逗比英国酒吧文化

为什么酒吧地位在英国人民心中那么重要？如何点酒？如何给小费？如何聊天？如何吵架？真客气还是假正经？Rules纯搬运 源自Watching the English by Kate Fox http://book.douban.com/subject/1474936/
（麻麻我也想写这样的论文T——T）
PUB-TALK
The pub is a central part of English life and culture. That may sound like a standard guide booky thing to say, but I really mean it: the importance of the pub in English culture cannot be over-emphasized. Over three quarters of the adult population go to pubs, and over a third are ‘regulars’, visiting the pub at least once a week. For many it is a second home. It also provides the perfect ‘representative sample’ of the English population for any social scientist, as pubs are frequented by people of all ages, all social classes, all education-levels and every conceivable occupation. It would be impossible even to attempt to understand Englishness without spending a lot of time in pubs, and it would almost be possible to achieve a good understanding of Englishness without ever leaving the pub.
THE RULES OF ENGLISH PUB-TALK
The Sociability Rule
For a start, the first rule of English pub-talk tells us why pubs are such a vital part of our culture. This is the sociability rule: the bar counter of the pub is one of the very few places in England where it is socially
acceptable to strike up a conversation with a complete stranger. At the bar counter, normal rules of privacy and reserve are suspended, we are granted temporary ‘remission’ from our conventional social inhibitions, and friendly conversation with strangers is considered entirely appropriate and normal behaviour.
Foreign visitors often find it hard to come to terms with the fact that there is no waiter service in English
pubs. Indeed, one of the most poignant sights of the English summer (or the funniest, depending on your sense of humour) is the group of thirsty tourists sitting patiently at a pub table, waiting for someone to come and take their order.
My first, callously scientific, response to this sight was to take out my stopwatch and start timing how long it would take tourists of different nationalities to realise that there was no waiter service. (For the record, the fastest time – two minutes, twenty-four seconds – was achieved by a sharp-eyed American couple; the slowest– forty-five minutes, thirteen seconds – was a group of young Italians, although to be fair, they were engrossed in an animated debate about football and did not appear much concerned about the apparent lack of service. A French couple marched out of the pub, muttering bitterly about the poor service and les Anglais in general, after a twenty-four-minute wait.) Once I had obtained sufficient data, however, I became more sympathetic, eventually to the point of writing a little paperback book on pub etiquette for tourists. The field research for this book – a sort of nine-month nationwide pub-crawl – also provided much useful material on Englishness.
In the pub-etiquette book, I explained that the sociability rule only applies at the bar counter, so having to go up to the bar to buy drinks gives the English valuable opportunities for social contact. Waiter service, I pointed out, would isolate people at separate tables. This may not be a problem in more naturally outgoing and sociable cultures, where people do not require any assistance to strike up a conversation with those seated near them, but, I argued rather defensively, the English are somewhat reserved and inhibited, and we need all the help we can get. It is much easier for us to drift casually into ‘accidental’ chat while waiting at the bar counter than deliberately to break into the conversation at a neighbouring table. The no-waiter-service system is designed to promote sociability.
But not rampant, uncontrolled sociability. ‘Cultural remission’ is not just a fancy academic way of saying
‘letting your hair down’. It does not mean abandoning all inhibitions and doing exactly as you please. It means, quite specifically, a structured, ordered, conventionalized relaxation of normal social conventions. In English pubs, the suspension of normal privacy rules is limited to the bar counter, and in some cases, to a lesser degree, to tables situated very near the counter – those furthest from the bar being universally understood to be the most ‘private’. I found a few other exceptions: the sociability rule also applies to a more limited extent (and subject to quite strict rules of introduction) around the dart-board and pool table, but only to those standing near the players: the tables in the vicinity of these games are still ‘private’.
The English need the social facilitation of legitimised deviance at the bar counter, but we also still value our privacy. The division of the pub into ‘public’ and ‘private’ zones is a perfect, and very English, compromise: it allows us to break the rules, but ensures that we do so in a comfortingly ordered and rule-governed manner.
