When, in 1957, Harold Macmillan accepted the Queen’s invitation to become prime minister, following the resignation of Sir Anthony Eden, he returned from the Palace, marched up Downing Street to where Eden was waiting for him, and gave his old rival a man-hug, right there in front of the Pathé news cameras.
No, of course he didn’t.
But we have come a long way since then. Indeed, at the party conferences they were all at it: MPs, ministers, party activists, hug, hug, hug — and not a hoodie in sight. After the Mayor of London delivered his speech he was rewarded with a bear-hug from the Prime Minister, no less. At least it was away from the cameras this time, unlike last year at the Olympics, when Boris and Dave had a manly embrace in full view.
We are fast turning into a hugging culture, with goals, wickets and tries acknowledged by spectators and players alike with a man-hug, and with the journey from seat to stage at an awards ceremony becoming a veritable gauntlet of pats and squeezes.
What’s going on? Aren’t the British supposed to be a reserved breed? Don’t we have to be, on account of our living on a small and overcrowded island? After all, the handshake could have been invented for us, and probably was, dating back to the days when a gentleman carried a sword and offered his hand in greeting to show that it was empty.
From my own experience I can date the man-hug back to the mid to late 1990s, when my friend Jonathan Yeo started doing it to me. At the time I put this down to his being an artist (though come to think of it, he is also the son of a Tory MP, so there might have been something in his DNA).
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