RACING-TALK - Part 1
The world of horseracing, although much smaller than that of the pub, is almost equally representative. In fact, racing has more right, in demographic terms, to be called our national sport than football, as it attracts a far more balanced cross-section of the English population. Like the pub, race-meetings attract people of all ages and all social classes. The highest and lowest ends of the social spectrum are slightly over-represented at the racecourse, leaving a few minor gaps in the middle. The upper-middle-intelligentsia, for example, are rather under-represented, but as this vociferous minority receives more than enough attention elsewhere, its scarcity here need not concern us too much.
Like the pub, racing is a social microclimate – a special environment in which we find a degree of 'cultural remission', a temporary, conventionalised suspension of some of the normal social rules and constraints. In the case of racing, however, this microclimate is characterised by a highly unusual combination of relaxed inhibitions and exceptional good manners. I have never found this combination, or at least not to the same degree, in any other public setting in this country. The two elements usually seem to be mutually exclusive among the English (and indeed elsewhere): people will either shed their inhibitions and let rip or be frightfully polite and well behaved; you don't normally see both extremes at the same time.
This anomaly struck me the first time I went to the races, and I was so intrigued that I spent three years studying this subculture, and eventually wrote a book about it. I am not, however, including racing as an example here merely because it is an English 'tribe' with which I am familiar, but because at the races we see the English in the behavioural equivalent of full national costume, in some respects almost a caricature of ourselves, but at our best and most likeable.
THE RULES OF ENGLISH RACING-TALK
Introduction Rules
To grasp the significance of microclimate codes, it is necessary to understand the prevailing 'mainstream' climatic conditions. I must therefore stress again that there are very few public places in England where it is socially acceptable to strike up a conversation with a stranger. We rarely speak to each other (and, indeed, rarely even make eye-contact or smile) in railway stations, on buses, in supermarket queues, etc., without good reason. English commuters often travel on the same train together every morning for many years, without ever exchanging a word. This is not a myth or even an exaggeration: I have observed it over many years and confirmed it in hundreds of interviews. We do not speak to strangers without good cause, and we certainly do not start chatting to random strangers in public places just to be friendly.
The pub bar counter is one exception to this normal rule of reserve; racecourses provide an even more remarkable example of deviation from this rule. In the pub, the bar counter is the only area in which mainstream rules on talking to strangers may be broken. At the races, you will see eye contact, smiles and amicable exchanges between complete strangers not only in the bars but also on the grandstands, around the parade ring, in the Tote queues – almost everywhere.
This is still England, though, so you will not be entirely surprised to learn that such conversations are conducted in accordance with strict and quite complex rules. They usually start with the question 'What do you fancy in the next?' (or 'What are you on in the two-thirty?' or 'Got any tips for the next?' – or some variation on this theme: the exact words are not prescribed, but it should be an enquiry as to which horse the other person thinks might win a particular race).
‘What do you fancy in the next?' is, of course, a grooming-talk conversation-starter with the same 'grammatical' function as 'Nice day, isn't it?' in weather-speak. In other words, it is not really a request for information or opinions on the likely winner of the next race, but a friendly greeting – code for: 'I'd like to talk to you: will you talk to me?' It is a basic, all-purpose initiator of social interaction, and understood as such by all racegoers. The rules require, however, that one respond as though one had been asked a real question.
To make the process easier, the use of 'props' is permitted. Well, one prop, to be exact: the race-card, but it is an extremely versatile prop. The race-card is a small booklet. It looks like a programme of the day's races, with details of the runners and riders in each race, form guides, a map of the racecourse and its facilities and other useful information. In fact, it is a vital social tool, used as a passport to conversation with strangers, as an ice-breaker in conversation with acquaintances, as an intimacy-escalator in courtship rituals and as a support in all debates and discussions. Perhaps its most important social function is as an indispensable 'displacement activity': whenever there is an awkward pause in a conversation, whenever English racegoers feel uneasy or self-conscious in a social situation, they consult their race-card.
The introduction rules state that the opening question – 'What do you fancy in the next?' or equivalent – should be accompanied by a suitable 'race-card gesture'. You may hold up your race-card and indicate the appropriate page, lean over to examine the race-card of the person you are addressing, place your race-card alongside theirs, or even, daringly, allow the two race-cards to touch or overlap – a symbolic indicator of the social contact you are attempting to initiate.
