The most and least British thing I have ever done happened on Christmas Day 2020. Taking the threat of a festive lockdown as an opportunity to try something new, I decided that I would barbecue Christmas dinner on the beach. I found a ratty old disposable barbecue in the back of a cupboard, made a flask of Bisto, and set about giving my family the time of their lives.
It was the least British thing I have ever done because I’ve learned that nothing enrages Brits like telling them you have even slightly deviated from tradition at Christmas. Their faces go purple. They start to splutter. You may as well have admitted to sneaking off for a KFC in the middle of the Queen’s funeral.
But I contend that it was also the most British thing I have ever done, and this is because absolutely nobody enjoyed it. Aside from the fact that the food was bad (how could it possibly not be?), the weather was abysmal. There was a sharp, cold wind that managed to cut through however many layers of clothes we’d decided to wear. Our fingers were numb. Our eyes were watering. My wife and kids spent most of the time in the car, while I huddled over the barbecue with a rictus grin plastered to my face, desperately trying to convince myself that this was a good idea and I was having fun.
And this – this determination to enjoy myself outdoors despite all available evidence to the contrary – is crystalised Britishness. This is borne out by research suggesting that I am in the majority. According to a survey by Calor, nothing will stop our love of barbecues, not even rain. Six in ten of us, we’re told, have refused to let bad weather get in the way of an outdoor event. And, since it looks like Easter is set to continue the frenzied spin-cycle of cold and rain that we’ve been experiencing lately, it’s only logical to assume that many of us will spend some of the weekend grimly trying to grill a burger without melting the sleeves of our Pac-a-Mac.
People, I am here to tell you that it does not have to be this way. I understand the appeal of a barbecue, of course I do. And I know that the suffocating grottiness of winter has us all itching to run outside as quickly as possible. But there is a vast difference between simply being outside and committing everyone to a miserable afternoon of standing around in your garden, fishing around for soggy hotdog buns half-blind in the driving rain.
Did you even consider the feelings of these other people? Did you wonder, even for a second, whether or not they shared your insane flair for masochism, or were you so full-steam on your determination to have a barbecue that you assumed everyone else wanted the same thing as you? Perhaps all your friends assumed that your invitation would be conditional and weather-dependent, and the faux-chirpy “BBQ still on! Bring a coat lol!” text you sent as the first spats of drizzle burst against your patio sent them into fits of uncontrollable despair. Did you ever think of that?
Again, none of this is meant to suggest that I am in any way anti-barbecue. Nothing could be further from the truth. One of the greatest feelings of all time is being outside on a warm evening and smelling wafts of hot charcoal floating from every back garden you pass. A barbecue done properly is a magical thing. It transcends food and becomes a celebration of community. You’re relaxed and eating food among friends, with the warmth of the sun against your skin. I am a huge proponent of a barbecue done well.
But you don’t want a barbecue done well, do you? You want a barbecue done crap. You’re so determined to force a feeling by power of will alone that you’ve given no thought to how graspingly unpleasant it is for everyone else. Listen, I am the ghost of Christmas 2020 and I learned this the hard way. A drive home with two shivering, hungry kids and a grumpy wife taught me the error of my ways. If you really want a barbecue, do the sensible thing and wait until it’s actually warm.
And please, whatever you do, stop hiding behind the ironic patriotism. I’ve been to rainy barbecues before, and they’ve been suffused with an infuriating “Ooh, we’re so British,” knowingness, as if acknowledging the stupidity of cooking a sausage in a gale somehow makes up for it. It doesn’t. There are plenty of other ways to be stereotypically British. Throw a chair through a pub window while a football match is on. Tut at people who stand on the left on escalators. Vote for Brexit for all I care. They are all better than pretending to enjoy a rainy barbecue. Life’s too short. Order a curry and eat it on your sofa like everyone else.