The Invisible-queue Rule
Before we can even begin to explore the complex etiquette involved in pub-talk, we stumble across another rule of pub behaviour that involves a brief digression from our focus on conversation rules, but will help us to prove(in the correct sense of ‘test’) a ‘rule of Englishness’. The issue is queuing. The bar counter is the only place in England in which anything is sold without the formation of a queue. Many commentators have observed that queuing is almost a national pastime for the English, who automatically arrange themselves into orderly lines at bus stops, shop counters, ice-cream vans, entrances, exits, lifts – and, according to some of the baffled tourists
I interviewed, sometimes in the middle of nowhere for no apparent reason.
According to George Mikes: ‘an Englishman, even if he is alone, forms an orderly queue of one.’ When I first read this comment, I thought it was an amusing exaggeration, but then I started to observe people more closely, and found not only that it was true, but also that I do it myself. When waiting alone for a bus or at a taxi stop, I do not just lounge about anywhere roughly within striking distance of the stop, as people do in other countries – I stand directly under the sign, facing in the correct direction, exactly as though I were at the head of a queue. I form an orderly queue of one. If you are English, you probably do this too.
In our drinking-places, however, we do not form an orderly queue at all: we gather haphazardly along the bar counter. At first, this struck me as contrary to all English instincts, rules and customs, until I realised that there is in fact a queue, an invisible queue, and that both the bar staff and the customers are aware of each person’s position in this queue. Everyone knows who is next: the person who reached the bar counter before you will be served before you, and any obvious attempt to get served out of turn will be ignored by the bar staff and severely frowned upon by other customers. In other words, it will be treated as queue-jumping. The system is not infallible, but English bar staff are exceptionally skilled at identifying who is next in the invisible queue. The bar counter is ‘the exception that proves the rule’ about English queuing: it is only an apparent exception – and another example of the orderly nature of English disorder.
The Pantomime Rule
The rules of English pub-talk regulate non-verbal as well as verbal communication – in fact, some of them actively prohibit use of the verbal medium, such as the pantomime rule. Bar staff do their best to ensure that everyone is served in proper turn, but it is still necessary to attract their attention and make them aware that one is waiting to be served. There is, however, a strict etiquette involved in attracting the attention of bar staff: this must be done without speaking, without making any noise and without resorting to the vulgarity of obvious gesticulation. (Yes, we are back in Looking-Glass land again. The truth of English etiquette is indeed stranger than even the strangest of fiction.)
The prescribed approach is best described as a sort of subtle pantomime – not the kind of pantomime we see on stage at Christmas, but more like an Ingmar Bergman film in which the twitch of an eyebrow speaks volumes.
The object is to make eye contact with the barman. But calling out to him is not permitted, and almost all other obvious means of attracting attention, such as tapping coins on the counter, snapping fingers or waving are equally frowned upon. It is acceptable to let bar staff know one is waiting to be served by holding money or an empty glass in one’s hand. The pantomime rule allows us to tilt the empty glass, or perhaps turn it slowly in a circular motion (some seasoned pubgoers told me that this indicates the passing of time). The etiquette here is frighteningly precise: it is permitted to perch one’s elbow on the bar, for example, with either money or an empty glass in a raised hand, but not to raise one’s whole arm and wave the notes or glass around.
The pantomime rule requires the adoption of an expectant, hopeful, even slightly anxious expression. If a
customer looks too contented, bar staff may assume that he or she is already being served. Those waiting to be served must stay alert and keep their eye on the bar staff at all times. Once eye contact is made, a quick lift of the eyebrows, sometimes accompanied by an upward jerk of the chin, and a hopeful smile, lets the staff know you are waiting. They respond to these pantomime signals with a smile or a nod, a raised finger or hand, and perhaps a similar eyebrow-lift. This is code for ‘I see that you are waiting and will serve you as soon as possible’.
The English perform this pantomime sequence instinctively, without being aware of following a rigid etiquette, and never question the extraordinary handicaps (no speaking, no waving, no noise, constant alertness to subtle non-verbal signals) imposed by the rule. Foreigners find the eyebrow-twitching pantomime ritual baffling –incredulous tourists often told me that they could not understand how the English ever managed to buy themselves a drink – but it is surprisingly effective. Everyone does get served, usually in the right order, and without undue fuss, noise or argument.
