The Road to up north

I was reminded recently of a bit in 'The Road to Wigan Pier' where Orwell talks about the perceptions southerners and northerners have of each other and in particular how Yorkshiremen see themselves in contrast to southerners. I re-read the bit (available here) and was struck by how persistent the sentiments described are. I've been saying this sort of thing for ages. Though, I grudgingly admit, without quite the same turn of phrase and expressive sentiment.

"...when you go to the industrial North you are conscious, quite apart from the unfamiliar scenery, of entering a strange country. This is partly because of certain real differences which do exist, but still more because of the North-South antithesis which has been rubbed into us for such a long time past. There exists in England a curious cult of Northemness, sort of Northern snobbishness. A Yorkshireman in the South will always take care to let you know that he regards you as an inferior. If you ask him why, he will explain that it is only in the North that life is ‘real’ life, that the industrial work done in the North is the only ‘real’ work, that the North is inhabited by ‘real’ people, the South merely by rentiers and their parasites. The Northerner has ‘grit’, he is grim, ‘dour’, plucky, warm-hearted, and democratic; the Southerner is snobbish, effeminate, and lazy —that at any rate is the theory. Hence the Southerner goes north, at any rate for the first time, with the vague inferiority-complex of a civilized man venturing among savages"

I'm not sure how persistent the 'effeminate' part is (or maybe that's just wishful thinking) but the 'lazy' and 'snobbish' prejudice still rings true. I was about to say that I am no rentier until I looked it up and found that, until last Saturday at least, I was. The last line above did in fact ring a few bells of guilty rememberance. I was worried about venturing into this unknown territory. The savages at work have taught me otherwise though.

The hardest part to overcome is the strength of the drinking culture. I don't drink any more but if you tell that to a Yorkshireman, he'll look at you like you just asked him to moisten your nipples with custard.