It reads like a lament of wounded nostalgia, cresting on a resigned sigh. “Knowing how to be a gentleman used to be straightforward: There were codes that were passed down, instilled, and strictly enforced. With both social mores and the nature of masculinity itself wildly in flux, that’s not exactly the case anymore.” That’s the claim laid with trowels of suggestion by the editors of GQ.
They certainly stretch it. No fewer than 125 rules are suggested, some with greater sense than others. And they lack a contextual focus, misleading the reader about the origins of a title with a rich, mangled history entertaining, inconsistent and violent. For those fortunate enough to have a copy of Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, this definition is offered about a gentleman: “Historically a man entitled to bear arms but not of the nobility; hence one of gentle birth, of some position in society, and with manners, bearing and behaviour appropriate to one in such a position.”
This is all good as a workable definition, till you identify other forms of gentlemanly behaviour that look distinctly antithetical to the popular understanding of the term. Take, for instance, the definition of a “gentleman of fortune”. This, according to Brewer, is a pirate, adventurer, or some such. A Francis Drake for Queen Elizabeth I. A gentleman of the road is an opportunistic, gun-toting highwayman (to be such is to be a thief accustomed to mobility). A gentleman of the “four outs” was a “vulgar upstart, without manners, without wit, without money, and without credit.” If only the GQ puritans might have given us a taster of such precedents.
The GQ tick sheet has to account for the specific, unnerving changes that have taken place since humankind decided to lose the mind and treat the phone like a bank and dating centre. Rules are, in such a context, bound to be ephemeral, patchy, and disturbingly streaky. This, perhaps, is inevitable in a society operating in a state of, as the late sociologist Zygmunt Bauman called it, “liquid modernity”. The solid order of modernism has transmuted into the liquid metaphor of constant, disruptive change. Relations alter with cutting frequency; states of mind adjust with the next technological push. Carlos A. Scolari goes further with the proposition that we now exist in a gaseous phase “where millions of crazed molecules collide and bounce off each other.” Silly as that may sound, these considerations can offer a sense of clawing back some sense of solidity in the form of custom – a most difficult challenge.
Hence our problem with the modern gentleman. There is an assumption by the GQ list about what it is to be “a self-aware human”, a brave assumption in a society saturated with attention sapping clips on TikTok, snatches of attention in preparing for a classroom, and an almost proud acceptance that the news is not to be found in papers or media outlets but some screech of digital drivel from a closeted influencer. How does a gentleman cope with the cult of Narcissus, when even he might be found out looking at pictures, videos and shots of himself on a phone, rolling in a loop to sedate him into a state of unconscious irrelevance?
These nightmarish conditions expounded, the first rule a gentleman as understood by GQ should behave like is to remove “your AirPods when you’re talking to someone. Muting doesn’t count.” This is sweet, as few can tell these days whether a person with AirPods or not makes the slightest difference to a conversation. An idiot can have, or lack.
Certain suggestions are obviously confined to the prejudices of the GQ staff. Rule 4 notes that, while everyone loves receiving floral glories, best keep the number of stems to a minimum. “If not, you can’t go wrong with a few calla lilies.” The cart here should be upset with the suggestion that flowers, if you decide to pick them, be lasting in form. Australian natives are stunning in this regard: hardy, resilient and able to transform from moist beauties at their picking to sturdy, firm stems of everlasting defiance. Flowers are, as is the form, destined to wither, as do most relationships. The Australian bouquet suggests lengthy endurance. Just a thought.
Some rules are left without explanation, presumably because the gentleman of GQ’s understanding fears being subject to litigation or detained by police at a moment’s notice for some unwise airing. Hence Rule 106 about not flirting with flight attendants, a revealing remark that says much about the staff of the publication and their frequent flier miles.
Rule 101 admonishes those who fret about flight delays. (Those flights again.) This is a nice exit for those flight operators who have become casually incompetent in supplying services expected of them. “Stay composed,” GQ tells us with shamanic suggestiveness, which is a lovely way of saying to the gentleman that he must put up, shut up and remain stoic in not changing things. The corollary of that is to avoid the displays of lethal charm, combative language and general badinage that might, for instance, mock someone for not drinking or keeping up with the scoffers and carousers. Hence rule 74 (“have a chic nonalcoholic beverage option to toast with”) and rule 75 (“never ask why someone’s not drinking”). In these circles, surely the question “Why not?” would follow.
There are the rules for the gentleman that hail from Boy Scout’s corner: offer up your seat for the pregnant or the elderly; open passenger doors for your date; be chivalrous in calling and paying for the Uber. (Clearly, public transport is to be abominated in this code in favour of a criminal digital based platform.)
There are some rules that seem beyond reproach. Introduce people to others, even if you have only just met them. “In general: Talk less.” That rule is acceptable and worthy, given that many a conversation seems fuelled and fluffed by vapid desperation and surfeit babble. Try (rule 88), to avoid talking about yourself. “It’s very boring at parties to have a person you are speaking to want to match your story with their own.” Not a bad rule, given the Code of Narcissus that smartphone followers abide by.
To turn up to a person’s abode for dinner, make sure, as rule 91 declares, that you leave anything there you brought in the first place. “I don’t care if the wine went unopened or the dessert sat untouched.” But how good it was that you brought the wine or dessert in the first place.
Dr. Binoy Kampmark was a Commonwealth Scholar at Selwyn College, Cambridge. He currently lectures at RMIT University. Email: bkampmark@gmail.com
