The Good Old Days

As I took out my life savings to fill the car with diesel last week, I noted in my brain that I could remember being mortified when petrol hit 40 pence per litre. I stopped myself from saying, even to myself, "ah those were the days" because frankly they weren't.

And woe betide anyone who starts saying that 1995, or 1955, or 1805 were somehow the golden age of life.

There are a breed of humans who see any form of progress as evil, and want to stop it at all costs. They are easy to spot because they carry an identity tag called The Daily Mail. They campaign fervently against any more of anything, be it immigrants, digital television, pronunciation, parking, housing, young people, hospitals, no hospitals, 4x4s, petrol prices, the environment, paying for the environment, Europe...

Now there's nothing wrong with having opinions - if you didn't have opinions you'd be Jamelia. ("I don't really care what's going on in that Iran nor nuffink." - thanks Jamelia.) But the trenchant view that nothing else should change really does get you into some tight spots. Take the hysterical "Save The Pound" campaign championed by Mrs Thatcher mini-me William Hague. There he was with his massive pound coin, thrusting it in the faces of anyone who dared to think that, actually, as coins go, the Euro currency is a lot more attractive, and you can get coins from several different countries which makes it attractive to those who might want to collect them. Not that I've ever done that.

Now here's the thing. Those same people were, in 1983, ranting at the tops of their voices that Britain was about to end because of... the introduction of the pound coin. It's a crying shame, they said, that Britain was abandoning its values, traditions and pound note in favour of this wretched little piece of metal. Too small, they cried. Of course they were the same people who had had a hissy fit when we started counting things in tens, and you could bed down for the night underneath a pound note.

Then there's television. I mean, in the good old days there was only the BBC, which showed that nice Morecambe and Wise and some stories about where the Queen was visiting, and you could only watch in black and white for four hours a day, and if someone boiled a kettle four streets away the picture turned into snow. But to receive a couple of dozen crystal-clear channels, backed by near-internet quality teletext for free, well, that's the beginning of the end of civilisation. So much so, that many millions of pounds that could have been spent on better programmes for the rest of us has had to be spent on Penelope Keith and the like, patiently explaining how a remote control works.

Personally I'd have just left them to work it out for themselves. Because even after they've been forced to go digital, they'll complain about the programmes.

Tube "Drivers"

Yesterday I was busy being a househusband and father-of-two.
In the course of my 12 hour day I was a caterer, entertainer, construction engineer, gardener, judge and jury in the H vs A Castle Custody Battle, cleaner, shopper, etc, etc, etc. My income for this was precisely nothing.

Now the thing is, I don't want paying. I'm very lucky that I can be a father and only work occasionally, and quite a lot from home, and see loads of my kids growing up and indeed be in some way responsible for how they turn out. I'd probably better put in an apology for that now, just in case.

Quite often when I'm working I reflect on how easy it is in comparison to being a parent. You can structure your own time, take breaks pretty much when you want, not have to deal with floods of tears if you say "that'll have to wait a couple of minutes". Criticism is generally constructive, you can swear without fear of the f-word being repeated in front of the vicar the following Sunday. You get five weeks a year off from it, and every day only lasts eight hours.

I have a very nice job, which I've spent years cultivating. I can't begin to imagine what it must be like to drive a tube train. Because at a time when inflation is so low it's like an asthmatic wasp is driving the economy, tube drivers are holding out for 5%, plus a guarantee that they can murder every first born in London without fear of prosecution, plus free curly-wurlies for life.*
What are they doing in the cab that could possibly warrant such a job package?

Is it steering these metal monsters? Er, no. That would be done by the rails.
How about stopping them at the stations? Well yes, they do that. But if they were to fall asleep and not stop, then a computer kicks in and stops the train anyway.
How about the passenger announcements? Occasionally you hear a maverick "live" anno, but generally that's done by computer as well.

So we've pretty much got a load of people who are paid £40K each to push a combination of three buttons for eight hours a day. And as mentioned above, a computer could do it for free.

Given this, it may be time for Transport for London to call time on their militant tube drivers, sack the lot of them, and send them home to do a real job.


*This may not be the exact offer on the table.