Welcome, then, to Slug Britain. A place that gets slower by the minute. A few days ago, as I was hurtling out of Liverpool Street Tube station at 6.50am, my hand holding my debit card, ready to swipe it against the ticket machine, I walked smack right into an example of just how much Britain, and London in particular I think, has changed since the pandemic.
In front of me were three jovial TfL ticket inspectors having an animated conversation about something they’d watched on TV the night before. There they were, reliving their sedentary evening right before my eyes, complete with belly laughs and thigh-slaps.
And me? I was just someone who was desperate to get to work but had to wait until the TfL staff had stopped amusing themselves.
Now, in Japan, where the customer is king, all these men would have been instantly dismissed. In the most sophisticated consumer market in the world, where everything is about delivery, about the seamless transfer from one environment to another, this minor inconvenience would have been appallingly disrespectful. So embarrassed would their managers have been that I would have probably been offered free rail travel for life. Maybe longer.
My fear is that we’re drifting into a kind of a fug, a slow motion world where urgency is always an optional extra
Having negotiated my exit I punched “SLOW BRITAIN” into my phone, to remind myself to write about the experience, which was immediately misinterpreted by my iPhone; meaning that when I looked at it later it said “SLUG BRITAIN”, which I think is probably a far more appropriate appellation. Because post-pandemic, everything seems to take twice as long as it used to. The probate for my dead mother-in-law, appointments at my local GP surgery (“we’ll call you back at 9.50am next Thursday and just see what happens if you don’t answer”), a response from my old publisher (“I’m only in the office for a maximum of two days a week at the moment so I’ll get back to you on Monday…” — I could almost hear them whispering, “But I wouldn’t bet on it”), the tsunami of OOO messages on email responses from finance departments, and the inability of anyone in the civil service to ever get back to you ever. And as the world has become so automated (something that’s only going to increase with AI), human contact is thought to be so old-fashioned, and such a quaint reminder of the past, that to request it is to admit weakness.
Slowcoach Britain is everywhere: just last week, I spent a millennia waiting for Bupa to return my calls (my daughter needed an operation; lucky it wasn’t urgent); the car dealership I usually use has apparently closed its phone lines on both Monday and Friday; BT appear to have finally admitted (to me, at least) that they’re not fit for purpose; and resourcefulness in mainline train stations has seemingly evaporated for good (efficiency is no longer based on customer satisfaction, but by data-driven KPIs).
Not only is Britain working to rule, but there is now such entitlement among the workforce that any suggestion that they might want to come back to work full time is considered an act of aggression. A friend who runs a small drinks delivery company was threatened with a bullying claim when he had the temerity to suggest that one of his team might want to reacquaint themselves with their office.
My fear is not that we are going to be drawn into some kind of WFH nightmare (flexible working is now a part of our lives and it would be churlish to deny the benefits), but rather that we are drifting into a kind of lackadaisical fug, into a slow-motion world where urgency is always an optional extra.
All this reminds me of a phone call I made in 1979, when I suddenly needed to travel north to see a relative who had just been taken ill. My flat mate at the time said he knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who had a special number you could call that took you straight through to the ticket office at King’s Cross, obviating any need to queue.
When I called the number, it was answered with a kind of Kafkaesqe incredulity by someone who obviously thought I was being incredibly presumptuous by having the temerity to call at such a reasonable hour.
“What do you want?” asked the dismembered voice. “And how did you get this number?”
I’m beginning to get a sense that the Labour Party are feeling this inertia. A party in opposition, if it’s properly motivated, and can smell victory, tends to move faster, needing to get things done. They probably understand we need to get things done too. Preferably this side of Christmas.
