Flagging spirits: a St George's Day parade in 2010. Photo: Getty
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No patriotism please, we’re English

England has had its share of terrorist bombings, economic crises, political reshuffles, the Olympic Games, and so on – but the basic “grammar” of Englishness hasn’t changed.

What did you do on St George’s Day this year? You know, 23 April? Or maybe you didn’t know. Surveys regularly show that the vast majority of us do not celebrate our national day in any way. Two-thirds of English people are unaware of when it is. Can you imagine so many Americans being ignorant of Independence Day or Irish people forgetting St Patrick’s Day?

It is often claimed that the English lack patriotic feeling and there is some evidence to support this. In a Europe-wide survey conducted in 2010, English respondents, on average, rated their degree of patriotism at just 5.8 out of ten, far below the self-rated patriotism of the Scots, Welsh and Irish and the lowest of all the European nations. If you are English, you may well feel that this absence of national amour propre is a good thing. These statistics might even be making you feel a little proud – although I’m sure the irony (and Englishness) of taking pride in our lack of national pride won’t have escaped you.

But I had a hunch, based on research for my book Watching the English: the Hidden Rules of English Behaviour, first published ten years ago, that these statistics might be misleading. I recently did my own survey, asking more detailed questions, for a revised edition of the book, which was published, appropriately, on St George’s Day. My findings confirmed my view that we are a nation of “closet patriots”: 22 per cent of us “always” feel proud to be English; 23 per cent “often” do; 38 per cent do at least “sometimes”. Only 3 per cent “never” feel proud.

My poll shows (as many other surveys have suggested) that the quality we feel most proud of is our sense of humour. And although we may need reminding of the date, 75 per cent of the English feel more should be done to celebrate our national day and nearly half would like to see greater numbers of people flying the English flag on it. Despite this, even when it falls on a weekend, 72 per cent of us do not celebrate the day in any way and only 11 per cent would go so far as to fly a flag. If we feel proud to be English, why do we not celebrate St George’s Day or display the St George’s cross?

There is a clue in the way we take pride in our sense of humour. A crucial element of this humour is something I call the “importance of not being earnest” – the unwritten rule prohibiting excessive zeal. The extravagant parades and boastful, sentimental flag-waving of other nations make us cringe. We may feel proud to be English but we are too squeamish and cynical to make a fuss. It is perhaps ironic that the quality in which we take most pride prevents most of us from displaying this pride.

You may have noticed that the high percentage of English people who feel that more should be done to celebrate St George’s Day (75 per cent) is almost the same as the high percentage who make no effort to celebrate it (72 per cent). This contradiction is typically English and it reflects two of our defining characteristics: moderation and Eeyor­ishness. We avoid extremes and excess and we have a tendency to indulge in a lot of therapeutic moaning about a problem rather than address it. We complain that “more should be done” to celebrate our national day but we don’t even fly a flag.

Our reasons for not doing so are only partly rooted in these qualities. The flag has to some extent been reclaimed but it is still seen by some as a symbol of the far right and racism: a quarter of my respondents cited this as their reason for not flying it. However, the flag was only available for appropriation by extremists in the first place because the rest of the population had shunned it.

As a result of squeamishness about patriotism, particularly among the intelligentsia, even the concept of national character is regarded with suspicion – to the point that some deny there is any such thing – and the study of Englishness is regarded as a self-indulgent, archaic and perhaps even jingoistic pastime.

This queasiness is unfortunate, particularly at a time when we English are having a bit of a wobble about our identity. It’s nothing as dramatic as a full-blown national identity crisis – the navel-gazing implied by the term “crisis” would be rather un-English – but various factors, including the call for Scottish independence, globalisation and immigration, have caused a degree of uncomfortable uncertainty about what it means to be from this country.

We are not alone in this. Globalisation is not turning the world into a vast monoculture. Quite the opposite: there has been an increase in nationalism and tribalism; a proliferation of struggles for independence, devolution and self-determination; and a resurgence of concern about ethnicity and cultural identity. Now is a good time to be addressing and studying cultural identity, instead of cringing at the idea that we might have one.

Those who deny or shy away from the notion of national character often seem to fail to grasp that the term is just a metaphor, a colloquial way of talking about culture. Some psychologists appear to take the metaphor literally and have devoted much time and research to “proving” that the national character is a myth – on the grounds that stereotypes about it are untrue, because they do not correlate with aggregate scores on five personality factors.

The supposedly reserved English, for example, tend to score highly on extraversion in personality questionnaires. The so-called English reserve is certainly far more complex and contextual than the crude stereotype would suggest – as is its opposite, English hooliganism. Yet both our inhibited reserve in some social contexts and our selective shedding of inhibitions in others are part of a cultural grammar of rules and norms that has nothing to do with individual personality traits.

