I have of late lost all my mirth.
I can’t exactly remember when I became a curmudgeon.
Grumpiness creeps up on you – slowly, surreptitiously but inevitably for someone now 67, like me. In retrospect, the first telltale signs were a few Christmases ago when I was genuinely delighted to receive a couple of pairs of socks, though irritated that they were held together by annoying tough plastic and, worse still, they had a letter ‘L’ stitched on one and an ‘R’ on the other.
Then there was the ambivalent reaction to someone offering me their seat on the London Underground. A polite gesture to be sure, but the temerity of suggesting I was too feeble to stand caused a near stroke, especially as I was determined to stand the rest of the journey, even though my feet were killing me.
Ever so slowly, minor irritations began to occur more frequently: implausible film plots, young actors mumbling on stage, bad grammar and appalling syntax.
It wasn’t long before I was gripped by a thousand minor rages, individually of minor import but cumulatively desperately annoying.
The list grew. Anodyne platitudes emanating from the mouths of vacuous politicians not long out of prep school, the modernisation of the old, ramshackle and vaguely Dickensian Foyles bookshop in London, the growth of ghastly reality-television programmes and the affectation of glottal stops by politicians attempting to ingratiate themselves with the proletariat.
And what about television newsreaders wandering around fancy new studios in an effort to present news more dynamically!
There are many topics that lead to paroxysms of anger so intense that I just sigh in despair: health and safety, political correctness, gender fluidity and being woke.
As the list grew, my patience dwindled. Pet hates developed as past certainties became, well, less certain. As the familiar gradually faded to be replaced by the new, I grew to dislike, and then despise, much of modernity.
Banks closed, anonymous call centres mushroomed and calls to companies were increasingly met with automated responses – if your call is about A, press 1, if B, press 2 and so on. I spent hours attempting to speak to a human being – and all in the name of improved customer service.
Yet it was language that riled me most, and which continues to irritate. Clichés once the prerogative of football managers are now ubiquitous. The public begin to demonstrate a level of inarticulateness so severe that they seem incapable of communicating any logical thought. ‘Like’ and ‘you know’ now punctuate every half-formed sentence as the young struggle to string two words together in a sort of Creole.
But, above all, it is the increasing adoption of Americanisms that distresses me most. Synthetic, learned responses such as ‘You’re welcome’ and ‘Have a nice day’ grate terribly, as does the increasingly frequent response to ‘I’m good’ in response to the polite ‘How are you?’ I’ll be the arbiter of whether you are good, Sonny Jim.
Then there’s ‘Hi guys’, ‘gobsmacked’ and ‘moving forward’ – since when do we move backward, for goodness’ sake?
The list grows like topsy and I don’t care for it one bit. Bring back the ‘How do you do?’ accompanied by the firm handshake, and stop all these fist pumps, high fives and foreign kisses on cheeks.
And, please, no more ‘Have you any plans for the weekend?’ – to which the only civil reply must be ‘Yes, to mind my own business.’
For goodness’ sake, man, I’m an English curmudgeon and proud of it!
Now I’m off to pour a gin and tonic, to ensure I go way above the irritating number of units a week recommended by the Nanny State.
