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Monica Porter


Daily Mail, 22 July 1995

Don’t ever lose your Britishness

After the row over teaching British  culture in schools, a Hungarian-born writer argues that our children must never  be allowed to forget the values that still make us great

TWENTY-FIVE years ago this summer I moved to  Britain, my adopted country. I can no longer remember if it was by accident or  design that I arrived here right smack on my 18th birthday, but it was the best  birthday present I could have asked for.

For a teenager who’d just graduated from high  school in Hartsdale, New York, it was like entering a magic kingdom, a land of  legend and literature and ancient history.

I didn’t really know a great deal about life in  Britain, or London, the city which I made my home. What I did know stemmed  mainly from my voracious reading I spent my first few days charging around,  devouring the sights – but not the usual tourist places.

I looked up the addresses I knew from Sherlock  Holmes and Dickens. That’s what London has always meant to me: little details,  like the exact bit along the Thames where Pip kept his boat tied up for the  getaway with Magwitch.

I felt, as so many people feel who come here  from America, that this country was eminently civilised. And I decided right  away that I wanted to spend the rest of my life here. This might seem a rash  step for someone who’d only come to take a course at drama college. But instinct  told me that this country and I were destined for each other. Pretty soon I was  composing little poems about the place – a sure sign that I was besotted. In my  teens, every passion found its outlet in a burst of poetry.

That was a quarter of a century ago. My decision  to settle here was no empty threat. I’ve been in Britain ever since. After  college I began to work, I got married and had children. And if that kingdom I  fell in love with so long ago now seems to have lost some of its magic, this is  only partly because I am no longer the wide-eyed ingenue. I have grown older and  more complicated, but so, I have to say, has Britain.

Every day we open our newspapers and see grim  headlines. We read about the rise in crime and drug abuse. Violence on the  streets. The many people out of work or in danger of losing their livelihood.  Homelessness. A failing NHS. The breakdown of the family structure. Young people  with no direction. Pollution. Seemingly insoluble problems.

Everything appears to be going downhill. So it  is easy to conclude that the very fabric of national life is pulling apart and  disintegrating before our eyes, that what we are witnessing is nothing short of  the final demise of this once-mighty Empire.

All of these problems are real, and need to be  addressed. Parents should be concerned about the nature of the country and the  society which our youngsters will one day inherit. Let’s face it, life was  happier and more innocent in those days before ram-raiders and gangs of girl  muggers, video nasties, pornography on the Internet, wheel clamps, and beggars  camping out in all our cities.

But this is modern Britain, not ancient Rome.  All is not lost. And from time to time we should take stock of what hasn’t  changed. Of the values and virtues which – despite the catalogue of late-20th  century horrors – have remained essentially intact.

There’s the humour, of course. It took me a year  or two to attune my ears to the British brand of humour, through which daily  frustrations are so effectively vented. It’s dry, subtle, deliciously irreverent  and cleverer than anywhere else. It’s the repartee between Ian Hislop and Paul  Merton on the TV show Have I Got News For You. It’s the ready quips of Cockney  cabbies, and tart Northerners. It’s having as Prime Minister the only man who  ever `ran away from a circus to join a bank’.

It’s also the spate of wickedly funny Hugh Grant  jokes, which were making the rounds here almost before his fingerprints had  dried at a Los Angeles police station. And it’s Private Eye. Whatever the  problems – social, political, economic – which plague Britain, the revolution  will never reach the streets as long as it can play itself out every fortnight  on the pages of a satirical magazine – run, remarkably, by members of the very  Establishment it is lampooning.

The British are good at joking, especially about  themselves. Oscar Wilde summed it up: `Life is far too important to take  seriously.’ Something else which has not been lost as we near the end of the  millennium is civility. It is felt in those small acts which, perhaps  unnoticeably, make our everyday lives more pleasant. For example, only those  who’ve spent several minutes attempting to use a pedestrian crossing in a German  city, as the BMWs blindly roar by, can appreciate the fact that as soon as one  puts a toe on the zebra here at home, almost invariably the traffic stops at  once. And this does not apply only to us humans. I’ve seen an articulated lorry  screech to a halt just to allow a lone street mongrel to amble across its path.

Common decency is still with us. But it comes in  many guises, and because we are often guilty of judging by appearances, we don’t  always see it. Not long ago I was driving through the busy centre of a South  Coast resort. I stopped at a red light, and a frail old gent started unsteadily  to negotiate his way across the road. There were several pedestrians around, but  the one to lend a hand and help the elderly man reach the other side was a youth  sporting violent-green hair, with dragons tattooed along his arm and rings  through most of the protruding bits of his face.

Much was once made of the British sense of fair  play. But no one speaks of it anymore. Is it dead? There’s an extraordinary  establishment in Cricklewood, North London, which attests to its being alive and  well. It’s a restaurant called Just Around The Corner, where customers are given  bills with no prices on them, and asked to pay whatever they think their meal  was worth.

