On British Men.
A few days ago I was having an interesting conversation on English language with a friend, and I was pointing out how English tends to be much shorter and concise than Italian. She then joked that, if it was an English man speaking, you wouldn’t even get an answer at all, which made my eyes roll and led the promptly reply ‘don’t even get me started on English men’. My friend suggested I’d put my thoughts on the subject down in writing for posterity to read, and here I am keeping my promise.
Social Interactions With British Men – A Case Study
A first, fundamental premise is that British people are not, as it is widely believed, cold individuals. They have a peculiar way of communicating and showing emotions which, once you get to know them better, is crystal clear and easy to interpret. The essential points are:
a. When half of the world’s population (maybe excluding hardcore buddhists) would have screamed, swore, strangled passer-bys, true British maintain complete control of themselves. To the untrained eye, it would seem they do not express any kind of emotional reaction whatsoever. After years in this country, I can now say they do in fact react to external events. Only in its extreme intensity, the particular emotion can be measured by a slight yet clear movement of the eyebrows, often accompanied by a rapid movement of the eyes. Slight twitching of eyebrow? Extreme anger. Eyebrows moving slightly closer to each other? Extreme perplexity. Eyebrows moving downwards and puppy eyes? Extreme sadness. And so forth.
b. Apologise. Always. Hit someone with a broom randomly while you’re walking on a semi-deserted street, be sure that person will say ‘sorry’ to you. British social life is a triumph of apologies, followed by an abundance of ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.
c. Do NOT, for whatever reason, touch another person. Touching is not permitted. You can’t invade someone else’s personal space – if you do, go to point b.
d. Communication is clear and concise. Don’t say in 10 words what you could say in one (or as in point a)
Now, it is scientifically proved men are emotionally retarded. They don’t know what display of emotions is, let alone the ability of articulating them into a coherent sentence. Where a woman expresses a concept in a deeply articulated speech, a man would reply with either 2 words or a groan. You can spend an hour of your life writing the most beautifully written email, the size of an A4 page, to a man, and you will probably get a line in reply, often after 10 days after you sent the email. Examples could go on, and on.
Given all the above, can you, for a tiny second, imagine what it is like for an Italian woman to interact with British men? It is a slow, painful agony where you are constantly torn between the irrepressible instinct to grab them by their shoulder and shake them (possibly screaming) and the desire to pinch their cheeks and go ‘awwwh’ at them, often wanting to give them a hug (which, by the way, could scar them for life).
I have learnt several things about British men. Interestingly, contrary to Italian men, their lives don’t seem to revolve around food and vagina. In case you didn’t know, food and vagina are the on top of the scale of values and life motivators for an Italian man. For British men, beer probably works as food does for Italians. I’m not sure vagina occupies the same central place it does for Italian men, but if it does, they’re probably better at hiding it. I wouldn’t be surprised if they managed to hide a ‘I want to shag you right here right now like a mouflon in heat’ behind a ‘so, what are you doing in London?’ (Italians can’t hide it at all, for the record). British men don’t scream, gesticulate, kiss on the cheek, grab each others balls and hug repeatedly when they meet up. They pat each other’s shoulders, slightly but firmly, in most extreme cases addressing each other with a ‘hey mate’. If a beautiful woman passes before their eyes, they don’t turn their heads until they fall off their shoulders, don’t whistle or clap. They just move the eyes, or eyebrows – which is, by the way, the general reaction to pretty much everything. British men would make hermetic poetry sound unnecessary verbose. If the subject is themselves, then be sure that mute signs would be more eloquent. The list could go on, but I have decided that the best way to describe this long and tortuous journey of mine into the Wonderful World of British Men’s Social Behaviour is to provide examples of some of the specimen I have found along my way over the years. The idea of excluding some of them, as well as all the random strangers I bump into on a daily basis who bless me with their Britishness, is hard and make my heart bleed, but alas, this is only meant to be a relatively short essay on the subject. I do plan to write a more compelling work later in my life.
I would like to start off with the first British man I’ve ever interacted with ever – my room neighbour during my first holiday in London. We were all living in student accomodations during our summer courses, he was a student at that university while I was just there for a couple of weeks studying English. There was the first time I experienced flirting (and kissing) English-style. For the first time in my life I didn’t have someone introducing himself to me, starting showering me with compliments, putting an arm around my shoulders and in approximately 3 and a half hours sticking his tongue down my throat. There I had a guy who didn’t even physically touched me for a week. And who asked me if he could give me a kiss with the same tone and facial expression you would say ‘what is your opinion on the excessive amount of rain fallen over the past 2 weeks?’. A man who, when I tried to hold his hand in public, looked at me as if I had just tore his trousers off and grabbed his penis in front of a 1500-people audience. A man I probably made cry when I told him I really, really liked him. My young self spent a considerable amount of time believing he didn’t really like me. Ah, the innocence of youth.
Another man that definitely needs to be mentioned is a man who, after having lived in Italy for years, maintained his Britishness in an almost moving way. The man who taught me what sarcasm is. And sarcastic remarks are the closest you’ll ever get to what a British man thinks. Which in his case, with the sole aforementioned movement of the eyebrows, was ‘You Italians are drama queens and I, subject of the Queen, laugh at your face’.
How could not mention gay British men? The amazingness of the delicacy of English language combined to the poetically British hermetism. Someone, once, in seeing me yawning and collapsing on my keyboard: ‘Are you alright, petal?’. Petal. Petal. I had tears of joy in my eyes. Men who combine the amazingness of questions like ‘do you moisturise?’ with the unmissable ‘have a cup of tea’ when you are about to pull your hair for stress.
But please, allow me to spend the last paragraph on the absolute, unquestionable winner of my personal chart so far who, like the others mentioned above, shall remain unnamed. The essence of Britishness made man. A man who would physically run to avoid a hug. A man who would reply to an email after 21 days, when you have long forgotten about it, as if you had just finished the conversation the night before. A man able to express anger, sadness, disappointment, amusement, interest and even affection with JUST. ONE. EXPRESSION. I never thought someone could master the art of eyebrows communication to perfection. A man I will always remember for the best attempt at starting a conversation ever: I was pouring my drink, he appeared from nowhere saying ‘hi Silvia, I…see…you’re holding a Fanta’. I was so touched I would have given him a hug, if this couldn’t have potentially caused him a trauma that would have kept him awake at night in tears. A man who brings the ‘don’t touch me’ aura to the next level, and I can clearly see terror in his eyes every time I do touch him (because alas, sometimes I touch people without even realising). A man who once replied to a text with just an exclamation mark, putting hermetic poets of the 20th century to shame. And I could write a book on the times I thought ‘this man is the quintessence of Britishness’, but I’ll stop it there.
Conclusion: British male specimen are weird creatures who never fail to amuse me. I feel so blessed to live in this country.