The Modesty Rule
Responses to the 'What do you fancy in the next?' opener vary, depending partly on the responder's level of knowledge about racing. But total lack of knowledge is no handicap – indeed, I soon discovered that it is, if anything, an advantage, as it enabled me to comply easily with the modesty rule. This is perhaps the most important rule of racing-talk. It goes well beyond 'Thou shalt not boast': there is an absolute prohibition on boasting, certainly, and indeed on any form of self-aggrandising or self-important behaviour. But the modesty rule goes further than this in actively prescribing humility and self-deprecation.
Even if you are a genius at picking winners, for example, you must not only refrain from trumpeting the fact, but also, whenever possible, make self-deprecating jokes about your ignominious failures. When the Tote screens or bookies' boards show a horse's odds lengthening – an indication that few punters are risking their money on the animal – the done thing is to say, with a rueful chuckle, 'Oh, I see word's got round that I backed it!'
Even professional racing journalists, who provide tips in their columns and compete with each other on who has the best track-record in picking winners, always obey the modesty rule in social situations. In fact, my favourite reply to the 'What do you fancy in the next?' opener came from one of these professionals, who laughed and said, 'Oh, you don't want to ask me: everyone knows I couldn't tip muck out of a barrow!'
I liked this response so much that I'm afraid I borrowed and used it shamelessly on many occasions during my research at racecourses; it never failed to get a laugh, and always prompted an immediate increase in warmth and friendliness. But silly puns are not necessary to achieve this effect: any self-effacing comment about your inability to pick winners is a correct response to the standard opener, and will instantly endear you to fellow racegoers. You may go on to name a horse that you fancy, but it is always best to preface this with the customary modest disclaimer.
Among jockeys and trainers, the taboo on boasting and the prescription of humility are even stronger. There is almost a superstitious belief that any hint of complacency, or even acceptance of praise, will bring bad luck. When they are interviewed by the media after winning a race, it is customary for both jockeys and trainers to disclaim all responsibility for their success, and attempt to give all the credit to the horse, each other, the favourable ground or weather conditions, the vet, the farrier or simple good luck.
Racehorse owners are also expected to be modest. If your horse is unsuccessful, this is relatively easy, but you must have a good repertoire of self-deprecating, affectionately humorous remarks about the beast's dismal form, your own folly in continuing to waste money on the poor creature, and your continued blind faith in its undiscovered talents. These comments must be accompanied by an apologetic shrug, a rueful, lopsided smile and a slightly bewildered frown. If your horse is successful (statistically the less likely scenario), you must avoid any hint of boastfulness about this. Even if you bred and raised the animal yourself, all credit for its wins must go to the horse, the trainer, the jockey, the stable staff, the horse's ancestors, the vet, the weather, etc. You must never appear complacent, but always somewhat puzzled and bemused by your good fortune.
The Courtesy Rules
While some of the conversation codes in this liminal microclimate represent a deviation from the 'mainstream' rules of English culture – a relaxation of normal constraints – others clearly involve an exaggeration of 'mainstream' restrictions and regulations. At the races, behaviours that are normally frowned upon (such as excessive drinking, exhibitionist dress, gambling and even talking to strangers) are not only permitted but actively encouraged. But at the same time racegoers are subject to codes and rules that impose greater controls and restraints – and, specifically, higher standards of courtesy – than those of everyday English culture. In the racing microclimate, we find a strange mixture of cultural remission and its exact opposite: cultural amplification, I suppose you could call it, or magnification.
The English have always been noted for their politeness, and despite our many lapses and deviations, this courtesy is still a 'rule' by any of the definitions outlined in my Introduction. It is still a guiding principle, a standard, and regarded as the normal or proper state of things. Like all rules, it often gets broken, but breaches are noticed and deplored, indicating that the principle still applies. At the races, however, we find an amplified, exaggerated version of the 'normal' politeness code – and breaches are rare.
At the races, it goes without saying that nothing can be accomplished without a full complement of pleases, thank-yous, excuse mes and endless apologies – but the courtesy code goes much further. Racegoers routinely open doors and hold coats and bags for each other; they automatically offer help or directions if someone looks a bit lost, as well as consolation on unsuccessful bets and congratulation on winners; and they always apologise if they inadvertently jostle or inconvenience you in any way. In my 'bumping' experiments, racecourses scored highest, with nearly 90 per cent of my victims being first to apologise when I accidentally-on-purpose bumped into them; in fact, at the races, even a 'near-miss' almost invariably elicited a 'sorry' (usually mumbled in the standard, barely audible English fashion, but sometimes even accompanied by brief eye-contact and a smile).
