His tail's like that too

Years ago Tone Deaf, then Works Well, did the knife and then the spoon. Time now for the very symbolic fork.

It has, for instance, been a source of dissension between the Rs. In logistical terms the fork is inferior to the spoon. Used poshly (ie, upside down) the fork holds less tucker (ie, Oz for food; probably outmoded by now) and what it does hold is less secure. It is not the tool of choice for a hungry man since not everything is spearable.

In my youth and middle age I was always hungry and saw no reason why I had to eat, say, scrambled egg with a fork. VR disagreed and I gave in. Casseroles were another area of dispute.

The fork is, of course, associated with the Devil. I'm using an initial capital letter but will take advice on this from devout Christians.

The fork (used with the knife) divides transatlantic table habits. Or did, things may have changed. To a Brit it was all strangely unsettling. All that sawing with no eating, the food getting cold. Then the switchover - like getting off a horse and mounting a child's tricycle. By then my plate would be half-cleared. I never dared raise this point, I suspected it was written into the Constitution.

But Brits aren’t really more efficient. We deliberately insist on balancing food on the fork’s under edge, whence it falls off. Especially peas. Americans often point out this anomaly, unaware of their own practises.

Secretly, when no one's watching, I invert my fork and push with the knife. Lowering my head betimes.

A warning to untravelled Americans: forks are big etiquette in the UK.

No one I know uses a spoon to eat fish.

Something for the disdainful

I have been accused of being a snob. Not recently, I admit. But that’s because the charge of vieux jeu is more likely. A retired snob, in fact.

But does the original charge stick? Isn’t old age a time to accept what one is or was, warts and all? I checked snobs’ websites and found "an expert or connoisseur in a given field (who condescends) toward, or is disdainful of, those who hold other opinions or have different tastes regarding this field."

The list of fields didn’t include Motorbikes or Technology but did offer Culture in General. Shoot for the moon, I told myself. And there was a ten-point checklist. A CiG snob must have:

● Read The Man Without Qualities (better still Der Mann ohne Eigenschaften)

● Visited the Tate and ignored the Turners.
● Listened voluntarily to A Quartet For The End of Time.
● Owned at least one pair of silk underpants.
● Laughed twice during L'Année Dernière à Marienbad.
● Driven a 2.4 Jaguar before the first Morse book was written.
● Drunk a twenty-year old vintage of any two of The Big Five (Latour, Margaux, Haut Brion, Lafite, Mouton-Rothschild) preferably at someone else's expense.
● Said that snails eat better than frog's legs
● Danced with a millionaire's daughter and reckoned the experience "banal".
● Known what l'aïeule means and been able to pronounce it.

The hugely pro-French bias seemed appropriate given this was a test for English snobs. I started ticking off the list with growing interest.

Tell you what: I’ll tell you my score if you tell me yours

Opus - and other - snobbery

Music – undefinable, ephemeral, with its own unique language – is ripe for snobs. The humble refer to Beethoven’s fifth symphony, snobs say the C-minor. Tough if you don’t know key signatures but at least Ludwig only wrote nine symphonies. But how about his C-sharp minor piano sonata? – given he wrote 32 of them. That, incidentally, is the Moonlight and snobs would rather burst at the seams than say Moonlight. My mentor, Richard, who was more than a bit of a snob, went even further and called it the Quasi una fantasia sonata.

LvB’s opus numbers are just about snob-manageable at 135 but Mozart’s 600-plus (called Kőchel numbers) are indigestible. And nobody plays this game with Bach whose BWV (Bach-Werke-Verzeichnis) listings run all the way to 1127. In any case this is just a start. When talking about Cosi Fan Tutte snobs never say Soave il vento, always “the first-act trio”. And you’re supposed to know which three instruments solo in LvB’s triple concerto. Anything to make understanding that little bit harder.

I do it myself.

But not with pop, where I’m disadvantaged. Others do it for me. Cliff Richards sells millions of discs but have you ever met anyone who admits to having bought one? Garth Crooks, a country-western singer who wears a suit, is in the top five best-sellers of all time (with Elvis, the Beatles) and yet might as well be a Trappist. Travelling in reverse, when I saw Michael Jackson on telly for the first time I was sure no one could take this horribly mutilated creature seriously. Turned out one, if not both, of my daughters owned discs.

Jazz. The snobbiest, cliquey-ist music of all but I’ve run out of space.

Feed the toaster; make a noise

Am I a snob? Of course I am. Despite dressing down to the point where Mrs LdP prefers to walk ten paces in front I spoil this raggedness by using big words when I meet a neighbour. Merely admitting to opera turns me into un grand prétentieux. As does italicised French through my blog.

Yet, left to myself, preparing my brunch, I sing hymns. Nothing snob about hymns. Often I mock them for their naivete. Now it’s time to list my favourities.

I like When I Survey The Wondrous Cross because it was my Granny’s favourite. The tune is upbeat but, as usual, I go for good (or goodish) lyrics. Here’s the concise last verse;

Were the whole realm of nature mine,
It were an offering far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.

In The Bleak Midwinter (“Snow had fallen, snow on snow.”) has already been mentioned as has Love Divine All Love Excelling (“Changed from glory into glory.”)

But what about Christian Dost Thou See Them? Mainly for the lines that immediately follow:

While the hosts of Midian
Prowl and prowl around.
Christian up and smite them…”

Muscular Christianity, you would agree.

Another favourite was inherited from my mother, a quondam churchgoer: Wondrous Things of Thee are Spoken, because she always broke off to laugh at:

With the camp of God surrounded,
Thou mayest smile at all thy foes.

This is the season for forgiveness so perhaps a gesture towards my birthplace, the West Riding of Yorkshire (now West Yorkshire). This one starts well, but fades.

Hills of the North, rejoice;
River and mountain-spring,

Perhaps when the technology’s improved a conference-call sing-song with like-minded unsnobs. The pic’s York Minster.