It was, briefly, bliss: a table seat in one of the dedicated quiet carriages of the train, a flat white and flapjack, the green fields of England rolling past the window as I tapped at my laptop.
And then, horror: around ten young men got on acting more riotously than a gang of French football hooligans.
There was ‘mate!’ and ‘you p***k!’ and lashings of that laugh young men do when they’re giving each other a ribbing: ‘bwahaha’. There were lager tins in hand and one guy playing music on his phone, to which one of the others cried: ‘Choon!’
I exchanged glances with the lady opposite; she was just cracking open her Marian Keyes novel and had clearly, like me, relished the prospect of peace. The men – in their early 20s – got louder, the language fouler, decibels climbing to stag-do levels. Around me other passengers furrowed their brows and rolled their eyes, as though a bit of facial gymnastics was going to tell ‘em.
After a few minutes a young female train guard entered the carriage, tentative as a gazelle entering the lions’ den.
‘Guys,’ she whispered, ‘this is a quiet carriage…’
‘Not any more!’ one of them blasted back, mates guffawing.
At which point, I’d had enough. Leaping out of my seat and striding towards the young men, I adopted my headmistress-of-a-stern-1950s-school voice: ‘Listen. I know you’re having a nice day out and you’re all very excited, but this is A Quiet Carriage. See the signs? Quiet. People have booked this carriage to work or read. You’re ruining everyone else’s journey. If it is genuinely impossible for you to keep your voices down, go somewhere else. Please.’
Clare Foges recalls a group of young men getting on her dedicated quiet carriage ‘acting more riotously than a gang of French football hooligans’
The young men had faces like stunned mullets. As I sat back down, a few of them sidled past and into another carriage, one muttering a quiet ‘sorry’. The rest weren’t exactly silent as the grave after my ticking off but it was a lot better.
To some my behaviour would seem unnecessary – embarrassing even – but to hell with the British turn-the-other-cheek attitude.
We are undergoing a manners crisis in this country. People too absorbed in scrolling TikTok to be polite, too selfish to pick up litter, too inconsiderate to care about the noise or smell they’re making – and these daily acts of selfishness are not called out nearly enough. Most Brits avert the eyes or tut away like my fellow passengers. The more the decent majority just put up with it, the more the inconsiderate minority get away with it.
So it was with a hurrah that I read this week about Rosamund Pike’s outburst in the theatre.
The actress is starring in West End hit Inter Alia, a 100-minute tour de force which has got critics crying tears of admiration over her performance. Apparently the wazzock in row G wasn’t quite so into it, though, for at the emotional crescendo of the play, Pike noticed them merrily texting away. And she was furious.
Rosamund Pike calls out a member of the audience during the curtain call for her West End hit, Inter Alia
The actress said: ‘Somebody was texting… you know who you are. I’m not going to single you out but you know it upsets the performance’
At the curtain call, she peered into the audience and said: ‘Somebody was texting… you know who you are. I’m not going to single you out but you know it upsets the performance. We do see things – we do feel them, and so when I feel that and see it, it’s hard. I’m trying to tell you a story and I’m feeling you and I hope you’re feeling me too.’
In pictures from the rant (captured, of course, on another theatre-goer’s phone) Pike is standing with her hands on her hips, eyebrows raised in displeasure, a glare that could pierce solid steel. I’d like to see it cast as a statue, titled: Wrath of The Middle-Aged Woman.
I say this not derogatively, but with admiration – and recognition. For when it comes to setting the ill-mannered to rights, I have become something of an angry middle-aged woman myself. Pike is 47, I am 45.
The older I get the less time I have for casual rudeness in public places – and the more comfortable I am about calling out irritations. You think I’m a harridan? A bulldog? Do I care?
I have miles on the clock, a home to run, bills to pay, children to rear. I don’t much care to be cute, cool or coy. But I do care if you are vaping on a train or leaving your crisp packet for someone else to pick up.
Apparently Pike and I are not alone. This week a survey found British women to be the angriest in Europe. Could this be because the behaviour in our public places is the slobbiest and most enervating in Europe?
While I don’t leave my house intending to be a fully paid-up sergeant in the Manners Police, I often find myself responding to others‘ inconsideration.
In the cinema: ‘Would you mind asking your child to sit down, please? My daughter can’t see the screen – thanks.’ In the park: ‘Would you mind smoking that joint elsewhere, please? There are children here – thanks.’ And to the man-spreaders on the Tube: ‘Would you mind moving across, please? Just need a little more room – thanks.’
Is it dangerous? Only once have I felt threatened, when I asked a guy to turn his very loud music down on a London bus. He responded by holding his hands up near my neck, as though he wanted to wring me like a turkey. I got off at the next stop.
There are situations where it’s wise to turn the other cheek – I wouldn’t have the same gung-ho attitude on a lonely night bus or in downtown Chicago – but on the whole I think it easier for women to speak up rather than men, since things are less likely to escalate in a physical way.
There are limits to Manners Policing. If someone near me on a train is tucking into a smelly burger, I’m not going to harangue them for it. If someone biffs me with their rucksack or cuts to the front of the queue, it’s possible they didn’t realise or are having a tough day.
But those who seem to have forgotten about manners need reminding. Sometimes people in public spaces need not a tut but a good telling off.
Hannah sure knows how to do sexy at 51
Though I am a heterosexual woman, seeing Hannah Waddingham, 51, on the latest cover of Hollywood bible Variety brought to mind the words of 1950s detective fiction author Raymond Chandler, to be said Humphrey Bogart-style: ‘[She] was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window.’
Don’t put women off seeking help
How shocking to hear the BBC Panorama allegations against a maternity unit in Nottingham, which included midwives referring to some heavily pregnant women with the acronym FOH: ‘f*** off home’. Don’t they know how nerve-racking those last weeks of carrying a child are? In my last of four pregnancies, I had a problem with the umbilical cord and so was in and out of the day unit like I had a season ticket – and the midwives couldn’t have been kinder. I do hope this story won’t discourage mothers from seeking help if they are concerned. If in doubt, get it checked out.
‘Picky bits‘ lovers are plain lazy
Apparently, in the summer, Brits ditch cooked meals three times a week on average to have ‘picky bits’ instead. Where did this irritating phrase come from? Is it a trendy way of saying you can’t be bothered to cook? Anyone over the age of ten using the phrase ‘picky bits’ shouldn’t be allowed near a hot oven anyway.
The prison watchdog chairwoman Helen Spree has been caught sharing explicit pictures and having an inappropriate relationship with an offender. There have been several similar scandals involving female staff. As un-PC as this may sound, perhaps some reflection is needed on whether employing women in prisons full of sex-starved men is asking for this kind of trouble?
