How subtle wit shaped the social codes of British culture

The British are a funny lot. In the most literal sense, obviously. The birthplace of Vic and Bob, Morecambe and Wise, Julia Davis and Sara Pascoe is, pound for pound, arguably the funniest nation on earth. But we’re also a funny lot in the other sense – a bit odd, a little unreadable. For outsiders, decoding a Brit can be baffling, because we so rarely say what we mean. We communicate in code, default to irony, and hide behind humour like it’s an invisibility cloak.There’s a strong case to be made that the British sense of humour – self-deprecating, absurdist, forever puncturing pomposity – has become the defining national trait. More so, even, than driving on the left, putting milk in tea, or holding entire conversations about the weather. The thing that really makes us us is our collective compulsion to make each other laugh. Want a snapshot of Britain at its best? Look no further than this year’s Edinburgh Fringe, with sets from Ahir Shah, Josie Long, Bridget Christie, Nish Kumar, Toussaint Douglass, Leila Navabi and Ivo Graham. A brilliantly diverse line-up, united by one shared attribute: every single one of them is absolutely hilarious.But why has humour become so central to Britain’s sense of identity? There’s no single answer, but a few theories spring to mind.Pass the Juicies, PleaseIn a culture where understatement is practically a national sport, a good sweet can say a lot without saying anything at all. Whether it’s a reward at the end of a long walk or something to pass around during a slightly too long car journey, confectionery has long played a quiet role in British social rituals. Enter Maynards Bassetts new Classic Fruit Mix and Wine Gums Juicies: a modern take on an old comfort. Made with real fruit juice and free from artificial colours, they nod to the past while keeping pace with present-day sensibilities (30% less sugar, no less). These aren’t just sweets; they’re conversational currency, nostalgia triggers and subtle tools of British bonding. Ideal for those moments when a full-blown compliment feels… a bit much.Class equals farceFirst: the class system. Britain’s social hierarchy has long been a source of tension – and tension, as any comic will tell you, is comedy’s favourite plaything. From Tony Hancock muttering darkly in East Cheam and Harold Steptoe’s eternally thwarted ambitions, to the iconic 1960s Frost Report sketch in which John Cleese looks down on Ronnie Barker, who in turn looks down on Ronnie Corbett, our social structures have been ripe for sending up.open image in galleryThe dreary British weather is a never-ending source for jokes (Getty)But perhaps even more relevant is the fact that Britain is a country of frequently inclement weather. If you live on a beach under brilliant blue skies, you’re less likely to spend much of your time squirreled away in your bedroom writing sitcoms, or holed up in a pub entertaining your mates with well-worked one-liners. And life on this island is just inherently comic, isn’t it? Dreary days, of that sort that we know well, are just funny in a way that sparkling Spanish summer days simply aren’t.In other cases, it’s harder to say which came first: the cultural quirk or the comedy. Victorian prudishness, for instance, undoubtedly spawned the gloriously euphemistic tradition of bawdy seaside postcards and the how’s-your-father sauciness of the Carry On films. But maybe it works both ways. Perhaps it’s our in-built sense of the ridiculous that made us prudish in the first place. For those of us not blessed with Love Island physiques, our unclothed bodies are – let’s be honest – fairly comic. Maybe we’re not appalled by nudity because we’re repressed, but because we can’t stop laughing.Sorry not sorryWhat is clear is that nowhere else is humour so entangled with the rules of polite society. Take the uniquely British ‘polite insult’ – a national art form. Shakespeare had Orlando declare, with perfect froideur in As You Like It: “I desire we be better strangers.” Today, we’ve refined the technique further. “How interesting,” or “Good for you,” are rarely compliments. And this love of the not-quite-compliment is everywhere in British TV comedy, from Rowan Atkinson’s exquisitely passive-aggressive Blackadder to Basil Fawlty’s majestic withering disdain:open image in gallery‘Sorry seems to be the hardest word’ — maybe not for the British, who use it so frequently it’s become comical (Getty)“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, your lordship… I do apologise, please forgive me. Now, was there something – is there something – anything I can do for you? Anything at all?”That love of sarcasm and subtext seeps into every part of British life. We find it near impossible to admit to being good at anything. Self-praise feels grubby. Even compliments are hedged with qualifiers. And we say sorry constantly – even when we don’t mean it. Especially when we don’t mean it.Of course, life would probably be simpler if we all agreed to be a bit more direct. No more layers of irony. No more cryptic banter or euphemism. Just say what you mean. But, to use a phrase soaked in British understatement: that’s not really our cup of tea, is it?Now you’re in the know, don’t forget to set the juice loose with Maynards Bassetts – grab a bag today!



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