In real-life social situations, most people unconsciously obey the unwritten rules of their culture, whatever their individual personality. On commuter trains, for instance, English extraverts hide behind their newspapers, mobile phones and laptops and even avoid making eye contact with strangers, let alone striking up conversation – except when there is some disruption to share a brief Eeyorish moan about. In town centres on Friday and Saturday nights, after a few beers, even English introverts shed the same designated inhibitions in the same choreographed manner as everyone else. (Incidentally, they also do this if they are unknowingly drinking non-alcoholic placebos – the behavioural effects of alcohol are determined by culture, not by chemistry.)

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National character has become a taboo subject among anthropologists, who should know better, as studying cultures is what we do. Yes, we have historically studied smaller tribal cultures, in places with mud huts, monsoons and malaria – but I am hardly the first anthropologist to tackle the national character of a modern culture or even that of the English. Ruth Benedict’s study of the Japanese national character, The Chrysanthemum and the Sword (1946), is still hugely influential in Japan. Margaret Mead’s And Keep Your Powder Dry: an Anthropologist Looks at America (1942) was a university set text for decades.

The demise of national character as a res­pectable subject for anthropological research was probably, to some extent, the result of a pair of rather more questionable studies of the Russian and English national characters, published in 1949 and 1955 by the British anthropologist Geoffrey Gorer. His conclusions, particularly on the “causes” of some aspects of the Russian mindset, were so far-fetched that the anthropological study of national character fell into disrepute and has never recovered.

Social anthropology has become both more “micro” and more timid in recent years. These days, ethnographers take a tiny aspect of a tiny social group and describe it to death – and there is almost a taboo on ever attempting to make a definitive statement about any aspect of a culture, let alone trying to define a national one. We are not much help to nations struggling to understand themselves.

Is there any hope for a resurgence of anthropological interest in national character? Or will this remain a subject addressed only by journalists, humorists and, occasionally, from a safe distance, historians – and regarded as suspiciously patriotic by the English intelligentsia?

Perhaps it can be rehabilitated with a bit of clever marketing. After all, another branch of anthropology, sociobiology, became a highly unfashionable subject in the 1970s and 1980s, only to re-emerge, exactly the same but rebranded as “evolutionary psychology”, in the 1990s. It is now respectable and popular again. Many objections to the notion of national character might be resolved if we ditched this misleading figure of speech and talked instead about “cultural grammar”. It’s another metaphor but maybe a more helpful one, as a culture is much more like a language than a personality – and it allows for variation (regional, ethnic, class or subcultural “dialects”). A grammar, like a national culture, is merely a set of rules, which can be learned, although most natives obey them unconsciously.

Native speakers are rarely any good at explaining the grammatical rules of their language and, in the same way, members of a culture generally lack the detachment necessary to explain the unwritten, largely unconscious behavioural rules of that culture in an intelligible manner. That’s the point of anthropologists, so in Watching the English I set out to provide a kind of cultural grammar of Englishness.

At the risk of labouring this metaphor, I would add that although languages do change and evolve, these modifications take time to become established and changes in the underlying grammatical rules take even longer. It is much the same with cultural grammar. When my publishers asked me for a revised edition of my book, ten years after it was first published, I was initially a little reluctant. Yes, a lot has happened in the past decade – and England has had its share of terrorist bombings, economic crises, political reshuffles, the Olympic Games, and so on – but the basic “grammar” of Englishness hasn’t changed. Still, there were some emerging cultural codes that needed deciphering – changes in greeting practices, new linguistic class indicators, developments in mobile-phone etiquette, the new rules of social media. Minutiae, in the grand grammatical scheme of things, but I ended up adding over 50,000 words.

That my book is now being taught on “introduction to anthropology” courses at a number of distinguished universities suggests that the taboo on studying national cultures may be losing some of its force. Even if the rebranding is successful, however, there will still be squabbles over how we study such cultures. For instance, purist ethnographers object vehemently to the use of quantitative research methods such as national surveys. The trouble is, there are embarrassing things that some people will confess to only in the safety of an anonymous survey. For closet patriots, those things may include: “Yes, all right, I admit it. I sometimes feel proud to be English.”

The revised edition of “Watching the English” is published by Hodder & Stoughton (£25)

This article first appeared in the 14 May 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Why empires fall

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If you don’t know what a Fwooper is by now, where have you been?

Meet the latest magical characters entering the Harry Potter universe.

Yesterday, the latest and final trailer was released for Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them –  the latest Harry Potter franchise film from J K Rowling. Based on an index of magical animals that Rowling released for Comic Relief all the way back in 2001, it naturally features a whole range of strange creatures from the series – with familiar and fresh faces alike.