If you find you do not understand the complicated numbers and symbols printed in your race-card, you can go up to any fellow racegoer and ask for an explanation, which will almost always be patiently and politely given. If the person is as ill-informed as you, he or she may well apologise profusely – and, if possible, attempt to find someone who can help. I am not exaggerating: this was one of my favourite ways of getting into conversation with racegoers during my research, and it rarely failed.
It even worked when my 'targets' were trainers, stewards, clerks and other busy officials, for whom my novicey questions were highly inconvenient interruptions to their work. Trainers would say, 'I'm really sorry, but I must just go and saddle this horse. The owner is waiting for me and he's a dreadful fusser. I do hope you don't mind . . .' Stewards would apologise for having to hold enquiries, jockeys for having to go and ride in races, and so on.
Like the modesty rule, the courtesy rules pervade every aspect of racing-talk. In most cases, these rules are merely an exaggeration (though at times almost a caricature) of 'mainstream' English politeness principles. In one area, however, racing-talk courtesy is diametrically opposed to its 'mainstream' equivalent. Sports journalists are usually, in print, among the least polite people in English culture. Their style is generally highly confrontational, and they frequently attack and condemn players, coaches and managers who turn in sub-par performances or otherwise fail to meet their standards, accusing them of incompetence or corruption. Insulting headlines and cries of 'Shame!' and 'Disgrace!' are commonplace. Racing journalists, by contrast, are unfailingly polite in their reports and commentary, carefully avoiding any censure of the jockeys and trainers whose doings they record, and always very generous with praise.
When a much-hyped favourite trails in well beaten, its performance is almost always described as merely 'disappointing'. The explanations and excuses of jockeys and trainers are accepted and quoted with due respect. The courtesy rules dictate that blame should never be attributed directly, but only conveyed using the most diplomatic of euphemisms. Thus, racing journalists will not accuse a trainer of running a horse too often; instead, they will say that the animal's 'disappointing' performance 'was perhaps due to the effects of a long and tiring season'. Jockeys will not be directly accused of riding badly or adopting inappropriate tactics; rather, the journalists will say that a natural front-runner 'did not seem suited by being held up'. (Of course, everyone knows what these euphemisms really mean – in racing as elsewhere among the English, courtesy and hypocrisy tend to go hand in hand.)
And this strict observance of courtesy rules extends to other areas of racing celebrities' lives as well. Racing journalists have to report on horse-doping scandals or official enquiries into other forms of cheating or malpractice. But when the news and gossip pages of all the newspapers were full of salacious headlines about a 'sex scandal' in the racing world, the racing correspondents remained resolutely silent on the subject, continuing calmly to report on the week's runners, including those of the trainer in question, and politely ignoring all the unseemly fuss over his domestic difficulties. Although I found this restraint both extraordinary and admirable, it was not unexpected. In fact, I won some money by betting my friends that the racing-talk courtesy rules would prevail, and the racing correspondents would not be tempted to join in the fray. (My bets on social matters during the racing research were always much more successful than those on horses.) And when the mainstream newspapers started asking me, as racing's official anthropologist, to comment on the scandal, I obeyed the courtesy rules and politely declined. I still can't seem to bring myself to name those involved.
Finally, and perhaps most surprisingly, I found that observance of the courtesy rules is common where one would least expect it: among racegoers who, in their 'other lives', are aggressive football supporters and disruptive Saturday-night revellers of a type all too familiar to me from previous research on violence, disorder, 'lager-louts' and football hooligans. At the races, these very same young males are high-spirited and lively, but without the belligerence and anti-social tendencies that characterise their behaviour in other sporting and social contexts.
Their relatively decorous behaviour at the races defies all popular theories about the causes of violence and disorder, providing proof that it is entirely possible for hordes of young males to congregate, gamble and drink large amounts of alcohol at an exciting sports event without getting into fights or, indeed, causing any trouble at all. At the races, they may be extremely noisy and demonstrative, but they are not aggressive – in fact, they are remarkably well behaved. They open doors for women, they say 'please' and 'thank you', and if they drunkenly lurch into you, they apologise.
