...AND AN ACCOMPANYING TWO CENTS

Change for me comes in two forms, fast and slow. Both scare me, and both lead to uncertainty in the familiar. I’m certainly not alone in this feeling but I do envy those who take all in their stride, all those willing to take change easily whilst continuing their day-to-day as if little has happened. Be that oblivious or foolhardy. However, there is a fascination in understanding that approach to change. Change is holistically and fundamentally a natural part of life, so why be afraid of it? Embrace it, hardly like we can change the weather or the time of day. The same can be said for culture; change within the juggernauts of fashion, film, music, food, or consumption itself is inevitable. This is no more evident in the drinks industry, no and low alcohol options have arrived like an unanticipated storm. Who thought the British sensibility could change overnight? I don’t think even the great minds behind Grey Goose, Smirnoff and Glen’s thought they would be competing with vodka made from garden peas. C’est la vie.

People drink less, people don’t drink at all, and people seek the gratification of a weekend in other forms. To be clear I am not condemning the want or need to avoid alcohol, nor advocating drinking itself. Far from it. But let’s spare a thought for the post-midnight warriors, those committed to the times where one more drink has done nothing more than just hit that spot. The beautifully weird and wonderful conversations and scenarios the extra unnecessary sip has led to. Change may happen but let’s not forget those times.

Some things don’t change. Our obsession with glorifying and juxtaposing elements of British society by highlighting the extreme ends of Britishism seems to be one. Elements which would otherwise be seen as either the most or least desirable elements in normal life. The allure and familiarity of relatable storylines seem to be an almost inevitable and inescapable feature in our daily viewing, entertainment, and consumption. We glorify grit whilst taking gratification from the mannered and gentle.

This is no more evident in the portrayals and adaptations of British life on both the small and big screen. Bear with me as I explore Britishism through the little used medium of British directors…You are forgiven in advance if you stop reading now.

For some time now we have been living in the age of the antihero, where ruthless protagonists find themselves doing everything in their power to get what they want from Britain’s underbelly with a certain degree of mindless nihilism. From Guy Richie’s many endeavours in gangsterland to Steven Knights’ unhinged Brummie businessmen. These depictions of workingclass Britain leave the viewer glorifying the worst members of society, terrible people doing terrible things to people seemingly in less fortunate situations to themselves. Albeit often with a comic twist. The times when a robin hood figure is seen are very few and far between.

In contrast, works of social realism paint a picture of a British population struggling to untangle issues of identity, social struggles, youth, and the impact of personal and communal traumas. This coupled with a complex relationship between politics and the human condition evokes a much more hard-hitting view of Rule Britannia. Ken Loach or Shane Meadows pile on the emotions that bear little to nothing of those mentioned above, creating a complicated way to ‘enjoy’ your viewing time.

On the far-flung other end of the scale are the unapologetically rosetinted, technicolour middle to upper-class protagonists who appear ever so nice and pleasant in their beautifully carefree lives. In this Britain, the biggest issue everyone seems to face is how they will ever find true love’s kiss. If this is the Britain Richard Curtis wakes up to, then he really mustn’t have ever left Notting Hill. Is there a world where somehow Julia Roberts could be just a girl standing in front of Daniel Blake, attempting to navigate the complexities of the welfare system? But perhaps this is the beauty of Britain, highlighting the complex and difficult nature each of us can have with what it means to be British… Alternatively, you could subscribe to the downright fucking deranged American view that we're all either posh or cockney, but most definitely, unequivocally, inexplicably from the only place in the British Isles… London.

I prefer to think of the humble British garden pea.