So, let’s get to know the animals we meet in the latest trailer.

Niffler

Ministry of Magic dangerousness classification: XXX (Competent wizards should cope)

Any self-respecting Harry Potter fan will remember the niffler. A mole-like fellow mostly found down mines, the niffler’s most distinctive characteristic is its love for (and ability to sniff out) gold. Nifflers were part of Hagrid’s most successful lesson, when he buried leprechaun gold and asked his students to use nifflers to dig up as much as possible – “easily the most fun they had ever had in Care of Magical Creatures”. And who could forget when Lee Jordan, on more than one occasion, released a hairy-snouted niffler into Umbridge’s office, “which promptly tore the place apart in its search for shiny objects, leapt on Umbridge on her reentrance, and tried to gnaw the rings off her stubby fingers”? Some would say the niffler is a distant relative of the New Statesman’s own Media Mole – sniffing out content gold on a daily basis.

From Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them:

The Niffler is a British beast. Fluffy, black and long-snouted, this burrowing creature has a predilection for anything glittery. Nifflers are often kept by goblins to burrow deep into the earth for treasure. Though the Niffler is gentle and even affectionate, it can be destructive to belongings and should never be kept in a house. Nifflers live in lairs up to twenty feet below the surface and produce six to eight young in a litter.

An Egg

Ministry of Magic dangerousness classification: N/A. It’s an egg.

Well, well, well, if it isn’t the guy from Twitter that told me to go fuck myself. Who knows what magical creature is appearing from within this hatching egg – the only animal we’ve seen hatch in the Potterverse before was Noberta the Norwegian Ridgeback dragon, but this egg looks too small to be one of those. Aside from dragons, we know from Fantastic Beasts that Acromantula, Ashwinder serpents, Basilisks, Chimaera, doxies and fairies, Fwoopers, Hippocampi, Hippogriffs, Occamys, Phoenixes, and Runespoor all come from eggs. My money would be on this being the egg of an Occamy – a key player in the next movie – but their eggs are made from pure silver. So I’d guess this belongs to a Fwooper.

Nomaj

Ministry of Magic dangerousness classification: N/A (but should be XXXXX to be honest)

Meaning “no magic”, this is basically your common or garden variety Muggle, just with a fancy new American name. Look how Muggleish this one is, falling through suitcases like a chump and getting in a muddle about basic magical principles. Get it together, mate! It remains unconfirmed whether this man’s animate moustache is a magical creature in its own right.

Billywig

Ministry of Magic dangerousness classification: XXX (Competent wizards should cope)

You might not remember billywigs from the Harry Potter series – they only get a couple of passing, esoteric mentions in the final book. But anyone who remembers Fizzing Whizbees – in Ron’s words, “massive sherbert balls that make you levitate a few inches off the ground while you’re sucking them”, will have a tangential relationship with them – according to Fantastic Beasts, they’re a key ingredient in the classic wizarding sweet. These bugs seem to match the billywig description.

From Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them:

The Billywig is an insect native to Australia. It is around half an inch long and a vivid sapphire blue, although its speed is such that it is rarely noticed by Muggles and often not by wizards until they have been stung. The Billywig’s wings are attached to the top of its head and are rotated very fast so that it spins as it flies. At the bottom of the body is a long thin sting. Those who have been stung by a Billywig suffer giddiness followed by levitation. Generations of young Australian witches and wizards have attempted to catch Billywigs and provoke them into stinging in order to enjoy these side effects, though too many stings may cause the victim to hover uncontrollably for days on end, and where there is a severe allergic reaction, permanent floating may ensue. Dried Billywig stings are used in several potions and are believed to be a component in the popular sweet Fizzing Whizzbees.

Graphorn

Ministry of Magic dangerousness classification: XXXX (Dangerous / requires specialist knowledge / skilled wizard may handle)

This is not a “canon” animal in that it doesn’t appear in the original series. God, it’s weird looking.

From Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them:

The Graphorn is found in mountainous European regions. Large and greyish purple with a humped back, the Graphorn has two very long, sharp horns, walks on large, four-thumbed feet, and has an extremely aggressive nature. Mountain trolls can occasionally be seen mounted on Graphorns, though the latter do not seem to take kindly to attempts to tame them and it is more common to see a troll covered in Graphorn scars. Powdered Graphorn horn is used in many potions, though it is immensely expensive owing to the difficulty in collecting it. Graphorn hide is even tougher than a dragon’s and repels most spells.