Researching the pantomime rule (and the other unwritten rules of pub behaviour) was something of a test of my own ability to stand back from my native culture and observe it as a detached scientist. As a native pubgoer, I had always performed the pantomime ritual automatically, like everyone else, without ever questioning or even noticing its strange and complex rules. But to write the pub-etiquette book, I had to force myself to become a ‘professional alien’, even in my own local pub. It is quite an interesting (although somewhat disconcerting) mental exercise, to clear one’s mind of everything one normally takes for granted – and to scrutinise, dissect and question every detail of a routine which is almost as familiar, mindless and mechanical as brushing one’s teeth.
Exception to the Pantomime Rule
There is one important exception to the pantomime rule, and as usual it is a rule-governed exception. While waiting to be served at a pub bar counter, you may hear people calling out to the bar staff ‘Oi, any chance of a bloody drink sometime this millennium?’ or ‘Get a move on: I’ve been stood here since last Thursday!’ or committing other blatant breaches of the pantomime rule. You would be advised not to follow their example: the only people permitted to speak in this manner are the established ‘regulars’ (regular customers of the pub), and the rude remarks are made in the context of the special etiquette governing relations between bar staff and regulars.
The Rules of Ps and Qs
The rules governing the ordering of drinks, however, apply to everyone. First, it is customary in England for just one or at the most two members of a group to go up to the bar to order drinks for the group, and for only one to make the actual payment. (This rule is not merely designed to make life easier for bar staff, or to avoid that English pet hate ‘fuss’. It is related to another complex set of rules: the etiquette of round-buying, which will be covered later.) Second, the correct way to order a beer is ‘A pint of bitter [or lager], please’. For a half-pint, this is always shortened to ‘Half a bitter [or lager], please’.
The ‘please’ is very important: foreigners or novices will be forgiven mistakes in other elements of the order, but omitting the ‘please’ is a serious offence. It is also vital to say ‘thank-you’ (or ‘thanks’, or ‘cheers’, or at the very least the non-verbal equivalent – eye contact, nod and smile), when the drinks are handed over, and again when the change is given.
This rule applies not just in pubs, but when ordering or purchasing anything, anywhere in England: in shops, restaurants, trains, buses and hotels, staff expect to be treated politely, and this means saying please and thank-you. The politeness is reciprocal: a bartender or shop assistant will say, ‘That’ll be four pounds fifty, then, please’, and will usually say ‘Thank you’, or an equivalent, when you hand over the money. The generic rule is that every request (by either staff or customer) must end with ‘please’ and every fulfilment of a request (ditto) requires a ‘thank-you’.
During my research on Englishness, I diligently counted all the pleases and thank-yous involved in every
purchase I made, and found that, for example, a typical transaction in a newsagent’s or corner shop (such as, say, my usual purchase of a bar of chocolate, a newspaper and a packet of cigarettes) usually involves two pleases and three thank-yous (although there is no upper limit on thank-yous, and I have often counted five). The simple purchase of a drink and a packet of crisps in a pub also typically requires two pleases and three thank-yous.
England may be a highly class-conscious society, but these politeness rules suggest that the culture is also, in many ways, remarkably egalitarian – or at least that it is not done to draw attention to status differences.
Service staff may often be of a lower social class than their customers (and linguistic class-indicators ensure that where this is the case both parties will be aware of it), but there is a conspicuous lack of servility in their demeanour, and the unwritten rules require that they be treated with courtesy and respect. Like all rules, these are sometimes broken, but when this does occur, it is noticed and frowned upon.
The ‘And One for Yourself?’ Rule – and the Principles of Polite Egalitarianism
In the special social micro-climate of the pub, I found that the rules of egalitarian courtesy are even more
complex, and more strictly observed. For example, it is not customary in English pubs to tip the publican or bar staff who serve you. The usual practice is, instead, to buy them a drink. To give bar staff a tip would be an impolite reminder of their ‘service’ role, whereas to offer a drink is to treat them as equals. The rules governing the manner in which such drinks must be offered reflect both polite egalitarianism and a peculiarly English squeamishness about money. The prescribed etiquette for offering a drink to the publican or bar staff is to say, ‘And one for yourself?’ or ‘And will you have one yourself?’ at the end of your order. The offer must be clearly phrased as a question, not an instruction, and should be made discreetly, not bellowed out in an unseemly public display of generosity.