When it first opened, everyone reckoned that the  owner, a Serb emigre, would have to scrap this bizarre policy or go bust. After  all, there was nothing to stop people from coming in, consuming three-course  dinners and bottles of wine and leaving 10 pence, or some other derisory amount.  `I couldn’t possibly run a business like this in any other country,’ the Serb  explained, `but I know the British will always pay fairly.’

The policy stayed, and far from going bust, the  restaurant has just celebrated its tenth anniversary. Very few customers – and  this in a period of recession – have ever taken advantage of the DIY bills. In  fact, eager not to underpay (or merely out of embarrassment), they frequently  leave more than they need to.

And what of the famed British tolerance and  liberalism? There are those who would have us believe that the injustices of the  Establishment are many and heinous – people like the social workers in Left-wing  councils, and gay rights activists, and Paul Foot and Peter Hain. Failings there  certainly are. But `tolerance’ is a concept which can only be measured in  relative terms, and in a world rife with regimes of a categorically intolerant  kind – of Right and Left, religious and military – Britain stands as a paragon.

It’s precisely because vast differences in  belief, lifestyle and custom are accommodated within the generous bounds of what  is culturally acceptable, that so many people from all over the world want to  settle here.

For me, traditional British liberalism is  symbolised by one small (but not to be under-estimated) thing: the happy fact  that you are allowed on the grass in public parks. You can sit on it, lie on it,  eat your sandwich or kiss your lover on it. This is a nation of glorious parks,  but however glorious they are, the grass is never ranked higher than the people.  You can judge the whole national mentality by this single detail.

I’ve been to parks in France at the height of  summer, when the grass is a scratchy, dried up, sorry affair. But even so, the  rigid formalities are observed and there are signs declaring it out of bounds.  As if human contact would make it look worse. And once, in Vienna, I saw a small  child gambol through a strip of lawn in a public garden and a miserable old  woman sitting nearby actually threatened to call the police.

Little things like that make this country look  good.

But perhaps the real benchmark is television,  the mirror to any society. In the United States, by the early Sixties TV had  been hijacked by its sponsors and turned into another advertising medium. Its  main purpose is to tell you which washing powder or dog food to buy. America is  the superpower which sends rockets into space more smoothly than other countries  can run a bus service, yet is incapable of producing watchable, intelligent  television. The enduring quality of British television – despite market forces  and the machinations of Michael Grade, John Birt and others – says more about  traditional British values than anything else.

I met a visiting TV producer from New York not  long ago, a dynamic and successful woman who spoke disparagingly about the  programmes she’d been watching here. She was particularly scathing about the  fact that one evening – `at prime time’ – BBC2 showed a documentary about the  flora and fauna in a remote region of Africa.

`How many people would want to sit and watch  that?’ she demanded. `Don’t they know about ratings?’

Coming from the shallow waters of American TV,  she couldn’t possibly understand that that kind of broadcasting illustrates a  public life which, in spite of its shortcomings, has an ineradicably enlightened  heart. It shows that, even in our era of hamburgers and airport novels, the  lowest common denominator doesn’t always rule.

As a mark of the excellence of our television  service I need look no further than my 11-year-old son, a self-confessed TV  addict. I used to worry about the huge chunks of time Nicky spends in front of  the box. I’d urge him to read a book instead. `This is the 1990s, Mum,’ he would  retort, whatever that was supposed to mean.

Then gradually I realised that my son was one of  the best-informed people I know – and that includes assorted Fleet Street  journalists. He knows about the secret life of every plant. He can tell you who  holds the land speed record. He knows the latest techniques for making  skyscrapers earthquakeproof, and how to give first aid to someone suffering from  convulsions, and how to make a curry without the rice sticking together. He gets  it all from TV. And for all the reading I used to do at that age, I can’t say my  vocabulary was half as impressive as Nicky’s. His spelling is lousy, I admit.  But who’s perfect?

Perhaps, in order to appreciate fully the good  things which endure beyond the often bleak face of today’s Britain, it helps to  have a background such as mine. An early childhood in a country crushed by  Stalinist dictatorship (Hungary), and parents whose lives were blighted first by  political oppression, then by a bloody revolution, and finally by the trauma of  emigration.

Those experiences never leave you, but provide  the harsh backdrop against which every freedom, great or small, is seen, and  every victory of human dignity is measured. For the native Brit, it can be a  useful exercise once in a while to view the homeland through the eyes of someone  who lives here by choice, rather than chance.

Winston Churchill once described democracy as  `the worst form of government, except for all those other forms’. Well, by the  same token, I believe that Britain, for all the bad things, is the least bad  country in which to live. It’s still the best birthday present I’ve ever had.  It’s home.