Sunday afternoon, high in the Apuan Alps, the air was crisp, tinged with the scent of damp stone and distant pine. The mountains of Carrara marble loomed like ancient sentinels, their veins of white gleaming in the fading winter light.
Below, Italy and France clashed at the Olympic Stadium in Rome, the Six Nations unfolding on my screen. Another flicker, another channel—Come Dine with Me, its chaotic voices grating against my carefully cultivated sensibilities. A strange juxtaposition, these two broadcasts—one a battle of skill and honour, the other a theatre of absurdity, exposing the slow decay of a culture I once revered.
I leaned back, letting the weight of years settle. England—my adopted home, my finishing school, my proving ground. I had arrived in 1970, a clueless immigrant, wide-eyed and raw, stepping into a world of order, restraint, and quiet wit. I had learned the nuances of Englishness not from textbooks but through trial and error: the precision of dining etiquette drilled into me by a Chinese headwaiter in 1963 at the Majestic Hotel in Kuala Lumpur; the sting of offhanded jibes in factory break rooms; the delicate choreography of flirtation and conversation at dimly lit dinner parties. The cricket fields, the pubs, the office Christmas dos—they had all been classrooms, each moment an exercise in absorption, refinement, and self-possession.
And yet, here I was, in exile among the mountains, watching England from a distance, watching it unravel.
It is not mere nostalgia that grips me. I am not one to pine for a romanticised past that never existed. But something fundamental has been lost. I see it in the crudeness that passes for conversation, in the absence of grace at the dinner table, in the sneering triumph of vulgarity over wit. The England I once knew—the England of Rebecca, The Winslow Boy, Goodbye Mr. Chips—was an England of quiet dignity, of diplomacy and restraint, where humour was subtle and self-deprecating, not brash and performative.
It wasn’t just a matter of table manners but of an entire code of conduct. There was a time when a dinner table was a sacred space, a setting for family cohesion and proper conversation. The television was switched off. Children were taught to place the silverware correctly, to ask to be excused once they had finished their meal, and to endure, with silent resolve, the ordeal of overcooked vegetables. It was an era where families might still bow their heads in quiet grace before eating, where phone calls during dinner were ignored, where dressing appropriately for meals was a sign of respect. Sweatpants at the table? Unthinkable.
Even in social discourse, formality and politeness were the norm. I remember when married couples addressed each other with a quiet dignity—"Mr. Smith and I are going to Cancun for our vacation this year," "Mrs. Smith has prepared a wonderful supper of meatloaf with a lime Jello mold for dessert." Children answered adults with "yes, sir" or "no, ma’am." Strangers helped one another without suspicion. People didn’t interrupt each other in conversation, patiently waiting their turn to speak. There was a quiet understanding that courtesy was not an affectation but the oil that kept the gears of society turning smoothly.
Today, I see an England reduced to a crass spectacle. The participants of Come Dine with Me—loud, graceless, gleefully ignorant—are not outliers but emblematic of a nation that has forsaken its own sense of refinement. I see it in Four in a Bed, in Place in the Sun, in the social media influencers peddling vanity and vacuity. I see it in the decline of discourse, in the braying of populist politicians who revel in coarseness rather than intellect.
I cannot help but whisper to the screen, England, have you forsaken me?
And then, a shift. A familiar melody drifts through the room, settling over me like a warm embrace. Bridge Over Troubled Water—Simon & Garfunkel’s gentle reassurance cutting through my lament.
I am on your side.
I close my eyes. The Majestic Hotel, Kuala Lumpur, 1963. The scent of polished wood and freshly pressed linen. The headwaiter’s steady hand adjusting my grip on a fork. England, 1970. The thrill of my first black-tie event, the murmured laughter, the quiet confidence of belonging. The country that once shaped me still lingers in memory, if not in reality.
The song plays on. The match continues. The world moves forward, indifferent.
But for a moment, I allow myself to believe that somewhere, beneath the brashness and the noise, beneath the TikTok/ Instagram inanities and the tabloid vitriol, there is still an England worth holding onto.
