In my day... people kept themselves to themselves

Decorum. Not a word you hear a lot of these days. You hear just about every other word in the dictionary, mind you. And many that are far too rude to be included. All at a volume that makes Brian Blessed sound like the world champion whisperer.


Sit in any cafe or bar, in the glorious days of yore, and you could while away many a long hour musing on what was going on inside your fellow imbibers’ heads.


Was the bloke with the moustache thinking about potting his petunias, or plotting to put Penelope behind the bar in a compromising position? Was the lady in the twin-set and pearls wondering when her secret lover would arrive, or wondering whether the bloke with the moustache might tickle her fancy?

Was the big bloke in the corner an out of work all-in wrestler, or sitting there grappling with his urge to wear chiffon and high heels and have his best friends call him Shirley?

We never knew...

But it was an innocently entertaining game, that could be played anywhere – on buses and trains, or while promenading down the pavement on your morning constitutional.

The world was your oyster, and full of mystery.

Now there’s no amusement to be had in a muse – because everyone seems to be gripped by an uncontrollable urge to divulge every sordid little detail of their (no longer) private life.

Just what is it about mobile phones that makes everyone else in the room suddenly disappear?

Listen....

I don’t want to know where the doctor put his finger when you had your medical. Or whether you enjoyed it. And I definitely don’t want to know if your friend takes up your generous suggestion to re-create the procedure later (I just hope he’s qualified). So please, next time, either settle for sending a text, or get a different bus.

I’m not interested in how much Columbian marching powder you need delivering for the weekend (though I might be if worked for Mr. Peel’s finest, which might be worth bearing in mind). And I don’t want to know how far Terry tried to go with Tracy at Tammy’s party (or whether the slag, as your best friend now seems to be affectionately known, let him).

I don’t want to know how much you need to borrow. Or what you’re having for dinner. Or what time you went to bed. Or with whom. I’m not in the slightest bit impressed by how much you earn. And I don’t want to wade through the sea of names you’ve just dropped when I leave the premises. I don’t care what time the getaway driver is supposed to turn up. And I don’t want to know how much you owe the revenue (even if that’s why you need to do the bank job). I don’t care how much you want to shag your wife’s sister (unless we’re related. God forbid). I don’t care if you’re pretending to be at a meeting so you can stay in the pub with Mary from accounts (who’s just told her best mate Sandy, by the way, while you were on the blower, that she’s stuck with an arsehole from the office and will try and get away by nine). And I don’t give a toss if Pete’s ‘disrespected you’ or what you’re going to do to him when you find him (though I must admit you’re ability to use ‘fuck’ as a verb, adverb, adjective and noun is fairly impressive). You clever little fucker.

I really, really don’t want to know any of this. At all. Because it’s none of my business.

I’ve got enough things of my own to worry about, thank you. Like when I’m ever going to find a bit of peace and quiet.

Oh for a return to polite society. When personal details stayed that way. When people understood that there was a proper time and place for everything.

And when people could spot the difference between ‘telephone’ and ‘megaphone’.