When I interviewed them, these young males freely admitted that their behaviour at football matches and on Saturday-night binges was quite different from their relatively good-mannered conduct at the races – although they could not provide a coherent explanation for this, beyond saying that 'Everyone knows you don't cause trouble at the races,' or 'It's just a fact, right?' In other words, there is an unspoken rule that everyone instinctively obeys. This seems to me to be largely a matter of expectation: where young males are treated as responsible, decorous adults, they will generally behave as such; where they are treated like children, criminals or wild beasts, they will also conduct themselves accordingly.
The Moaning Rules
Lest you start to think that the racing world is all sickly sweetness and light, I should point out that racegoers have their grumps and disgruntlements just like anyone else – and so do jockeys, trainers, journalists, officials and so on. The English predilection for quiet, Eeyorish moaning is as much in evidence at the races as anywhere else – and the rules and conventions governing talk about racing's irritations and discontents are much the same as those involved in the weather-speak 'moaning rituals' described earlier.
The subjects of complaint vary, although here, as elsewhere, the weather is a frequent source of dissatisfaction – and at the races it has the added power to affect the state of the 'going' (ground, turf) and thus ruin the chances of a horse that would otherwise have been a dead cert to win the three-thirty. Everyone moans about the weather, and the normal weather-hierarchy rules do not always apply, as sunshine can be as much of an evil as rain, for those whose horses prefer soft going.
Otherwise, different members of the racing tribe each have their own favourite whinges. Punters moan about lousy odds, greedy bookmakers, incompetent jockeys and inexplicably slow horses. Jockeys complain (quietly) to each other about 'pointless' stewards' enquiries, and about the unreasonable expectations of trainers and owners of slow horses (including my all-time favourite overheard moan: 'Guv'nor's complaining I didn't keep in touch with the leaders. Keep in touch! I told him I'd've needed an effing postcard!'). Owners whine about miserly prize money and the extortionate fees charged for this, that and the other. Everyone – even journalists – moans about the sport's governing bodies, the Jockey Club and the British Horseracing Authority (BHA). And then there are always temporary fads and fashions for ritual moaning on specific issues: during the period of my research on the racing tribe, a favourite whinge was 'The Derby Has Lost Its Atmosphere.' This kind of nostalgic moaning is typically English, and not confined to the elderly or conservative: one of my favourite examples is a homemade sign spotted at Glastonbury Festival, which read “Queue here to complain festival is not as good as it used to be'.
The rules of moaning ensure that, whatever the subject of the lament, all these conversations take much the same form. There must be some token disagreement on the causes of the evil in question, and on what the BHA (or 'someone') should do about it (or, rather, what they should have done about it ten years ago, if they'd had any sense). But the rules also require a great deal of fervent nodding and enthusiastic agreement on the key issues at stake. Minor differences of opinion on details are necessary to keep the conversation flowing, but the consensus on principles is the real point of the ritual. By ensuring expression and reaffirmation of shared values in this way, the rules of moaning help to reinforce solidarity and social bonding among racegoers.
Suggesting a practical solution to the problem under discussion (as I did on a few occasions, as an experiment) undermines this socially therapeutic function, by effectively bringing the subject to a close. This is therefore not allowed (my attempts were either frostily received or treated as a joke). The rules of moaning prohibit all attempts to introduce an element of reason or pragmatism into the debate, as this is likely to inhibit the bonding effect of the moaning ritual. As usual, social etiquette triumphs over logic. Or perhaps we should say that a different sort of logic applies. Participants in moaning rituals do not want to be given reasonable advice on how to solve their problems: they want to enjoy moaning about them. Reasonable advice is therefore, quite reasonably, forbidden.
Moaning is, of course, not an activity peculiar to the English. Woody Allen once said, in response to Noam Chomsky, 'Language may be innate, but whining is acquired.' Actually, whining is innate or, at least, certainly universal. But there does seem to be something distinctively English about the kind of whining involved in both weather-speak and racing-talk moaning rituals – a sort of grumpy and apathetic stoicism; complaining endlessly about unsatisfactory states of affairs, but in a resigned manner, without any real expectation that things could be improved, and certainly without any attempt to find means of improving them. I mentioned earlier that someone once said that the English have satire instead of revolutions (or something to that effect): we complain bitterly, and often wittily, but we do not actually do anything about it.