist; address a classroom of teenage kids with a 'good morning, boys and girls' and you'll be arrested for being transphobic.
British etiquette has been replaced by an every man – sorry, person – for themselves attitude. On trains we must suffer the smells of other people's Asian noodles, the tinny sounds of music emanating from headphones, the horrendous din of cartoons (often the horror that is something called Grizzy and the Lemmings) playing on iPads to enraptured, brain-diminishing children and conductors addressing one another as 'mate', a plague now adopted by UK police.
As a cyclist in London, I bear witness to a dramatic decline in driving etiquette, the idea of 'after you' now superseded by those at the wheel acting like they're getaway drivers in a crime caper; honking horns now making the streets of London sound more like Naples.
There is no dignity offered by anyone answering the phone, be it a bank, TV or telecoms business, with British grannies being abused daily by folk demanding their dates of birth. And if you ever make it to the front of the telephone queue in an attempt to get a doctor's appointment you are promptly warned against (although it feels more like an accusation) assaulting the surgery staff.
Parcels these days are less 'delivered' than hurled in one's general direction. And rather than nipping out of the room to take a call in the hall, it's considered reasonable to interrupt conversations to receive and have loud ones on a mobile, as if re-enacting Dom Joly's Trigger Happy TV man on the big phone.
Dare I even mention people forgetting to take their hats off in church?
Let's not forget the current state of dress in the United Kingdom, either. People think it's reasonable to go shopping as if dressed for a pyjama party; to wear shorts to the office and, worse, flip-flops. Sporting a beard is considered normal, as is the sacrilege that is bearing one's tattoos in public.
Yet, elsewhere, some cling to what is left of Britain as a heritage brand; our perceived manners and sensibilities; conduct as portrayed in the black-and-white Ealing comedies. British murderers weren't drug-toting thugs but the likes of Louis D'Ascoyne Mazzini, whose mass murder of the line of succession in his family was somehow portrayed as reasonable if not rather charming.
Thus Brits are employed to give lessons in manners at The Etiquette and Leadership Institute in Hong Kong and similarly at the Pria Warrick Finishing Academy in Delhi.
While here at the mothership, the inhabitants of our small island are all behaving appallingly.