Confessions of a Social Climber
Former Dublin Airport baggage handler and MMA enthusiast Nicky Knowall
recounts how failing a verbal etiquette test led to a period of self-
reflection — over a few pints…
As an aspiring bounder on the make, I had the good fortune to make the
acquaintance of Cassandra, a lady of a certain age who, alongside her Labo Santal
33 Eau de Parfum, carried the unmistakable whiff of the folding stuff. One fateful
evening, the favourable lighting of a Mayfair nightspot conspired to cast my features
as those of a youthful, 30-something buck—when in truth, I would never blow forty
candles again (at least not my own!).
Mischievous Cupid was indeed feeling playful that happy hour: in a moment of
reckless bravado towards the conclusion of the second cocktail, even I was
surprised to overhear myself among a series of sweet-nothings popping an
unscripted proposal of marriage.
Despite what the court was to hear some years later, there was no immediate
swooning. Nor was the phrase “Neither of us are getting any younger” actually
uttered. My proposal was initially entertained favourably—but one unforeseen
obstacle presented itself.
The obstacle came in the form of Cassandra’s mother: that Grande Dame Sans
Merci, the great arbiter of taste, apparent owner of half of Scotland, and purveyor of
the final word on all familial matters of significance. Previously, discretion had
dictated that I should not be introduced to my now potential mother-in-law-to-be.
Outright disapproval would almost surely follow any such ill-advised meeting.
Now that marriage into the family was on the cards, a meeting was unavoidable.
Casandra had enough horse sense to realise that the high point of my social
adventurism had, for good or ill, transected the low point of her own romantic
ambition. Persistence met despair, and from their union sprang a hopeful betrothal.
If she was to marry this chap, he needed a good bit of polishing. Before being
granted an audience with this formidable roadblock, I was taken aside for a briefing.
Clothes may maketh the man, she explained, but the man can be made up. Range
Rovers may come (hire purchase) and Range Rovers may go (repossession), but
language—now there was the thing. By his manner of words shall the charlatan
betray himself, as an 18th-century hack once wrote while purporting to be the Bard.
Simply put, I was to avoid any terms associated with the hoi polloi. The broad lexicon
of peril had been reduced to a critical list of expressions most likely to displease the
final arbiter and turn a potentially triumphant afternoon tea—intended to seal the
matrimonial deal—into an unmitigated disaster.
The impromptu training identified various trigger words to be sidestepped on the
etiquette minefield separating the Good Life with Cassandra from a one-bed in
Dover.
The appointed day came. Parking my second-hand Jag in the Esso garage on Park
Lane we made the rest of our way on foot. As we walked towards Knightsbridge, I
ran through one more time the list of forbidden words and phrases. All I had to do
was navigate one tricky afternoon tea: smile, nod, demur, and restrict my utterances
to the bare necessities. Then, with one trip to the Registry Office, I would be on Easy
Street.
• “Pleased to meet you” would be a sure giveaway of my plebeian origins.
• “The lavatory” was out of bounds when one was in fact seeking the loo.
• The “lounge”? Only if you’re at the airport. Likewise, a “patio” was what the
Help mistakenly called the terrace.
• “Serviette” was verboten.
• “A top-up” was a no-no. “Portions” were comical, but “helpings” acceptable.
• And as for “a hot drop,” such phrasing might provoke the need for a lie-down
in a darkened room.
• “Luncheon” was trying too hard. “Brekkie” and “sweet” were not recognisable
meals; pudding was de rigueur; “dessert” was déclassé.
• Canapés, it was pointed out, are in fact “nibbles.”
• The right type of people enjoy their place in the country. Only the plebs have
“holiday homes.”
• “Wealthy” or “rich” simply wouldn’t do. Old money refers to itself as
comfortable or well-off, but never “posh.”
The stage was set: 27 Beauchamp Place, SW3. Fixing me with her steely gaze, the
great Dame began to administer death by a thousand smiles. In response to an
initial range-finding question about my obscure regional origins, I informed my
inquisitor that I was in fact from Dublin.
“Dublin? Oh, how very charming! From which square?” I squirmed on the “settee”
while beside me Cassandra sighed on the sofa. This had started badly—or worse, it
had started ‘bad.’
I will spare my reader the details of the ensuing verbal car crash. Indeed, what
followed resembled more a motorway pile-up than a single-vehicle mishap. As verbal
gaffe piled upon verbal gaffe—“My God!” instead of My goodness!; “I’m doing good”
as opposed to I’m doing well; those petit fours mangled into “them biscuits.”
Adjectives deserted me, usurped by the ubiquitous “incredible” and “iconic”—the
linguistic wreckage accumulated.
Seeking a brief respite, I “ pardoned me” to the ….but remembering “toilet” was
interdit, and realising I was now in free fall, simply got up and went to the “jacks” in
which I dropped “the bog roll,” Returning to the “ TV room” momentarily composed,
it was assumed that “Me Ma and Pa” must be some charmingly regional variation of
one’s Mummy and Daddy. Talk of “Gran” was met with disdained puzzlement. While
it was explained that the accepted wisdom of that drawing room was that those who
employ the expression “hubby” would be best advised to leave the whole business of
matrimony alone.
Retreating from this failed assessment with null points, I protested resentfully to my
future ex-to-be the sheer unfairness of trial by vocabulary. I was “sat” (well
Cassandra was correctly seated) in the large bay window of the now deserted Bunch
of Grapes, a notorious pick-up bar known locally as the “Bunch of Gropes.”
Outside, the gloomy grey November day was dying. My sense of outrage gathered
strength with the second pint. Who the hell did the old bag think she was, judging
me? I, a self-made man who had risen steadily in the world since securing a
redundancy package from the DDA. I wasn’t going to take that from a stuck-up cow.
But Cassandra was no longer listening…
(The author who is a client of The House of Etiquette was paid a gratuity for this piece)