You Never Know -- You Only Think

The guardedness of the Brits -- epitomised in the careful ways of arguing by Grice is illustrated in this skit _How to be a Brit_ (Penguin). Section:

'On not knowing
anything':

-- and the reason why Grice found Scepticism a bete noire in his path to the holy of holies:


<< One thing you must learn in England is that you never really learn
anything. You may hold _opinions_ -- as long as you are not too dogmatic
about them -- but it is just bad form to _know_ something. You may _think_
that two and two make four; you may 'rather suspect it': but you must not
go further than that. _Yes_ and _no_ are about the two rudest words in the
language.
One evening recently I was dining with several people. Someone -- a man
called Trevor -- suddenly paused in his remarks and asked in a reflective
voice:
'Oh, I mean that large island in Africa ... You know, near Tanganyka...
What is it called?'
Our hostess replied chattily:
'I'm afraid I have no idea. No good asking me, my dear.' She looked at
one of her guests. 'I think Evelyn might...'
Evelyn was born and brought up in Tanganyka but she shook her head firmly:
'I can't remember at the moment. Perhaps Sir Robert...'
Sir Robert was British Resident in Zanzibar -- the place in question --
for twenty-seven years but he, too, shook his head with grim determination:
'It escapes me too. These peculiar African names... I know it _is_
called something or other. It may come back to me presently.'
Mr Trevor, the original enquirer, was growing irritated.
'The wretched place is quite near Dar es Salaam. It's called ... wait a
minute ...'
I saw the name was on the tip of his tongue. I tried to be helpful.
'Isn't it called Zan...'
One or two murderous glances made me shut up. I meant to put it in
question form only but as that would have involved uttering the name sought
for, it would not do. The word stuck in my throat. I went on in the same
pensive tone:
'I mean ... What I meant was, isn't it Czechoslovakia?'
The Vice-President of one of our geographical socieites shok his head
sadly.
'I don't think so ... I can't be sure, of course... But I shouildn't
think so.'
Mr Trevor was almost desperate.
'Just south of the equator. It sounds something like...'
But he could not produce the word. Then a benevolent looking elderly
gentleman, white a white goatee beard smiled plasantly at Trevor and told
him in a confident, guttural voice:
'Ziss islant iss kolt Zsantsibar, yes?'
There was deadly, hostile silence in the room. Then a retired colonel
on my left leaned forward and whispered into my ear:
'Once a German always a German.'
The bishop on my right nodded grimly:
'And they're surprised if we're prejudiced against them.'