Something is stirring in the shires. Amidst the clink of pint glasses in the dwindling village pub, a figure is re-emerging: the Neo-Fogey. He treads the country lanes in brightly coloured corduroys, Barbour waxed to a dull sheen, brogues resolutely unpolished in the manner of an older England. To the casual observer he may resemble an undergraduate of 1983 who has lost his way home from the Bodleian. In fact, he is the herald of a quiet revolt.
The Neo-Fogey is declaring war with refusal. Refusal of managerial jargon, of the infinite scroll of online life, of the synthetic consolations of wellness. His armour is tweed and his philosophy is a cultivated disdain for novelty. Where others scroll, he strolls. Where others tend their networks, he tends his garden.
They tried to kill off the fogey with incessant lifestyle choices, but he refuses to go down. The neo-fogey has taken up the mantel, realising that British civilisation depends less on innovation than on stewardship, ritual, and a certain style.
They tried to kill off the fogey with lifestyle choices and managerial diktats, but he refuses extinction. The neo-fogey has emerged to take up the mantel, realising that British civilisation depends less on innovation than on stewardship, ritual, and a certain style. He is as much a part of the isles as the rook in the churchyard, the drizzle on a county cricket pitch, or the ancient hedgerow that the fogey defends against plans for an ugly new bypass with more conviction than most politicians bring to a budget speech.
fogey saints: evelyn waugh
His is the eternal aristocratic posture — not by birthright, but by bearing. A pub defended from closure, a hedgerow laid, a book by Trollope opened by lamplight: these are not hobbies but metaphysical acts.
food choices
leadership cells
