This isn’t, as the title may lead you to believe, a Quentin Letts style rant about Health & Safety laws gone mad. Should you wish to read that, I’m sure there’s loads column inches elsewhere that are concerned with how people can’t take responsibility for their own wellbeing, needing to hold a building accountable for their hapless actions. I have recently been involved in a courtroom as a witness defending against one of those cases, but sadly can’t remember enough about it to try and explore the experience here. All I predominantly recall about my day in court was how I found our barrister quite attractive. She was a youngish Oxford graduate and I couldn’t help but be slightly aroused by a woman with such an extensive use of vocabulary. Or maybe it was when she put the grey wig on that did it for me, giving a kind of illusive frisson - the attainable aspirations of gerontophilia, but with the actual real face of an achingly beautiful woman. It left me confused, but mildly stimulated. Make no bones - I liked it. But sadly, there isn’t time to go any further – we must press on. No matter how unlikely it is that you will read another phrase in this entry boasting the same caliber of “the attainable aspirations of gerontophilia”.
This is about a different kind of compensation, which on the surface is more psychologically altruistic than self-servingly financial. Let me give you an example.
I once found myself calling for a taxi quite late on a Saturday night. The switchboard informed me that they wouldn’t be able to provide a car for about an hour. Figuring that this was a weekend primetime for the taxi trade, I cut my losses and booked the cab anyway, deciding that I was rather peckish, and could easily fill the next hour in the Indian restaurant across the road.
The establishment was bustling with inebriated Saturday night revelers, who were slightly loud and excitable, but not particularly misbehaving. Nevertheless, I found myself self-consciously trying to draw a line between myself and the archetypal obnoxious, boorish drunken animal-men that sometimes frequent such environments, shamelessly wishing to let the staff to know I wasn’t one of them. So when the waiter arrived with the menu, I meekly proffered a “thank you… cheers… thanks a lot”. Similarly, when he bought over a glass of water, I said something like “oh cheers, thanks, thanks so much”. Then upon taking my order and collecting my menu from me I said, “that’s brilliant, cheers, thanks again”.
Predictably, when the food arrived I was similarly gushing. The only time I broke from my torrent of thanks-you’s, was to apologise for knocking my fork off the table on to my lap as I attentively attempted to make room for him to place my naan down. The level of appreciation I’d shown so far had been astounding, and I hadn’t even eaten a single bite yet. At this rate by the end of my meal, I would be collapsing to my knees, hands clenched together, weeping hysterical gratitude at the waiter’s shoes. I had embarked on a series of social over-compensations to convey an image of being a “nice guy”, yet was even starting to irritate myself with my over-politeness. Why was I doing this, I asked myself?
I suspect this quirk is borne of my Liberal guilt. It was as if my groveling wasn’t just about me and the here and now, I was also somehow attempting to apologise on behalf of any of my fellow caucasians that may have ever shown rancour or ignorance. Not just to the Asians who ran this particular restaurant, but throughout the whole of history. I wanted to show that I was not another white ignorant man, yet ironically this is actually exactly what I am. The only thing I ever learned about history was at school, through the GCSE syllabus. And I have absolutely no idea why I’d feel so inclined to apologise to the staff of an Indian restaurant for either the Agricultural, OR the Industrial Revolutions.
You may think there is nothing fundamentally wrong with manners. And I’d agree. However, there is a line to be drawn between civility and my toadying, liberal (and arguably rather patronizing) over-compensation. And I would learn exactly where this line following the acquisition of second hand furniture from a gay man. When I arrived at the house to collect these goods, the brazenness of this particular man’s sexuality took me quite by surprise, and provoked a predictably pathetic attempt to demonstrate how much I wasn’t a homophobe through my trademark over-friendliness. Before I knew it we had exchanged phone numbers and I found myself getting text messages inviting me for a drink. You could argue the implications of my assumptions of any romantic intent were arrogant; that it was merely innocent friendliness which had motivated his invitation. Perhaps such a presumption even seems homophobic in itself. You might well be right. But whenever my friends text me to see if I fancy a drink, very few of them conclude that text with a little kiss. Furthermore, this interaction seemed only to cease following a text I sent where I referenced both my irritable bowel syndrome and the rather hirsute nature of my anal area. Incidentally, the comment itself bore no intended terminative motive, I was merely crafting a clumsy conversational response. Anyone who reads this blog will know I ALWAYS reference my irritable bowel whenever the opportunity arises. Look – I’m even doing it now!
Sometimes wonder just how accommodating I might have been, had the interaction continued. On paper it sounds ridiculous. Yet they do say we live in a compensation culture. This disgruntles many commentators, who see it being exploited for financial gain. I, on the other hand, am more concerned about having to oblige an anal consummation, just to carry on being polite.
