It's Just My Manner

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I have to confess I’m not a huge fan of bad manners. Not Bad Manners, the 80s ska band fronted by Buster Bloodvessel who, despite their name, were so gentle they probably now run a tea shop in the Cotswolds with half price Wednesdays for pensioners. No. I mean people who just don’t give a hoot about the rest of us.

I first remember my own bad manners making a difference to me when I was around five years old and climbed on top of our dining room table. My dad came in, ordering me off immediately and, as I was scared to jump, he reluctantly promised to catch me. But, as I took off, Dad folded his arms and let me crash to the floor saying “that’ll teach you”. I reckon his bad manners were worse than mine.

Other than the odd childhood occasion, like sitting in the Glasgow Odeon and watching George Banks tear up his kids’ wish list in Mary Poppins, the bad manners of others really didn’t impact on me till I first came across Rod Stewart, the ageless sperm donor with tight trousers and an even tighter wallet. Ask Rod for a tip in a restaurant and he’ll say “remember to floss your teeth”.

Despite now being 63 years old he plays weekend football for Lumbago United, or some such team, alongside the Brazilian left back Viagra. He may be fit but he ain’t classy. I could always sniff that Rod was a bit of an ill mannered git and it’s not that the blond belter broke wind as we were dining somewhere posh or that he blanked me in public, although he did seem to ignore me as I stood singing We Are Sailing at Wembley stadium with seventy thousand other fans.

At school, pals told me about his soulful voice and recommended I buy an early album called Every Picture Tells A Story which contained some classic hits. On the album sleeve notes Rod mentioned a musician who’d played on the track Maggie May saying, “The mandolin was played by the mandolin player in Lindisfarne. The name slips my mind”.

Now Rod must have had weeks to prepare his sleeve notes but the peroxide prat just couldn’t be bothered, preferring to spend his time either on the beach or on the bleach. How difficult would it have been to check? And note the use of “the name slips my mind”, not “his name”, as if Rod couldn’t even remember whether it was a guy, a girl, or a musically talented otter. The mandolin player (Ray Jackson since you ask) remains anonymous to this day on all copies of an album that was recently voted Best Rock Album Ever. I’ll accept that Rod may be a rock act, but he’ll never be a class act.

Since then, in adult life, I’ve come across bad manners most weeks and reacted by, mainly, ignoring them and regretting it later. I once took the bad manners of a band called The Stranglers in my stride in a radio interview and got fired for not slapping them down. And someone double parking on the school run while smirking makes me want to kill, yet I hold back for fear of bumping in to them socially.

But yesterday I had a meeting in London at a very smart club where there is a dress code for business and each table has a reminder card that mobile ‘phones should be switched off. Trying to stay polite and politically correct I’ll simply say that a lady who was a generously proportioned, fat, huge assed barrel of lard, insisted on keeping her ‘phone switched on and, each time a text or call came through, our meeting was interrupted by The Pet Shop Boys singing Go West. I gradually became furious. I mean I could understand a bit of West End Girls as a ring tone, but Go West?

Everyone in the room glared at the over inflated woman with no neck but it made no difference and a smirk gradually made the exhaustingly long journey across her very big face. I stood up and plonked a reminder card from our table in front of her but she just took it on the chins and ignored me. A verbal exchange made no difference so I sat down, defeated. My colleague looked terrified, as if worried she’d sit on him, till he saw the approval from the room and their thumbs up. I should have politely, and very loudly, bellowed “If you don’t switch that off all thirty of us in this room will call for reinforcements and a crane and we’ll throw you out”.

As I left, the waitress asked if we’d had a good meeting so, for the first time in years, I told tales. She went off to get the manager and have the woman rolled out the door.

But life’s too short for this. Why should my life be affected by the bad manners of others? I’m sure even Ray Jackson can now listen to Maggie May without trying to think of smart things he should have said to Rod Stewart, and if he can let go so should I.

To rectify this, and so that I will be happy and content in not reacting, I’ve now bought a book on how to control my reactions to events and turn myself in to the kind of person who lets it all wash over them. I’ll keep you posted on how I get on.

Meantime, as to my bad manners? Well, of course, I don’t have any. Since jumping on tables I’ve become less like George Banks and more like Mary Poppins. Practically perfect in every way.