If one is not ordering drinks, it is still acceptable to ask the bartender or publican ‘Will you have a drink?’ but the ‘And one for yourself?’ approach is much preferred, as it implies that the customer and the bartender are having a drink together, that the bartender is being included in the ‘round’. I observed that the English also tend to avoid using the word ‘buy’. To ask, ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ would in theory be acceptable, but in practice is rarely heard, as it carries the suggestion that money is involved. The English are perfectly well aware that money is involved, but prefer not to call attention to the fact. We know that the publican and bar staff are providing us with a service in exchange for money – and indeed that the ‘And one for yourself?’ ritual is a somewhat convoluted and tortuous way of giving them a tip – but it would be indecorous to highlight the pecuniary aspects of this relationship.
And the bar staff collude in this squeamishness. If the ‘And one for yourself?’ offer is accepted, it is customary for bar staff to say, ‘Thanks, I’ll have a half [or whatever]’ and add the price of their chosen drink to the total cost of the order. They will then state the new total clearly: ‘That’ll be five pounds twenty, then, please’ – thus indirectly letting you know the price of the drink you have just bought them, without actually mentioning the amount (which in any case will not be large, as the unwritten rules require them to choose a relatively inexpensive drink). By stating the revised total, they are also, in a subtle and oblique manner, making the customer aware of their abstemious choice of beverage.
The understanding that this is not a tip but an invitation to ‘join’ the customer in a drink, is also reinforced by the behaviour of the bar staff when consuming the drink. They will always raise their glass in the customer’s direction, and say ‘Cheers’ or ‘Thanks’, which is normal practice between friends on receiving a drink as part of a ‘round’. When the bar is particularly busy, the staff may not have time to pour or consume the drink immediately.
It is quite acceptable in these circumstances for them to accept the ‘And one for yourself?’ offer, add the price of their drink to the customer’s order, and enjoy the drink later when the bar is less crowded. On pouring the drink, however, even several hours later, bar staff will go to some lengths to ensure that they catch the relevant customer’s eye and raise the glass in acknowledgement, with a nod and a smile – and a ‘cheers’ if the customer is within earshot.
It could be argued that, although more egalitarian than conventional tipping, this ‘one-way commensality’ –giving without receiving in return – is none the less a dominance signal. This argument would have some merit, were it not that the gesture is often reciprocated by publicans and bar staff, who will usually not allow a customer, particularly a regular, to buy them many drinks before attempting to return the favour. There will still, in the final reckoning, be some asymmetry, but such reckonings never occur, and even an occasional reciprocation on the part of the publican or bar staff serves to maintain the impression of a friendly exchange between equals.
To many foreign visitors, the ‘And one for yourself?’ ritual seems like an unnecessarily circuitous and
complicated way of giving a tip – a gesture accomplished almost everywhere else in the world by the simple handing over of a few coins. A bemused American, to whom I explained the rule, expressed incredulity at the ‘Byzantine’ nature of English pub etiquette, and a French visitor bluntly dismissed the entire procedure as ‘typical English hypocrisy’.
Although other foreigners told me that they found our convoluted courtesies charming, if somewhat bizarre, I have to admit that these two critics both have a point. English rules of politeness are undeniably rather complex, and, in their tortuous attempts to deny or disguise the realities of status differences, clearly hypocritical. But then, surely all politeness is a form of hypocrisy: almost by definition, it involves pretence. The sociolinguists Brown and Levinson argue that politeness ‘presupposes [the] potential for aggression as it seeks to disarm it, and makes possible communication between potentially aggressive parties’. Also in the context of a discussion of aggression, Jeremy Paxman observes that our strict codes of manners and etiquette seem ‘to have been developed by the English to protect themselves from themselves’.
