ARE we Brits the most bossed about nation on earth? On the evidence of a day trip to Manchester last week, I have come to the conclusion that we very possibly are.
Ordinarily, I would have driven there, but as the purpose of my visit was to have a long lunch with a friend (which would involve a few glasses of vino), I decided to let the train take the strain.
I managed to complete the journey without plummeting between the train and the track upon alighting, as we “customers” were incessantly warned against at each “station stop”; and without leaving my personal belongings, thanks to the tinny-voiced bossy boots reminding me about them every five minutes. Presumably, had I been so dim as to “de-train” leaving my handbag, it would have been disposed of by way of a controlled explosion, just to be on the safe side.
Reading the newspaper was a non-starter, so intrusive were the constant pre-recorded announcements. And in the absence of a fellow passenger to talk to – a girl who sat next to me between Preston and Bolton spent the entire time taking pictures of herself on her mobile phone – I resorted to raising my blood pressure by looking at all the stupid notices dotted around the carriage.
Purely because of this plethora of notices, rather than from any innate common sense, I refrained from lighting up a cigarette, from pulling the communication cord, and from smashing a window – all of which would have landed me with a hefty fine.
Confusingly, the notice about not smashing windows was close to an illustration of how to get out of the train in the event of a fire (a picture of some flames showed us what a fire might look like): by smashing a window and apparently hurdling out of the window, right leg leading.
Having successfully negotiated the train journey, in the taxi to the restaurant I managed once again not to smoke, as well as not to eat or drink anything, to wear my seatbelt, and not to vomit on the upholstery. Not only that, but I was able to exercise sufficient self-control not to abuse or attack the driver.
At the restaurant, I was warned that the water in the hot tap in the ladies’ might be hot, I was able to consult a diagram of how to put my hands under the hand-drier; and a stern warning not to put anything other than loo paper into the loo persuaded me against flushing that day’s copy of the Daily Telegraph away.
I survived the meal, having noted (but ignored) the “drink responsibly” legend on the wine bottle, not to mention the fact that a dish containing pine nuts contained nuts.
Later, I stopped at a cash machine where, thanks to a message on the screen, I protected my PIN (thus resisting the temptation to bellow “FOUR SIX DOUBLE EIGHT” for the benefit of any passing muggers), and when the cash appeared, I took it, as instructed.
Really, the time to reintroduce the concept of personal responsibility is now long overdue. This nanny-state nonsense is one of the least attractive aspects of our society – and often as not counterproductive: quite frankly, if you treat people like idiots, they’ll behave like idiots.
After my day out in bossy Britain, it was a great relief to get home, where there’s only one boss: me.
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