A day in the life of a modern-day butler

An age-old profession is getting a new lease of life as the super-rich demand their very own Jeeves.

Shakespeare’s The Tempest features the alcoholic Stephano, Agatha Christie epitomised the butler with cold murder and then there is the very sombre Alfred; Batman’s own batman. We, the butlers, the manservants, the major domos were a dying breed until now. A fresh influx of money into the hands of the discerning has placed butlers back in the pantry crafting butterballs and hanging shot pheasants to toughen in the larder.  

I was having a quarter-life crisis and had turned down an offer from a law-firm for a training contract when I chanced upon a job advert looking for butler. It was either that or an ill-advised trip to Papua New Guinea.

I turned up in a suit, an old-school tie and brown brogues. I hummed and hawed and managed to get the job on the sheer admiration I professed for Jeeves. Training started the very next day at the deep end - mimicking the move of the portly and balding head-butler. The second day of work, I spilled three glasses of Prosecco down the ivory back of an MP’s wife. 

Shifty suspects and secret drunks aside, the art of the modern butler is altruism at its best. Butlers live a life of anticipation. Whether the silver-haired administrator butler at a large estate or a housekeeper butler at a dual-income middle-class home, he or she is marked by a remarkable devotion to service. Ever nimble-toed, the efficient manservant can scurry like a dormouse through a lounge full of broken crockery, scooping, clearing and dusting even as the guest rests undisturbed, couched in a chesterfield with the latest edition of the Esquire at his elbow and a tawny port by his side. 

The Howard, the 18-room Georgian townhouse in Edinburgh where I worked alongside half a dozen other butlers, dedication goes a step further. Each butler is assigned a guest and expected to be assiduous in their service. Perhaps unsurprisingly we had our own take on our place in the modern egalitarian world - we see ourselves as working for the common good. I was once called to the door with a tray of the finest Assamese tea and coconut scones at ten in the evening. I was met with a rather under-dressed portly gentleman who ushered me to his dressing table. Sporting a marvellous Dali-esque moustache, a combover and ten fingers draped in rings, the patrician wanted a tin of styling wax. I rushed downstairs, desperately disconcerted, to be met with a colleague who, after supplying me with a fortifying cup of Rooibos, calmly proceeded to the guest’s suite with his tin of wax. 

Hospitality is a much maligned field. It is seen with a jaundiced eye and is subject to much derision. Robert Watson of the Guild of Butlers puts it down to the profession being seen as a stop-gap employment before moving on to "sensible" jobs. The butlers that I work with are seasoned to the point of perfection. I had much to live up to. Freddy, the elder, was the oldest of the serving butlers at the townhouse and knew the nooks and crannies of not only the townhouse but also of the guest’s needs even before they themselves knew what they wanted. In service of the establishment for nearly fifteen years now, he has seen and met dignitaries, superstars and divas. He knows far more about them and what makes their day than their own spouses do. Stuart, the grave bespectacled butler, holds me in thrall with the ease at which he "troubleshoots". Andrew, the miracle-worker, has never known a difficult guest and Barry, the quickfire, can prepare the world’s best martini in under forty seconds. Shaken, not stirred. 

All establishments that sport butlers and valets have a common, regimented structure. The hotel or townhouse is neat in its divisions of upstairs and downstairs. The feudal trappings of the Victorians might have faded but the gist remains. It is important for everyone in such an establishment to know their stated place.The heart of the establishment is the butler’s pantry in the sub-basement. It is a warm, tropical place, the steam condensing on the ceiling, and forever warbling with the sounds of cutlery being polished, the kettle singing, the coffee brewing, or the milk frothing. It is a place we butlers like to call our very own. The pantry is where the day begins and ends. No two days in the pantry are the same and every moment is laden with the prospect of something new and bizarre.