We are, perhaps more than many other cultures, intensely conscious of class and status differences. George Orwell correctly described England as ‘the most class-ridden country under the sun’. Our labyrinthine rules and codes of polite egalitarianism are a disguise, an elaborate charade, a severe collective case of what psychotherapists would call ‘denial’. Our polite egalitarianism is not an expression of our true social relations, any more than a polite smile is a manifestation of genuine pleasure or a polite nod a signal of real agreement. Our endless pleases disguise orders and instructions as requests; our constant thank-yous maintain an illusion of friendly equality; the ‘And one for yourself?’ ritual requires an extraordinary act of communal self-deception, whereby we all agree to pretend that nothing so vulgar as money nor so degrading as ‘service’ is involved in the
purchase of drinks in a bar. Hypocrisy? At one level, clearly, yes: our politenesses are all sham, pretence, dissimulation – an artificial veneer of harmony and parity masking quite different social realities. But I have always understood the term hypocrisy to imply conscious, deliberate deception of others, whereas English polite egalitarianism seems to involve a collective, even collaborative, self-delusion. Our politenesses are evidently not a reflection of sincere, heartfelt beliefs, but neither are they cynical, calculating attempts to deceive. And perhaps we need our polite
egalitarianism to protect us from ourselves – to prevent our acute consciousness of class differences from expressing itself in less acceptable ways.
此处省略问候规则 熟人规则和吵架规则
PUB-TALK RULES AND ENGLISHNESS
So. What have we learnt? What do the rules of pub-talk tell us about Englishness?
The sociability rule confirms the characteristic revealed by the weather-speak rules of context and reciprocity– namely the ingenious use of ‘facilitators’ to overcome our natural reserve and inhibitions. But this rule has added a couple of new twists to this theme. First, we find that in promoting sociability, the English are very careful to avoid sacrificing privacy. Second, the strict limits and caveats to the sociability rule indicate that even when we depart from convention, we do so in a controlled, orderly manner.
In the invisible queue rule, we find another example of ‘orderly disorder’, and evidence of the importance of queuing, which itself could be an indication of the importance of ‘fairness’ (this makes me wonder if perhaps the traditional English reverence for ‘fair play’ is still stronger than the doom-mongers would have us believe). In the pantomime rule, we see again the precedence of etiquette over logic – along with a marked dislike of fuss, noise and drawing attention to oneself, confirming earlier evidence indicating that social inhibition might be among the defining characteristics of Englishness.
The rules of Ps and Qs confirm the supreme importance of courtesy, and our squeamishness about calling attention to class and status differences. The ‘And one for yourself?’ rule exposes both the hypocrisies and the virtues of English ‘polite egalitarianism’.
The deviations from convention involved in the rules of regular-speak provide a particularly rich source of indicators of Englishness. The excessive use of names (and nicknames) prescribed by the greeting rules contrasts sharply with mainstream English conversation-codes, in which over-use of names is frowned upon as too cloyingly familiar. It occurs to me that perhaps our official, snooty, well-bred contempt for such familiarity masks a secret need for it, expressed only in liminal zones.
As well as facilitating uncharacteristic sociability, the rules of coded pub-talk highlight another ‘deviation’: the escape from mainstream social hierarchies. We see that although sociability and egalitarianism are universal features of drinking-places, the contrast with conventional norms is particularly striking in the English case (only matched by the Japanese, also a culture noted for reserve, formality and acute sensitivity to status differences and also, perhaps significantly, a society inhabiting a small, overcrowded island). In coded pub-talk and in the pub-argument rules, we also find that undercurrent of humour that characterizes much English conversation, along with a sharp wit and linguistic inventiveness. Finally, the free-association rule provides yet another example
of regulated deregulation, ordered disorder, method in (apparent) madness.
We’ll tot all this up later, when we’ve examined enough different aspects of English culture to build up a
representative sample of its unspoken rules, from which we can distil our ‘quintessences of Englishness’. In our exploration of the minutiae of conversation codes, we are already starting to see some recurring themes, but we must be ruthless: will these themes appear again in other contexts, such as the way we decorate our homes, our behaviour on trains and buses, the customs and rituals of the workplace, the rules of eating and drinking, sex and shopping?