Manners. Who needs them? I blame the parents

Commuters now are all stubbornly oblivious to, or contemptuous of, their fellow passengers, writes Steve Waterson. Picture: istock

Listening to the Prime Minister talking about “good manners” a few weeks ago gave me a little chuckle and prompted visions of Question Time, where his fellow politicians do their best to demonstrate that the concept is utterly alien to them.

We were once surrounded by good manners, even in parliament. They were drops of lubricant on the cogs of social interaction. These days, I fear, we’re dropping sand into the gearbox instead.

Whenever I have to catch the train to work there are now solipsistic commuters travelling with an extra seat for their bag, forking a pungent breakfast into their maw, drill music fizzing from leaky headphones, all stubbornly oblivious to, or contemptuous of, their fellow passengers.

Get in the car and it’s worse. My journey into town takes me over the Sydney Harbour Bridge and has been transformed over two decades from a leisurely scenic drive into a savage battle with wild-eyed accountant types who would sooner die in flames than let you merge into their lane.

It’s enough to squeeze an obscenity from even a mild-mannered soul like me. “Stop it Dad, road rage,” the kids would chorus on the way to school. “Bless you, no,” I would correct them, “it’s road disappointment.”

There are many more drivers than before, I know, but that of itself doesn’t explain their growing incivility. (Incidentally, why do we continue to hinder traffic flow with preposterous T2 lanes? Picture the council meeting: “Madam chair, I’ve found a brilliant way we can waste $300m!” “Intriguing, tell me more.” “Easy: we build a three-lane highway for a billion dollars, then make sure one lane is permanently empty.”)

And while I don’t want to come across as a miserable old git (although it’s hard to sound like anything else when that’s what you are), I blame the parents.

Teaching children manners is like training a dog: you have to put in some real effort at the beginning, or everyone hates them forever because they jump up and bite, don’t look you in the eye or write thankyou notes (especially not dogs).

Only this week I marvelled at a three-year-old manipulating his adult servants with a burst of micro-tantrums involving one of those bulky strollers that no one can fold. It was hard not to despise the tiny monster, but it wasn’t his fault. He had been indulged since birth like a Saudi princeling, and felt entitled to bark his toddler-stupid orders at his cowering grandparents.

Another irritant: does anybody show up on time any more? Punctuality, in the days before mobile phones, was an essential ingredient of good manners. No chance of texting “Soz. 15 mins away”; the first to arrive had few options: leave, eventually, angry and frustrated, or sit there preparing a savage rebuke – or, on one memorable occasion, a graceful, eloquent lesson.

As a journalist in London’s Fleet Street in the low-tech 1980s, I was held up at the newspaper for almost two hours one summer evening. Not unusual, and no big deal, except there was a young woman waiting for me in the garden of a riverside pub in Hammersmith and it was our first date.

I phoned the place, only to be told – “Sorry guv’nor” – there were 100 people in the beer garden and there was no public address system. So I raced across town, expecting the worst, but to my astonishment Emma was still there, all sympathy and understanding. As I simpered my apologies we watched a group of Morris dancers wave their handkerchiefs and rattle their bells. At the end of the dance the head man tinkled over to our table.

“Is this him?” he said, slightly out of breath, cheeks like bright red apples.

“Yes, it is,” said Emma, picking up her bag. The jolly Morris fellow beamed and presented me with membership forms for his troupe, my details already filled in, just awaiting a signature.

As she turned to walk away, Emma gave me a gorgeous smile. “Next time,” she said, melting into the crowd, “don’t be late.”