The Times They Are A Changin Part 4

Good Manners

Manners, good and bad. Etiquette. Class. They have been much in the news recently. I am not entirely sure why this is newsworthy when there is a war on in Iraq and Afghanistan and a maniac gunman is massacring students in American universities. But, newsworthy it seems to be. This was probably prompted by the recent (but maybe back on again) demise of the relationship of Prince William and Kate Middleton, and, rumours of a gum-chewing mother (Kate’s not William’s of course!) offending the royal sensibilities (another oxymoron) at some do or another as the possible cause.

Can you imagine it? They may have split up because he was embarrassed by the potential in-laws. Sorry? This is Prince Charles’ son we are talking about. I mean, it is not as if his own family is full of perfect role models is it. Gin swillers. Racists. Affairs and infidelity. Rumours of Charlie taking advantage of his male staff members. I choose my words advisedly. If you know what I mean…..

Kate Middleton seemed to be a great catch by any bloke’s assessment. And you would have thought she would be a parent-pleaser too. Bright, beautiful, composed, well-dressed, discreet. And I have never seen her with a Wriggley’s in her mouth.

Take away the title and the money and what has William got going for him? He is already going bald. He dresses like his dad. Oh, and he has a career in the Forces. Well, he has a career in the forces safe in the knowledge that he will progress through the ranks without ever facing a shot in anger. Unless the Queen or Prince Philip take a shot at him during a gin-enraged hunting tantrum. William is a toy soldier. Unlike his Uncle Andrew who flew helicopters in the Falklands Crisis twenty years ago. And, unlike his brother Harry – the one who looks like James Hewitt – who is keen to put his life on the line fighting the Taliban in darkest Afghanistan. Is it just me or is the uncanny resemblance between Prince Henry, to give him his posh name, and the former lover of Princess Diana just a coincidence? Are those Beefeaters I can hear on the drive?

Anyhow, manners. It is all so confusing! I have always opened the door for people. Men and women. Young and old. I have never differentiated. I have endeavoured to be polite to them all. These days, however, it just seems to get you into trouble. It just makes my blood boil.What is so difficult about it? If you are approaching a door or passing through a door at the same time as someone else – anyone else – you hold it open and let them pass through; they say “thank you”; and, you move on. Simple? Not! Try holding a door open for a woman these days. More often than not they will mutter something about “male chauvinism” and you end up having one of those “After you. No, after you” conversations that are just so embarrassing. Or, if they are anywhere near good looking, they will assume that you are letting them past just so you can have a sniff of their perfume as they pass and watch their wiggle as you follow them down the corridor. Wherever did they get that idea? Well……..

And, don’t get me started on old people! Pensioners. Our elders. There is a myth that old people have good manners and young people do not. How does that work? Surely the ignorant and rude young people of today grow up to be rude and ignorant old people tomorrow. The number of times I have held shop doors open for a couple of elderly ladies and they have just wafted by all blue rinse and germolene without so much as a “thank you”. As if I was a doorman or something. This makes me very angry. I normally wait until they have passed and then say “Pardon” very loudly, just in case they are hard of hearing. Typically they respond by saying, “I didn’t say anything”, to which I retort, “Oh, I thought you might have said thank you”. I trust they are duly embarrassed and shame-faced. More than that, I hope they say “thank you” the next time that someone does something nice to them.

One day you will probably find me lying in a pool of my own blood, clubbed by an angry octogenarian’s walking stick. Or clutching my balls, having been kneed in the groin by an irate perfumed feminist in a short, tight skirt……