A table seat in one of the train’s designated quiet carriages, a flat white and flapjack, and the rolling green fields of England outside the window while I tapped at my laptop made for a moment of bliss.
Horror struck as about ten young men began behaving more wildly than a group of French football hooligans.
“Mate!” and “you p***k!” were used, along with a lot of the “bwahaha” laughter that young males use to make fun of one another. One guy was playing music on his phone while holding beer tins, and one of the others yelled, “Choon!”
I looked at the woman across from me; she had just opened her Marian Keyes book and had obviously enjoyed the idea of peace just as much as I had. The men, who were in their early 20s, became louder and used obscene language, with decibels reaching stag-do levels. Other passengers around me wrinkled their eyes and furrowed their brows, as if a little facial contortion would tell them.
A young female train guard, as hesitant as a gazelle entering a lion’s den, entered the compartment after a short while.
“Guys, this is a quiet carriage,” she muttered.
One of them yelled back, “Not any more!” while the others gasped.
I had had enough at that time. I leaped from my chair and strode over to the young men, speaking in my headmistress-of-a-stern-1950s-school voice: “Listen.” I am aware that you are all enjoying your day out and becoming quite thrilled, but this is A Quiet Carriage. Have you noticed the signs? Silent. This carriage has been reserved by people to read or work. Everyone else’s path is being ruined by you. Go somewhere else if you really can’t keep your voice down. Please.
Clare Foges remembers a group of young guys “acting more riotously than a gang of French football hooligans” when they boarded her devoted peaceful carriage.
The young men’s expressions resembled mullets in shock. A few of them slipped past and into another carriage as I sat down again, one of them whispering a soft “sorry.” After I ticked off, the others weren’t quite as quiet as the grave, but it was still much better.
Some people might find my actions needless, even embarrassing, but I don’t care about the British tendency to turn a blind eye.
This nation is experiencing a crisis of manners. People who are too engrossed in TikTok scrolling to be courteous, too self-centered to clean up litter, or too careless to notice the noise or odor they’re creating are all too often ignored. Like my fellow travelers, the majority of Brits look aside or tut. The more the thoughtless minority gets away with it, the more the decent majority simply put up with it.
I read this week about Rosamund Pike’s outburst in the theater with a rush.
The actress’s performance in the 100-minute tour de force Inter Alia, a West End blockbuster, has critics in floods of appreciation. Pike saw the wazzock in row G happily texting during the play’s emotional climax, suggesting that they weren’t quite as into it. She was also enraged.
During the curtain call for her West End success, Inter Alia, Rosamund Pike confronts a member of the crowd.
“Someone was texting… you know who you are,” the actress remarked. You are aware that it disrupts the performance, but I won’t single you out.
She looked out into the crowd during the curtain call and remarked, “Someone was texting… you know who you are.” You are aware that it disrupts the performance, but I won’t single you out. It’s difficult for me to feel and see things because we can see and feel them. I’m trying to tell you a tale, and I hope you feel the same way about me.
Pike is seen standing with her fists on her hips, her eyebrows lifted in disapproval, and a stare that could penetrate solid steel in photos from the tirade that were, of course, taken on the phone of another theatergoer. Wrath of the Middle-Aged Woman is the title I would want to see it cast as a statue.
I say this with recognition and admiration rather than in a disparaging manner. I have become somewhat of an irate middle-aged woman myself when it comes to correcting the rude. I am forty-five, and Pike is forty-seven.
As I get older, I have less patience for casual rudeness in public settings and feel more at ease voicing my annoyances. Do you believe that I am a harridan? A bulldog? Do I really care?
I have distances to cover, a house to maintain, expenses to pay, and kids to raise. Being charming, cool, or coy doesn’t really appeal to me. However, I don’t mind if you leave your crisp packet for someone else to pick up or vape on a train.
Pike and I don’t seem to be alone. According to a report this week, British women are the most irate in all of Europe. Is this due to the fact that our public spaces are the most energetic and sloppy in all of Europe?
Even though I don’t plan to become a fully compensated sergeant in the Manners Police, I frequently find myself reacting to the carelessness of others.
“Would you mind asking your child to sit down in the movie theater?” Thank you, but my daughter is unable to view the screen. In the park: “Please, could you smoke that joint somewhere else?” Thank you; there are kids here. And to the Tube’s man-spreaders: “Would you mind moving across, please?” I just need a bit extra space. Thank you.
Is it risky? I’ve only ever been intimidated once, when I asked a man on a London bus to turn down his loud music. In response, he raised his hands close to my neck as if he wanted to squeeze me like a turkey. At the next station, I got off.
In general, I believe it is easier for women to speak up than for men because things are less likely to develop in a physical fashion. However, there are occasions where it is good to turn the other cheek. For example, I wouldn’t have the same gung-ho attitude on a lonely night bus or in downtown Chicago.
Manners Policing has its limitations. I won’t harass someone on a train if they are eating a foul-smelling burger. It’s possible that someone didn’t realize or is having a difficult day if they cut to the front of the line or biff me with their knapsack.
However, it is necessary to remind people who appear to have forgotten manners. People in public places sometimes require a good reprimand rather than a tutor.
Even though I identify as straight, seeing Hannah Waddingham, 51, on the most recent cover of Variety, a Hollywood bible, reminded me of Raymond Chandler, a detective fiction writer from the 1950s, saying, in the style of Humphrey Bogart: “[She] was a blonde.” A bishop would be forced to kick a hole in a stained-glass window by a blonde.
The BBC Panorama claims against a maternity hospital in Nottingham, which included midwives using the abbreviation FOH, or “f*** off home,” to refer to some extremely pregnant mothers, were startling. Do they not understand how anxious the latter weeks of pregnancy may be? I was in and out of the day unit like I had a season ticket during my final of four pregnancies due to an umbilical chord issue, and the midwives were incredibly friendly. I sincerely hope that if mothers are worried, this article won’t deter them from getting help. Get it checked out if you’re unsure.
It seems that British people eat “picky bits” instead of cooked meals three times a week on average throughout the summer. Where did this annoying expression originate? Is it a fashionable way of expressing your lack of interest in cooking? In any case, anyone over 10 who uses the term “picky bits” shouldn’t be near a hot oven.
Helen Spree, the chairwoman of the prison watchdog, was discovered to have an improper relationship with an offender and to share sexual photos. Similar controversies involving female employees have occurred on multiple occasions. Perhaps some thought should be given to whether hiring women in jails full of sex-starved guys is asking for this kind of trouble, despite how unPC this may seem.