The day starts early with the amassed butlers breakfasting in staggered shifts, each savouring the same fare that is meant for the guests above. There is much talk of the guests, and their individual needs are discussed. Shoes are scuffed, teapots are warmed and collars are starched. I have a good look in the mirror and dart upstairs to check-in a guest into their suite. It is a well-orchestrated move; a tray of teas followed by a quick installation luggage in the rooms, unpacking the bags and laying out the rose petals on the four poster. On this day I have been summoned to picnic duties in St Andrews. I am to caddy out transatlantic guests at the Old Course and then to lay out the most sumptuous picnic under a blue Fife sky. There are tea cakes and scones, brownies and sandwiches, fruit and venison and much champagne to be had. A violinist has been borrowed from the students’ union and does a good job of playing Vivaldi’s La primavera

I was very fortunate to have made the acquaintance of Rick Fink, perhaps the most well-known and respected butler in the world. The septuagenarian has a wealth of experience, having started at the age of eighteen, and has worked for bosses ranging from country lairds to the Royal Family. Rick, once faced with an implausibly early breakfast demanded by his master, rushed to the barn to scour for eggs at three in the morning. As he relates, he was overjoyed to find four pristine eggs tucked away in a corner. Putting aside the concerns of the cackling hens and the scratches suffered, he brought the eggs home and laid them on the rack in the pantry. Satisfied that the needs of his employer would be taken care of in the morning, Rick went back to bed only to find himself awoken by chirruping from the kitchen. The eggs had hatched! 

Polishing shoes or tracing a crease on a moleskin trouser leg are works of devotion and not of haste. The journey towards a well-pressed shirt transcends the pressed shirt itself. To this end, Rick and I both share something in common - we were both in the navy for some time. While he was a Royal Navy Steward, I was a Royal Marines recruit. Rick and I both learnt our first valuable lessons in the military.

I asked James, an erstwhile manservant with a prominent earl from the south-west about his views on the newfangled ascendancy of the profession. He was sitting on his cottage porch on the gorse moors of Perthshire, languid and recumbent. Red socks, a paisley patterned cravat andlanguid air filled with the smoke from an oaky cigar dominated the view. James was critical of the modern butlers employed by the foreigners in London. “It's all a gimmick,” he added dismissively.

Even though the number of butlers is growing, discretion remains paramount. Many that I spoke to were loath to be named or share a story or two and with good reason. One replied with the sheer incredulity of a surgeon being asked to part with his own medical records.

I write this remembering the days when I would await further instructions from my guests with their luncheon on the meadows. A rather sunny day, we spot a peacock much to the glee of a young lady aged three. I reach the edge of the picnic cloth to serve the scones and tea when I hear the most satisfying words a butler can ever hope to hear:

“We don’t know what we would do without you”.

A butler brings his mistress breakfast in bed, in 1930. Photograph: Getty Images

Ritwik Deo is currently working on his first novel, about an Indian butler in Britain.

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Why is it called Storm Doris? The psychological impact of naming a storm

“Homes being destroyed and lives being lost shouldn’t be named after any person.”

“Oh, piss off Doris,” cried the nation in unison this morning. No, it wasn't that everyone's local cantankerous old lady had thwacked our ankles with her stick. This is a different, more aggressive Doris. Less Werther’s, more extreme weathers. Less bridge club, more bridge collapse.

This is Storm Doris.

A storm that has brought snow, rain, and furious winds up to 94mph to parts of the UK. There are severe weather warnings of wind, snow and ice across the entire country.

But the real question here is: why is it called that? And what impact does the new Met Office policy of naming storms have on us?

Why do we name storms?

Storm Doris is the latest protagonist in the Met Office’s decision to name storms, a pilot scheme introduced in winter 2015/16 now in its second year.

The scheme was introduced to draw attention to severe weather conditions in Britain, and raise awareness of how to prepare for them.

How do we name storms?

The Name our Storms initiative invites the public to suggest names for storms. You can do this by tweeting the @metoffice using the #nameourstorms hashtag and your suggestion, through its Facebook page, or by emailing them.