Fwooper

Ministry of Magic dangerousness classification: XXX (Competent wizards should cope)

We see a bright pink bird sail past the Graphorn – I bet this is a Fwooper. Again, not an animal from the seven books, but here’s what we know about it from Fantastic Beasts:

The Fwooper is an African bird with extremely vivid plumage; Fwoopers may be orange, pink, lime green, or yellow. The Fwooper has long been a provider of fancy quills and also lays brilliantly patterned eggs. Though at first enjoyable, Fwooper song will eventually drive the listener to insanity8 and the Fwooper is consequently sold with a Silencing Charm upon it, which will need monthly reinforcement. Fwooper owners require licences, as the creatures must be handled responsibly.

Bowtruckle

Ministry of Magic dangerousness classification: XX (Harmless / may be domesticated)

A fan favourite, maybe because one attacks Harry in a Care of Magical Creatures class, before it “set off at full tilt toward the forest, a little, moving stickman soon swallowed up by the tree roots.” Aw, cute and feisty! Tree guardians that usually live in trees that produce wand wood, they are pretty damn adorable. We know they like to eat fairy eggs, and we can assume they particularly favour doxy eggs: Aberforth once said, “they’ll be onto you like bowtruckles on doxy eggs”.

From Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them:

The Bowtruckle is a tree-guardian creature found mainly in the west of England, southern Germany, and certain Scandinavian forests. It is immensely difficult to spot, being small (maximum eight inches in height) and apparently made of bark and twigs with two small brown eyes. The Bowtruckle, which eats insects, is a peaceable and intensely shy creature but if the tree in which it lives is threatened, it has been known to leap down upon the woodcutter or tree-surgeon attempting to harm its home and gouge at their eyes with its long, sharp fingers. An offering of woodlice will placate the Bowtruckle long enough to let a witch or wizard remove wand-wood from its tree.

Nundu

Ministry of Magic dangerousness classification: N/A, but pretty damn high we’d assume

Not in the books; not in Fantastic Beasts, definitely fucking weird. Pottermore have invented a Fantastic Beasts entry for it that did not appear in the 2001 book, so I guess we have to go from there.

From Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (on Pottermore):

This east African beast is arguably the most dangerous in the world. A gigantic leopard that moves silently despite its size and whose breath causes disease virulent enough to eliminate entire villages, it has never yet been subdued by fewer than a hundred skilled wizards working together.

Thunderbird

Ministry of Magic dangerousness classification: N/A, but, again, we’d guess high

Again, this is seemingly a new creation invented for this film. It apparently “senses danger and creates storms as it flies”, and a house of the American Wizarding school Ilvermoney takes its name from this bird, and Pottermore gives a bit of extra detail, supposedly from History of Magic in North America, 1920s Wizarding America:

Shikoba Wolfe, who was of Choctaw descent, was primarily famous for intricately carved wands containing Thunderbird tail feathers (the Thunderbird is a magical American bird closely related to the phoenix). Wolfe wands were generally held to be extremely powerful, though difficult to master. They were particularly prized by Transfigurers.

Occamy

Ministry of Magic dangerousness classification: XXXX (Dangerous / requires specialist knowledge / skilled wizard may handle)

A horrific bird-snake, it seems as though Occamys start tiny and cute and end up huge and dangerous. I am intrigued. Again, not one from the books.

From Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them:

The Occamy is found in the Far East and India. A plumed, twolegged winged creature with a serpentine body, the Occamy may reach a length of fifteen feet. It feeds mainly on rats and birds, though has been known to carry off monkeys. The Occamy is aggressive to all who approach it, particularly in defence of its eggs, whose shells are made of the purest, softest silver.

Erumpent

Ministry of Magic dangerousness classification: XXXX (Dangerous / requires specialist knowledge / skilled wizard may handle)

We never see an Erumpent in the Harry Potter series, but who could forget the exploding Erumpent horn – “an enormous, gray spiral horn, not unlike that of a unicorn” – at Xenophilius Lovegood’s house? Hermione spots it as “a Class B Tradeable Material and it’s an extraordinarily dangerous thing to have in a house!” We can therefore assume the Erumpent is a risky animal to be around. Also fucking ugly.

From Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them:

The Erumpent is a large grey African beast of great power. Weighing up to a tonne, the Erumpent may be mistaken for a rhinoceros at a distance. It has a thick hide that repels most charms and curses, a large, sharp horn upon its nose and a long, rope-like tail. Erumpents give birth to only one calf at a time. The Erumpent will not attack unless sorely provoked, but should it charge, the results are usually catastrophic. The Erumpent’s horn can pierce everything from skin to metal, and contains a deadly fluid which will cause whatever is injected with it to explode. Erumpent numbers are not great, as males frequently explode each other during the mating season. They are treated with great caution by African wizards. Erumpent horns, tails, and the Exploding Fluid are all used in potions, though classified as Class B Tradeable Materials (Dangerous and Subject to Strict Control).

I’m sure there are loads more creatures to be discovered in the new film – but getting to know this small handful has exhausted me for now!

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.