Cheers, the word we deploy whenever a roomful of adults decides to slam fragile glassware together in the name of friendship and pretend this is a perfectly sensible tradition. The word itself comes to us by way of old ideas about face, mood, and good cheer, which means that every toast is basically a tiny public wish that everyone remain merry, upright, and not spill merlot on the upholstery. The toast “Cheers!” is a later British usage meaning something like “good health” or “let’s celebrate.” So when we say “Cheers!”, we are not just making noise before drinking; we are participating in a centuries-old custom of goodwill—part blessing, part celebration, part social agreement that for at least the next five minutes nobody will bring up politics, cholesterol, or the price of eggs.
Speaking from my Brit side, cheers can
also serve as a compact little thank you, because apparently we as a
people looked at the full phrase and decided it was far too exhausting. Hold
the door for someone and you may get a quick “Cheers.” I once gave an employee
a 20% pay raise and received the exact same “Cheers,” which was a useful
reminder that in Britain, gratitude is often delivered with all the emotional
fireworks of someone confirming the weather. Once, while riding the London
Underground, I spotted a credit card that had slipped from a man’s pocket and
was lying there on the floor like an invitation to commit some kind fraud using
someone else’s name. I picked it up, handed it back to its startled owner, and
he replied, “Cheers, mate.” Not just cheers, but cheers, mate—which
in British terms is practically a handwritten sonnet, a bear hug, and a
knighthood all rolled into two words.
Thank
you aside, we say “Cheers” when offering a toast. But why have a toast at all?
Well …
The
tradition itself is ancient: the Greeks raised wine to the gods and to one
another’s health. The Romans turned it into a formal habit, and somewhere along
the way humanity decided that no gathering was complete until someone stood up,
lifted a drink, and became briefly theatrical. As for why it is called a toast,
that is because people once literally put toasted bread into wine to improve
the flavor and absorb unpleasant sediment, which is both wonderfully inventive
and a little concerning about the state of the wine. So the modern toast began
as part blessing, part ceremony, and part desperate beverage repair. In other
words, every wedding speech is the distant descendant of ancient ritual, Roman
pageantry, and one exhausted person looking into a cup of rough wine and
thinking, “You know what this needs? Bread.”
As
for the clinking of glasses, one popular story says clinking glasses started as
a way to prove nobody had poisoned the drink. Coming from the same bottle, we
touch glasses and drink in unison—we either die together or have a jolly good “knees
up” (a British term for a piss up.)
Perhaps
more myth than fact, although that theory did give medieval dinner parties a
certain sparkle. Historians tend to think the clink as a way of bringing
separate cups back together to symbolize shared trust, shared celebration, and
the comforting idea that we are all drinking the same thing and are therefore,
at least briefly, on the same side. There is also the old notion that the sound
scared away evil spirits, which I am not entirely prepared to dismiss, because
some family gatherings do improve after the second round. Either way, the
modern clink seems to be less about survival and more about ceremony: a tiny
ringing announcement that says, “We are united in goodwill, and wish you good
health.”
So every cheerful clink is really a little
tribute to the ancients, the Romans, and the first poor soul who tasted bad
wine and reached for bread.
Cheers, mates!
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