These names are collated along with suggestions from Met Éireann and compiled into a list. These are whittled down into 21 names, according to which were most suggested – in alphabetical order and alternating between male and female names. This is done according to the US National Hurricane Naming convention, which excludes the letters Q, U, X, Y and Z because there are thought to be too few common names beginning with these letters.

They have to be human names, which is why suggestions in this list revealed by Wired – including Apocalypse, Gnasher, Megatron, In A Teacup (or Ena Tee Cup) – were rejected. The Met Office received 10,000 submissions for the 2016/17 season. According to a spokesperson, a lot of people submit their own names.

Only storms that could have a “medium” or “high” wind impact in the UK and Ireland are named. If there are more than 21 storms in a year, then the naming system starts from Alpha and goes through the Greek alphabet.

The names for this year are: Angus (19-20 Nov ’16), Barbara (23-24 Dec 2016), Conor (25-26 Dec 2016), Doris (now), Ewan, Fleur, Gabriel, Holly, Ivor, Jacqui, Kamil, Louise, Malcolm, Natalie, Oisín, Penelope, Robert, Susan, Thomas, Valerie and Wilbert.

Why does this violent storm have the name of an elderly lady?

Doris is an incongruous name for this storm, so why was it chosen? A Met Office spokesperson says they were just at that stage in their list of names, and there’s no link between the nature of the storm and its name.

But do people send cosy names for violent weather conditions on purpose? “There’s all sorts in there,” a spokesperson tells me. “People don’t try and use cosy names as such.”

What psychological impact does naming storms have on us?

We know that giving names to objects and animals immediately gives us a human connection with them. That’s why we name things we feel close to: a pet owner names their cat, a sailor names their boat, a bore names their car. We even name our virtual assistants –from Microsoft’s Clippy to Amazon’s Alexa.

This gives us a connection beyond practicality with the thing we’ve named.

Remember the response of Walter Palmer, the guy who killed Cecil the Lion? “If I had known this lion had a name and was important to the country or a study, obviously I wouldn’t have taken it,” he said. “Nobody in our hunting party knew before or after the name of this lion.”

So how does giving a storm a name change our attitude towards it?

Evidence suggests that we take it more seriously – or at least pay closer attention. A YouGov survey following the first seven named storms in the Met Office’s scheme shows that 55 per cent of the people polled took measures to prepare for wild weather after hearing that the oncoming storm had been named.

“There was an immediate acceptance of the storm names through all media,” said Gerald Fleming, Head of Forecasting at Met Éireann, the Irish metereological service. “The severe weather messages were more clearly communicated.”

But personalising a storm can backfire. A controversial US study in 2014 by PNAC (Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences) claimed that hurricanes with female names lead to higher death tolls – the more “feminine” the name, like Belle or Cindy, the higher the death toll. This is not because female names are attached to more severe storms; it is reportedly because people take fewer steps to prepare for storms with names they perceive to be unintimidating or weak.

“In judging the intensity of a storm, people appear to be applying their beliefs about how men and women behave,” Sharon Shavitt, a co-author of the study, told the FT at the time. “This makes a female-named hurricane . . . seem gentler and less violent.”

Names have social connotations, and affect our subconscious. Naming a storm can raise awareness of it, but it can also affect our behaviour towards it.

What’s it like sharing a name with a deadly storm?

We should also spare a thought for the impact sharing a name with a notorious weather event can have on a person. Katrina Nicholson, a nurse who lives in Glasgow, says it was “horrible” when the 2005 hurricane – one of the fifth deadliest ever in the US – was given her name.

“It was horrible having something so destructive associated with my name. Homes being destroyed and lives being lost shouldn’t be named after any person,” she tells me over email. “I actually remember at the time meeting an American tourist on a boat trip in Skye and when he heard my name he immediately linked it to the storm – although he quickly felt guilty and then said it was a lovely name! I think to this day there will be many Americans who hate my name because of it.”

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.